Every family has a story

April 28, 2016May 2, 201611 Comments

You might look at our family of four and think, Picture perfect. They’re so blessed. And I wouldn’t argue with you—God has been good to us. Two healthy little girls, nearly six years apart, one favoring my hubby and the other favoring me (depending on who you ask).

But a photograph doesn’t tell you about the journey to today. It doesn’t tell you about the years of longing, about the negative pregnancy tests, about the envy, about the long conversations, about the prayers, or about the loss.

For every photo of a smiling family, there is a story.

I can’t speak to the unimaginable pain and grief that accompanies infertility testing, treatments, and the like. I won’t pretend to be able to understand what that’s like. But I have walked through seasons of unanswered questions, waiting, and wondering if my family dreams were just that: dreams.

Our story is, most simply, that pregnancy has never come easily.

Early in our marriage, I watched women around me become pregnant and families begin to grow, the news of each new life delivering a stinging blow to my heart. I wanted to say I was happy for others and mean it. I dreamed of being a mom. One year went by, then two, then three. I had a pretty intense fear of doctors at that point and chose ignorance as the better option, though I was secretly deeply afraid that I wasn’t able to conceive and carry a child. Looking back, my three years of struggling were nothing but a drop in the bucket—I know this now. But at the time they felt endless. I know women who have endured much longer and who continue to endure. Pain in the waiting is real, whether it lasts one year or 15.

Then one cool November day, I discovered I was pregnant. One season of my life ended, and another began. It was the beginning of what can best be described as a totally bananas pregnancy and birth (that’s the medical term for it, totally bananas). The curveballs started early and kept on coming (hyperemesis gravidarum and kidney stones were two), and God taught me lesson after lesson about adjusting my expectations. Those lessons didn’t stop after she was born, either, but that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Ten months later, I was blindsided by an emergency surgery for a problem I didn’t know I had until it was too late. (If you ever have a nagging feeling that you should go to the doctor, go to the doctor.) When I awoke from the anesthesia, there was a doctor by my bed explaining they’d removed a good portion of my reproductive organs but that I shouldn’t worry, because one ovary “should” do the job of two. Wait, what now? Don’t you know how long it took to conceive the last baby? And that was with two ovaries! Now I only have one? What if all my eggs were literally in one basket? What if that was my good side, and now it’s gone?

I felt robbed. The whole thing had been so sudden and so shocking. My feelings of loss were wrapped around dreams of babies that didn’t even exist, but I grieved. I felt my body had not only let me down, but my husband as well. What about his family dreams? Together we released our future to God and moved on, focusing all of our attention on our little girl. Faith sustained me. This wasn’t at all what I had in mind, but I knew I could trust Him.

I needed to believe with my whole being that God’s plans for me were better than anything I could dream up on my own.

For the next four years I hovered in a strange place of wondering whether I was capable of conceiving another child. If it was medically an impossibility, I just didn’t want to know. When you start marking years off the calendar, you begin to assume. We talked frequently about our daughter being an only child; we dove into adoption research; my previous health issue threatened to repeat itself; I went back to work. Life moved on. And then—just as unexpectedly as it had happened the first time—we discovered that after all those years of no babies, I was pregnant.

The nervousness, excitement, and complete shock gave way to grief when I miscarried several weeks later. (Can I just say? No one warns you about what that’s like, physically or emotionally. Perhaps nothing can truly prepare you for it. Still, if you’ve been there, I wish I could hug you and tell you—everything you’ve felt or are feeling right now? Go ahead and feel it. You have permission to grieve even the tiniest life.)

Our sadness swallowed us up for a while. When I came up for air, my practical response was to reduce the entire horrible experience to a big, flashing sign from God that we weren’t meant to grow our family further—our daughter would be an only child, and we needed to be okay with that.

But that wasn’t the end. He would soon remind me, once again (why am I always surprised by this?), that He was the one writing the story, not me. He had more chapters coming, and the next one just happened to be really good.

Photo: WriteTheRoughDraft

Our baby, our second little girl, turned 2 last weekend.

The chapter about the flood was followed by the part about the rainbow.

I know that no season in my life thus far has been without purpose—even if that purpose was simply for me to share this story with one of you reading right now, for His glory. I believe that wholeheartedly. I believe it for me, and I believe it for you, too—even if you are in the midst of what feels like the worst chapter of your life. He will redeem your story. There is more to come.

…

People have started asking if we’re planning to have any more kids. Close family and friends—and now all of you!—know our story, so at this stage of my life I don’t mind being asked. (But please, on behalf of those secretly struggling, don’t let curiosity get the better of you.)

I usually just laugh, shrug awkwardly, and stammer through some vague response. Knowing the twists and turns of our story so far, how could I assume to know the answer to that question?

I can’t peek ahead at the next chapter. The story of our family is in the hands of the Author.

We have to keep reading, turning one page at a time, soaking up the wonders, joys, heartaches, and love in every paragraph, trusting all along that He is good and that He loves us—and believing that He writes the best stories.

…

An extra note, because it is heavy on my heart this week:

If you are in a season of wondering and waiting, if you have received a diagnosis, if you are wading through the adoption process, if you are raising funds, if you are undergoing procedures, if you are grieving loss, if you are questioning what in the world God is planning for your family—you are not alone.

And if you have walked through the dark days and broken through to light on the other side, whether it be through a child born, a child brought into your forever home, or simply peace in the uncertainty, praise God! Share your stories and yell hallelujahs for the miracles. Continue to support those who are still in the thick of it. You don’t have to give advice—just be a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. Offer hope. Reach out. Squeeze a hand. Pray.

We each have a story. Let’s be in this together.

—Rebekah

April 24-30, 2016 is National Infertility Awareness Week. Read more here.

Who tells your story?

April 12, 2016April 12, 20164 Comments

My sis and I made a slight detour to Savannah on our drive home from the Influence Conference last weekend to stretch our legs and soak up some history, wandering around the cemetery and various squares, reading plaques and admiring statues. We also listened to the Hamilton soundtrack in the car… for the second time that weekend. It was quite the educational road trip.

If you’re not familiar with the musical Hamilton (I wasn’t before my sister introduced me this weekend, but you’re probably cooler than I am), it tells the complicated story of the life of founding father Alexander Hamilton—set to R&B and hip-hop. It sounds a little crazy, and I was skeptical, not going to lie. But I was captivated from the first track, and for the next three hours got lost in the tale, the non-stop lyrics, the rhythm of it all. (I have to step into mom mode—or maybe just Rebekah mode—here for a sec and give you the PSA that this soundtrack does have some explicit lyrics and is labeled with a warning. If you know me personally, you know I can’t stand foul language. But I love musicals, and this show is phenomenal. Please don’t judge me. Thank you.)

After listening to this production twice in two days, I haven’t been able to get one song in particular out of my head, and it’s the final number. The chorus repeats: “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” It’s haunting and powerful.

Who tells your story?

I’m in the midst of a season where this theme of storytelling feels like my pulse, repeating everywhere from the conference I just attended, to the ministry of Shama Women, to our current sermon series at church (it’s titled The Story—okay God, I’m listening), to, well, Hamilton (yes, God spoke to me through a Broadway musical).

Here’s the thought I can’t escape from, and it’s really all I wanted to say here right now, as much as I would love to keep talking Hamilton with you:

Our stories matter, whether they seem big and dramatic or small and insignificant. I’ve lived a good chunk of years thinking that no one wants or needs to hear about my life because it’s not exciting enough. That’s a lie. Don’t let the enemy tell you that your story isn’t interesting enough to make an impact. On the flip side, don’t let the enemy tell you that your story is too crazy or too much for people to handle, either! God is writing your story for you specifically, and nothing He does—and I mean nothing—is without purpose.

Your story is a gift to someone. It might be a gift to a lot of people.

I think I read that C.S. Lewis defined friendship as the moment when one person says to another, “You too? I thought I was the only one.” (I hope that’s a real quote and not just something someone stuck on a meme.) The point is, our stories show us we’re not alone, if we are willing to share them. They connect us to each other. They inspire and encourage. They teach. Most importantly, they point anyone who will listen (or read) back to the Author of them all, who deserves all the glory.

Will we be brave enough to share them?

My voice, her story {a post for Shama Women}

April 5, 2016Leave a comment

I’m honored to be part of a team of bloggers writing on behalf of Shama Women, an initiative whose vision is to see thousands of women living in South Asia and the U.S. who share life and equip and encourage one another in ways that help them discover and live out their identity and purpose in Jesus. I was moved to hear of what this group is doing and the ways God is at work in a country where there is open hostility toward Christians and the lives of women are marginalized. “Shama” means candle—these women are shining light into a dark place.

This is my first piece for Shama Women, an introduction of sorts.

There are some women I know. Well, technically speaking, we’ve never met. More than likely, we won’t find ourselves face-to-face this side of heaven.

But they are my sisters, and with my mind’s eye, because of the stories passed to me from one who has met them, I can see them clearly.

Their village is gray and concrete. In the air lingers the stench of burning garbage. There can’t possibly be any life here.

Or can there?

[… please click to read full post]

What I learned in March

April 3, 20164 Comments

What I learned_ March

It’s a new month, and I’m here (a few days late) to link up with Emily Freeman for the March edition of What I Learned. I’ve been keeping a tiny notepad handy and jotting these things down so I wouldn’t forget—I’m so glad I did!

So, without further ado, here are some things I learned in March:

• For me, sometimes being brave looks like:

holding a friend accountable

saying yes to a playdate

asking for help

being honest—more specifically, not pretending I know what someone is talking about and then googling it later

chaperoning a 2nd-grade field trip

• I have been missing out my entire life by not going strawberry picking. We took our kids for the first time, and they loved it. This activity is going on the list of new family traditions. Which leads to…

• Just because you can pick 8 pounds of strawberries doesn’t mean you should. My kids were all, “Yum, strawberries!” and “These are the best strawberries I’ve ever had!” until we got home from the patch, at which point they decided they were really more in the mood for other fruit.

Me: Want some strawberries?

Toddler: I want bana!

Me: But we have all these yummy strawberries, don’t you want some?

Toddler: I want booberries!

You get the idea. I now have about 6 pounds of strawberries in my freezer. Who wants a smoothie?

• Daniel Tiger offers good advice to my kids about 87 percent of the time. The other 13 percent have me running to turn off the TV.

Some examples:

“Whatever you do, think about what other people need too.” Good advice!

“When you feel so mad that you want to roar, take a deep breath and count to four.” Not bad, Daniel.

“If you have to go potty, stop and go right away.” Yes, that’s wise, thank you!

“When you can’t do what you want, stomp three times to make yourself feel better.” Wait, what? Are you telling my kid to throw a tantrum? Daniel, I don’t know how I feel about you right now.

Moving on.

• OXO Good Grips POP Containers have helped us make major strides with our shortage of kitchen storage. They stack. The lids are interchangeable. The food stays fresh. And there’s no crumple crumple of cereal bags waking up the toddler in the morning. Add these to the list of items I should have registered for had I not been 23 years old when I got married. (Because at 23, I was not thinking about kids and goldfish crackers and all the cereal.) Thanks, Bed Bath & Beyond, for that 20 percent off coupon—I finally used it this month!

• The Inside Out soundtrack is worth purchasing for $7.99. I love it, my kids love it. It’s delightful and inspiring. (That goes for the movie too, for that matter.)

• And [appropriately] last, I learned that sometimes it’s best to just be quiet.

Check out what others learned in March here, and join in!

Miss February’s edition of What I Learned? You can find it here.

Quiet

March 30, 20165 Comments

Less talking, more listening.

Less writing, more studying.

Less noise, more quiet.

I’ve been working on the discipline of journaling. I have volume upon volume of journal pages filled during my high school and college years stacked in a closet, but somewhere in adulthood, between stepping into the working world and then stepping back out again (and in again, and out again), I stopped taking pen to paper.

Lately I’ve felt pressed with the need to take up the practice again, so I picked up a spiral-bound notebook and one of the pens my husband—who knows my fondness for office supplies—had stuffed into my Christmas stocking, and over the last few weeks have been scribbling away.

Sometimes I copy scripture, or a quote from the book I’m reading. This has gradually turned into writing down my own prayers, but most recently, I was surprised to find myself no longer writing to God, but seeing that the words in my notebook were those of Him speaking to me.

And He kept telling me to just hush.

When you’re trying to step into a calling as a writer, as a storyteller? Well, that’s not exactly what you want to hear from the One who, after all, did the calling.

I’ve been fighting the silence, evidenced by the handful of drafts sitting open on my screen. But nothing has come together, nothing has made my heart pound the way it only does when something right and good is in the works… so drafts they shall remain for now.

What I will share, though (because my heart is pounding as I type this), are those sentences from my journal where the pen scratch shifted away from my own ramblings and moved toward something that mattered more—His promises to my confused heart.

So, if you find any comfort or encouragement in these words, then they are for you as well:

Quiet. Hush. Be still.

Hold on to Me and to no one else.

Rest in Me and in nothing else.

Find your worth and value at the foot of the cross—not in friendships or appearances or invitations or accolades—in Me and Me alone.

You are who I say you are. You are the woman I created for such a time as this.

Follow Me, and Me alone.

Bikes, bruises, and growing up

March 3, 2016January 13, 20171 Comment

At age 7 and a half—’cause we all know the halves are important—my daughter has learned to ride her bike training-wheel free.

It took three afternoons. Three long, are-we-doing-this-parenting-thing-right?, call-upon-the-name-of-Jesus afternoons.

I’m being a little dramatic, but then, so was she. I don’t know where she gets it from.

[Side note, I now know all about balance bikes. We missed the memo. That’s what second kids are for, right?]

The process began rather abruptly with the announcement that she was ready for the training wheels to come off. Peer pressure might have had something to do with it, as most of her classmates and quite a few much younger friends have already passed this milestone. She’s been aware of this and has taken it in stride. For her, it wasn’t the time yet. She hadn’t been ready, and that was okay with her and okay with us.

We’ve learned to trust her instincts with things like this. When she received her first big-girl bike with training wheels for Christmas a few years ago, she lovingly ran her hands over its shiny pink surface. She was effusive in expressing her gratitude to Mom and Dad for the gift. She even sat on it for a minute so I could take a photo. But no no no, she was not ready to take it outside and put her feet to the pedals just yet.

So it sat, and we waited, and all the while she thought it over. And then one day, she hopped on and rode away, and that was that.

It was a huge learning moment for us as parents as we began to understand just a little bit more about how this girl worked and the intricacies of the traits God had woven into her personality.

We found ourselves back in the same boat again when a birthday passed, and then another, and she was no no no, not ready to take those training wheels off.

But three days ago, she decided it was time.

Day 1 was… well, I’m not going to talk about Day 1.

On Day 2, things were starting to come together—the pedaling, the steering—but boy was she quick to throw herself off the bike when she felt she was losing control. It became the routine: start to wobble, wail like a banshee, and leap off the ~~beast~~ bike and into the safety of the grass. This was simultaneously frustrating and entertaining. But we began to notice that despite the scrapes and bruises she was accumulating and the sweat, dirt, and tears of frustration running down her sweet face, she was not and I mean not going to stop. She was getting so close, but after a couple hours of this torture (for all of us), I had to set a timer to put an end to it and promised we’d be back at it the next day.

So, Day 3. She had a fierce gleam in her eye as she strapped on the purple princess helmet. She let me take a picture of her sitting on the bike. And then she kicked off and just rode away. For the next two hours I watched her wheel up and down the sidewalk in front of our home, turn around in the neighbors’ driveways, and swing back by again while I cheered, shot video, texted the grandparents to share the news, and breathed a massive sigh of relief.

Learning to ride a bike. I can’t remember what the process was like when I was the one wibbling and wobbling on two wheels for the first time. But if it was anything like this, well, bless my dear parents.

This morning we noticed she’d selected a pair of tall socks for school, which she had pulled up past her shins. I thought it was an odd selection (temps here are reaching the 80s already) and raised an eyebrow at my husband.

“She’s covering up the bruises,” he explained. She pulled down the socks to show me her shins.

Small blue and purple bruises marked paths up the fronts of both legs—wounds from all those collisions with her pedals while falling off the bike. I grimaced, but encouraged her that it was okay and she didn’t need to hide them. Her dad chimed in, telling her they were awesome battle scars and that made them cool.

She looked at us skeptically and hiked the socks back up.

We’ve been seeing the signs of a little girl who’s growing up. Lingering a little longer in the mirror when she brushes her hair. Getting embarrassed more easily. Writing a note to a boy: “You’re cute.” (My husband nearly died.) Showing concern over having the right thing to wear. Simultaneously wanting my arms around her at all times and wanting me to leave her alone.

But this, with the bruises. There is so much for us to learn, 7-year-olds and parents.

The bruises are ugly. Why would we want anyone to see them?

Because there is beauty in those wounds. There is a story.

What strength and determination my daughter discovered within herself in those moments as she struggled to conquer this thing she’d set out to do! But perhaps more significant, she recognized after time and time of falling—struggling alone through the frustration—that Mom and Dad were right there for her, calling out advice, ready to swoop in and scoop her back up, help her get back on track if she would only let us.

We fall; He offers us a hand and helps us to our feet. We brush ourselves off. He sets us back on the path and we try, try again. When we finally overcome it, whatever challenge we face, we take with us those black and blue reminders of the struggle. But we also walk away with a story to tell—a beautiful, grace-filled story.

Don’t be ashamed that you fell down, baby girl. Show your bruises and tell your story, and know your mama is trying her best to do the same.

Something new: What I learned in February

February 29, 2016February 29, 201611 Comments

This month I’m trying something new and confession: The process of figuring it out had me feeling a bit old and maybe not as tech-savvy as I think I am… ’cause I had to google to understand how it works. It’s this thing bloggers do called linking up. If you know all about this, it’s okay to laugh at me (but only a little! I’m sensitive) and if you don’t, well that’s okay too and welcome to the club, we can be kindred spirits.

At the end of each month, one of my favorite writers, Emily Freeman, does a link-up on her site called “What we learned in [month]” where she writes about (surprise!) what she learned that month—about herself, about someone else, about really anything under the sun that was new to her. And then other bloggers (like my friend Lindsey) add their own links to Emily’s post, linking up (eureka!) so readers can poke through and see what everyone’s been learning! Sound fun? I thought so.

you are lovely Now that I’ve fumbled through the longest intro ever, here are some things I learned in February…

About myself:
• I do not have a favorite book. Isn’t that a terrible thing for a writer to say? It’s really embarrassing. But I don’t. I can’t decide on one, and you can’t make me.

About mommin’ it:
• Once your kids turn 7, no one expects the parents to stick around at other kids’ birthday parties anymore. Wait, what? It’s true! I dropped my daughter off at a party and the parents said, “Feel free to go and just come back in a couple of hours.” I didn’t have to be told twice. I went to the mall all by myself, and it was a gift. I only had to carry snacks for myself.

About… ’80s movies:
• The writers of Pretty In Pink (which this year celebrates 30 years since its release date), intended for Andie to end up with Duckie, not Blane, but Molly Ringwald didn’t feel the chemistry with Jon Cryer the way she did with Andrew McCarthy. Ouch, sorry Jon. One of our local movie theaters showed the movie in honor of the anniversary, and this fun tidbit was shared during the bonus features. I also learned that McCarthy is wearing a wig in the last scene at the dance because it had to be re-shot months after filming ended… and he was completely bald at the time. If you were wondering why he looked so awful during that last scene, well, that’s why. (More fun PIP facts here.)

About social media:
• When it comes to blogging and social media as a ministry tool… It doesn’t matter how big your audience is. It doesn’t. The people who tell you numbers are everything, well, they’re wrong. Because whoever is there—whoever is reading, connecting, watching, even if it’s just one person—they matter. If you were speaking at a conference and only one person showed up, would you ignore the one because she wasn’t the crowd you expected? I hope not. Gretchen Saffles of Life Lived Beautifully dropped this truth bomb into my lap on Periscope this month, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I recently launched a Write the Rough Draft Instagram feed and initially had been in a panic over the low numbers. Numbers—ugh! I don’t want that to be my focus at all. I just want to share what God puts on my heart with whoever is there, even if it’s just one. Thanks for this reminder, Gretchen.

• Speaking of Periscope… I’m not real big into podcasts at the moment (I know, I know), and maybe I’ll get there at some point. But I did jump on the Periscope bandwagon and that’s been fun. It’s a live video feed of whoever talking about whatever—you follow people who interest you and can be notified when they’re live. I’ve started tuning in to feeds with someone hosting live online Bible studies (how cool is that? Score one for technology), a behind-the-scenes look at a photo shoot, and my friend Ali Grace (see next item on my list!) chatting about what God puts on her heart, among others. Such an interesting way to interact. It’s a totally different vibe than the static photos on Instagram. (Don’t worry Insta, I will always love you.) Maybe someday I’ll turn the camera on myself? Maybe. Brave might be my word this year, but I don’t think this counts… does it?

Oh and that brings me to this other thing.

About friendship in the 21st century:
• It IS possible to build authentic friendships on the internet. For the past few months I’ve been part of an online community called The Influence Network. It was started by a group of women who wanted to equip other women and encourage them that they can be an influence for Christ regardless of where they are. I fell in love with the heart behind this mission and have loved getting to know women around the US I never would have met in my day-to-day and building each other up, praying for each other, and taking online classes together. Again, I tip my hat to you, technology. Last week I learned one of my online connection group friends was going to be in town, so we met up for an early morning coffee. And you know what? She was just as kind and encouraging and friendly in person as she had been in our interactions online. So there you go. An internet-turned-real-life friend.

Hey, that was pretty fun. I just might be back to give this another go next month. I’ll try to be less random and not so long-winded.

I said try.

Check out what others learned in February by visiting Emily’s post here.

When your kid is a free spirit, and you are… not

February 10, 20162 Comments

Sometimes my daughter bounces out of her bedroom dressed and ready to head out the door and I cringe. Maybe “sometimes” is too generous. Maybe it’s every time she’s not in a school uniform and has the chance to dress herself.

The odd color choices. The patterns screaming at each other. Mismatched socks with shoes that don’t go. A sensible hair clip and a giant flower headband. The jewelry and purse. A sparkly belt with hearts on it to top it all off.

My husband exclaims, “You look wonderful! Let’s go!” and then he senses my hesitation and we have an eyeball conversation.

“Tell her she looks nice,” his eyes say.

“But… but… none of it goes together!” my eyes reply.

“Just. Do. It,” his eyes say back firmly.

Sometimes I inhale, exhale, and do the thing that is good for my kid: let her be wild and free. (She’s worn a tutu to Home Depot a time or two.)

But more often than I like to admit, I gently persuade her to swap out something from her ensemble to tone it down a bit.

I always regret it.

In 5th grade, there was a girl in my class who I thought was The. Coolest. She had (what I viewed at the time as) a daring, short, crimpy haircut with the part way over to one side, and she didn’t wear the department-store kids’ clothes, side ponytails, and coordinating scrunchies that I wore. In fact, nothing she wore matched—t-shirts with writing on them and patterned shorts, crazy neon socks with dirty sneakers. I secretly admired her bravery. She carried herself like she did not care one bit what she was wearing.

So I begged my mom to let me wear mismatched clothes to school—not on Tacky Tourist day, either—and one day she let me. The hilarity of it is how much time I spent trying to put together an outfit in which I could look like I didn’t care what I was wearing. (I’m laughing while slightly ashamed because I think I did this very thing last weekend.)

I let Mom go back to laying out my clothes for me after that.

Turns out I just like matching, okay?

My sweet and spunky daughter did not inherit my affinity for things that go together, so I find myself enrolled in the School of Parenting a Free Spirit. I’m trying hard to be a good student here. I’ve flunked a few pop quizzes on Letting Her Dress Herself (Within Reason), but I think I passed the Decorating Her Own Bedroom exam. And that one was a doozy.

Last summer, we let her pick a color and repainted her room, which I had worked hard to get to Pottery Barn standards when she was a toddler. (Well. Close enough.) She chose cotton candy pink. (I talked her down from red, because I felt she’d find that to be a mistake later. Within reason, right?) The bedding we agreed on, along with the new dresser (age 7 and she still had a changing table in her room, sorry kiddo). Okay! This room was really starting to come together!

But then that pink paint dried and the girl had vision for what she wanted on those pristine walls: Farm animal art from her nursery and all the photos and her favorite posters and a canvas TOMS flag that came in a shoebox and the Disney princess decals and the papier-mâché globe she made at school and a piece of construction paper with random stickers on it and the Hello Kitty clock and the paper flowers she made with one of her grandmas.

It looked like Rainbow Dash and Princess Sofia went into the interior design business and she was their first client.

This room is not exactly Instagrammable. It is not going to show up on Pinterest as some mom’s inspiration for a dreamy, light, bright children’s room. It actually kind of hurts my eyes sometimes. But here’s the thing—who cares? It is her space, and she loves it. She thrives in all of its pink-ness with all of her favorite things scattered around.

My room was a little chaotic-looking when I was a kid, too—my mom gave us free reign and let’s just say I went through a lot of Scotch tape over the years. But as an adult, how I struggle with the desire for things to be just so! Something urges me to step in and fix, pretty-up, instruct, gently (or not so gently) persuade my child to do something the way I would do it.

The voice in my head says to her, What if you drew a purple flower instead of a black heart on that birthday card? How about if we just put this special paper in the drawer to keep it safe instead of taping it to your wall? Do you really need the sparkly belt today?

I am learning to tell that voice to hush up.

She is creative and inventive. She likes clashing patterns and things that sparkle. So what? Let her do her thing. Let her make messes. Let her be playful. Let her embrace the unique qualities God wove into her being.

She and I are different in many ways, but we’re not opposites. I often catch glimpses of my childhood self in her, bits of my personality and quirks that have trickled through. (Sorry baby girl.) Sometimes I just know exactly what she’s thinking and why she’s thinking it, because Oh sweet pea, me too. I know. Other times I feel completely mystified and can turn nowhere else but to God’s Word for help parenting this little person He’s entrusted to my care.

Where else would I turn? He has hemmed her in, before and behind. He knows her; He is the author of her story.

God is good that way, isn’t He? The things I’ve learned from mothering… Well, the list is long already, and with little sister coming up five years behind, it’s going to get longer. I may be raising these girls, but I’m the one doing the growing up around here.

Sunday mornings and saying sorry

February 2, 2016January 13, 20175 Comments

Sunday morning Rebekah is the worst.

Just ask my family. I’ve given them permission to speak freely.

What is it about Sunday mornings?

WHY HAVEN’T YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH YET?

THIS DRESS FIT FINE WHEN I TRIED IT ON LAST NIGHT!

WHY IS THE BABY WEARING THAT?

WHY IS THERE NO MORE COFFEE? [Weeping and gnashing of teeth]

WE’RE LATE FOR CHURCH AGAIN! I HATE BEING LATE AND WE’RE ALWAYS LATE.

On Sunday mornings, I turn into the worst version of myself, Mom Who Yells A Lot. And then in the car (at 9:52, still a good 20 minutes from church, which starts at 10), after I’ve sat and stewed in frustration for a few minutes and tried to work out how it’s everyone else’s fault I didn’t get up when my alarm went off and couldn’t find the right shoes and let my giant mug of delicious, perfectly blended coffee go cold on the kitchen counter… I apologize.

I apologize to my husband—not in a whisper so the kids can’t hear, but loudly enough that they can hear, because they should.

“I was wrong. I am sorry. Will you please forgive me?”

And then I do something even wilder. I turn to the backseat and look into the eyes of my daughter who is pretending not to listen to the grown-up talk up front. (Oh they are always listening. Just count on it.)

“I was wrong. I am sorry. Will you please forgive me?”

Yes, I am my children’s mother, but they need to know that I am also a sinner.

I am an authority figure in their lives whom they should respect, yes. But even in my role as Mama, I am not some pillar of unattainable perfection. I am a sinner, I fall short, I make mistakes—just like they do. I’m not exempt from having to say sorry just because I am big and they are small. They are humans. Little humans, but still. God made them in His image. And sometimes they deserve an apology too.

I'm not exempt from having to say sorry just because I am big and they are small.

We all mess up sometimes, even Mom and Dad.

This wonderful thing happens when I get on my daughter’s level and earnestly seek her forgiveness. Her response is usually quiet but certain: “I forgive you, Mama.” And then it’s the good stuff—hugging and talking to my kid about how we all need Jesus and how He uses us even when we think we’ve messed everything up. It’s truth she needs to hear with her little ears and witness with her own eyes. It’s truth I need to hear and see from those I admire as well.

Parents, your littles admire you. They do. They love you and want to be just like you. How incredible an opportunity we’ve been given to model grace in imperfection. Let’s show our kids that this is how we live: We make mistakes, we are grieved by them, and we make it right. We extend apologies, we ask for forgiveness, we offer forgiveness, we live out reconciliation in front of them. We hug it out.

Next Sunday, I will call upon the name of Jesus for help and try not to yell at the people I love.

But if I do, I will say I’m sorry.

Brave

January 14, 20166 Comments

A little late to the game, writing about my word of the year on January 14, am I right?

Well. Consider this an exercise in putting my word into practice.

You might not define blogging about a New Year’s resolution-y concept two weeks into the year as brave per say—maybe procrastination would be a more appropriate word, eh Rebekah?—but baby steps, people. I’m here at least. Thanks for giving me grace.

Every January I observe friends, churches, bloggers, instagrammers doing this thing—choosing that one word they want to define the year ahead. Sometimes the really organized ones announce their words in December, just to get a jump start, because come January the internet is going to be sick of reading these posts. Sorry, internet. Here’s another.

I have never been one who makes decisions easily (save for lifelong ones like choosing to follow Jesus or saying yes when my husband asked for my hand), so the thought of selecting one little word that I’m supposed to embrace and weave throughout my life for a year? Bah. No thanks. I have a hard enough time deciding what color to paint my toenails or what to fix for dinner. Order for dinner. Whatever.

I have enjoyed seeing what words other people choose and how they implement them, though. Last year I followed one friend’s journey with her word, no (such wisdom there), and read along as another friend explored what living free looked like for her. I loved reading about what they did with their words and how their choices impacted their lives and the people around them. But I never and I mean never follow through on resolutions. How can I commit to something for a year with life’s ever-changing seasons? Moving, switching jobs, having babies. Life is too unpredictable, and I loathe the feeling of letting myself down by not being able to follow through on something I’ve committed to.

But then one night a couple of weeks ago as I tried to fall asleep, God did as He always does. He made it clear to me that no, I didn’t have to choose a word if I didn’t want to—because He was giving me one whether I liked it or not.

Not two days later, a friend asked via group text if any of us had done this “word of the year” thing. One by one we all began replying with our words, and I was filled with optimism about what this year could hold for each of these women. Kindness. Focus. Present. Discipline.

Brave.

My friend Lindsey wrote a fabulously helpful post for people wondering, I picked a word… Now what do I do with it? One of the things she’s done with her word of the year is to have a little brainstorming session and map it out on paper. (You had me at “This is pretty nerdy, but…”, Lindsey!) This was messy for me, as I prefer bullet points and this turned into bubbles all over my little section of paper, but as I sat on my bed and just wrote out whatever came to me about the word brave, I could feel God working on me. And as I scribbled (what in the world has happened to my handwriting in the last few years? Good grief), I started getting really, really excited about what could come from being brave this year. Not sky-diving brave (let’s be serious)—brave in being vulnerable when needed. Brave in asking questions instead of faking it. Brave in speaking up. Brave in getting to know people and letting them get to know me. Brave in tapping “publish.” Brave in not letting myself be defined as introvert.

I wrote, in the pink-papered notebook my 7-year-old gave me for Christmas, some things that will try to stop me from telling my story, some things I need to say Yes to, and some things that might be harder than my beginning-of-the-year-optimistic self realizes.

There will be more bubbles and scribbling on my notebook pages in the days to come, and my prayer is that the words God gives me here reflect how He’s shaping my 2016.

He has made me brave.