"Storyteller...."

I am a born storyteller.
I don't say that in an arrogant way; it's just part of who I am, and how I live. I'm from such a colorful family that I think I came into being a storyteller in the most organic way possible. We're just a fun, crazy, vibrant bunch of people that live in superlatives. I can't tell you about anyone in my family in a simple, short way. We're all too complex...but then again, isn't everyone?
I married another bright, colorful, emphatic person (although people don't always see that in David, trust me when I say that he's funnier than all of us. You just have to wait a little bit...) from a hilarious family. We're all as they say, the "salt of the earth." We're honest (to a fault), ornery, ferociously loyal, and just...well, we're just US. You can't survive in that kind of family without learning to relay your experiences to others (if anything, just for the moral support, LOL!), and in doing so, you have to learn to fully describe/justify/embrace the crazy, so you become (in the best of ways) a STORYTELLER.

I love songs that talk about the stories of our lives. I fell in love with a song called "Happily Ever After" by He Is We a few years ago; the lyrics caught in my head, and I find myself humming them in various moments:

"We all have a story to tell. Oh, happily ever after, wouldn't you know, wouldn't you know.
Oh, skip to the ending, who'd like to know, I'd like to know.
Author of the moment, can you tell me, do I end up, do I end up happy?"

Everyone has a story to tell...and sometimes, all we want to know is the final answer.  Do we end up happy?

That's the greatest thing about knowing Jesus: Yes. Yes, we end up happy, and we end up happier than anything we could have ever realized on this earth. That's the assurance we have, and I've had to embrace that assurance just to keep breathing, more times than I could tell. No matter how this life ends, we have that hope, and I can tell you, it is more than a figment of my imagination. Heaven is real; Jesus is real, and His salvation is tangible. I've felt Him embrace the most broken of hearts...I have no doubts in His existence, and I have no doubts in what His love can do for your life (end mini-sermon :))

Someone posted on Facebook today, and asked what the greatest thing we've learned in 2015 was. My first reaction was, "Well, honey, the year's not over yet!" I've learned that no matter how much I want something to be over and done with, it's not over until the clock strikes midnight on 12/31. Frankly, I'm DONE with this year. It's been a difficult year, but it certainly hasn't been my hardest. It's just been confusing and frustrating, but far from heartbreaking. I answered the post and said three things: 

1. I've learned about brokenness in new ways (that word, "cancer" will do that to you, even when it's an easily-treatable one. It still hurts.).
2. I've learned about motivation (knowing that you have a toddler to take care of, will motivate you when you think your strength is gone).
3. I've learned a whole, new definition to the term "teamwork" (I am terrible about telling my husband what a team we make...how helpful he can be...how shrewish I can be, about things like socks on the floor, when he's come home and taken over caring for a Tiny Tornado because I'm too exhausted to move. Knowing he's coming home, and that my little family is complete, is a joy to me every single day. I love that man, and I wouldn't have picked anyone else. Also, my mom and dad have stepped up more times than I can count, in helping us through this year...I can't imagine life without them).

There's a lot more I could say, that I've learned...I've learned about different ways to have fun, I've strengthened some relationships, and ended others. I've embraced changes and fought changes, and just...changed, hopefully, for the better. I've let go of a few wishes and allowed "pause" to affect my dreams. My dreams have changed, and I can feel even now changes coming to the desires of my heart...Things I never thought I wanted are knocking on my heart's door, and I don't know how it's going to play out, but I know if it's of God, He will work it all out. There are mysteries to come, and changes to come, and I know 2015 has been a year of preparation in some ways...although I don't necessarily know for what.  

I went to a birthday party yesterday for my Aunt Mary. A lot of people never realized that my mom was adopted into the family, years and years ago, and that she and my Aunt are actually step-sisters (mom's adopted dad married Mary's mom, Henrietta. Henrietta was the only Grandma I ever knew, and I miss her a great deal). Aunt Mary is so much like my Grandma; from her colorful personality, her constant joy, and her endless travels, she resembles Grandma as much in spirit as she does in body. Now, mind you, in my eyes, my Grandma was a saint. For me to say someone reminds me of Grandma is the highest compliment I can give, and in my lifetime, I've only said that about two people: Mom, and Aunt Mary. That should put it in perspective.

There were pictures everywhere from Mary's life, with her kids; we hadn't all got together in years, and I couldn't believe the changes in all of us; we all grew up! My cousin Jonathan had a full beard! AND KIDS!!!!! And I have kids! What happened to us?!?!?!?  Meanwhile, Aunt Mary pretty much looks the same, minus the beautiful, white hair.  It was wonderful, to see everyone gather and show love for such a wonderful person...such a beautiful story, and such a vibrant soul. I love my Aunt Mary and all of my cousins, and to all be together in one room just evoked the spirit of my Grandma in the very best way. It was pretty rad, truth (photo of Mary and the Grandkids from Cousin Judy!)

That being said, my Mama made an UH-MAZING cake, and she did it the only way she knows how: BIG. Four separate layer cakes, frosted and piped in homemade buttercream:

It was gorgeous, tasted awesome...and crashed to the floor.

Those top two tiers? The made-from-scratch carrot cake and the red velvet cake? Yeah--they crashed right where Mom is standing in this picture, shortly after Mary got to blow her candles out. The entire room gave a collective "OOOOOOOHHHH!;" I went running to clean up, and Mom? Mom just charged in, cut up the surviving cakes, kept smiling, and looked fabulous. No tears, no swearing, and no throwing of sharp objects.

I'm impressed, to say the least. 

When I say that I'm a natural-born Storyteller, things like this explain why: My mom used the experience of a destroyed cake to talk about how God makes messes into miracles. She used the experience to give Him glory, even in the middle of what could have been a total disaster. She was able to laugh, when anyone else would have fallen through the floor in embarrassment. She lived her faith, even in that small of a thing...this is the example that God gave me. This is what I have in my life, to point me toward Him.

How could I not have a story to tell?

We laughed through it; we have QUITE a memory of the party and of the day (so many laughs!); and we were definitely tired by the end of it all (except for my pickle-thieving toddler--he was wired. Cake.).  But more than that, I have a new point of reference for the year. My whole year kind of feels like a cake that crashed to the floor, in a lot of ways. It's been a really tough year for me, physically, but more than anything, spiritually, in ways I haven't really discussed. I feel like I've put so much effort into "life," but in a lot of ways, it's a bit of a smashed cake. 

We're gonna laugh about it, though. 

We're going to look at the bright spots: My son, and his ever-changing personality...his discoveries....the adventures of life with a toddler.  My husband, and the ways he's expanded into doing things he didn't realize he could do, both at home and on the job. My parents, and the ways they've been absolute rocks through the storm.

We're going to laugh about not only the "smashed cake" of the year; we're going to laugh at the work that went into it, and the love, and the heart...we're going to focus on the ties that bind us to each other on this journey, and we're going to embrace the good, the bad, and the hilariously broken.

We're going to tell the story together, of 2015, and we're going to love every page.

After all--we all know how it ends. He loves us....smashed cake, and all.

"Storyteller"
Morgan Harper Nichols

On a Sunday evening I'm looking back
Over all the years and where I've been.
Looking at old photographs, I'm remembering
You were right there and You have been ever since.
With every page that turns I see Your faithfulness.
The mountain where I climbed
The valley where I fell
You were there all along
That's the story I'll tell
You brought the pieces together
Made me this storyteller
Now I know it is well, it is well
That's the story I'll tell
There were some nights that felt like
They would last forever.
But You kept me breathing.
You were with me right then.
And all that You have done for me,
I could never hold it in.
So here's to me telling this story over and over again.
The mountain where I climbed
The valley where I fell
You were there all along
That's the story I'll tell
You brought the pieces together
Made me this storyteller
Now I know it is well, it is well
That's the story I'll tell
That's the story I'll tell
You hold the broken
You hear my every cry, every cry
My eyes are open
I know that it is well, it is well
[x2]
The mountain where I climbed
The valley where I fell
You were there all along
That's the story I'll tell
You brought the pieces together
Made me this storyteller
Now I know it is well, it is well
That's the story I'll tell
That's the story I'll tell
For years and years and years I'll tell
That's the story I'll tell

Find Me in the Waiting...

Find me in the waiting….              

So, here I am…waiting.

Lots of people are waiting for something right now. I have a friend who’s waiting for travel visas to China, so she can pick up the special-needs child her family is adopting. The process is agonizingly-slow, and she’s READY TO GO…The nervous anticipation she’s posting on Facebook is palpable. I find myself curling my toes and bouncing my knees when I read her posts, because I’m So. Darn. Impatient, on her behalf.

God moves on His own timetable.

Darn it.

So we wait….

My sister is waiting for something right now…a chapter to close. She knows it’s coming, but she doesn’t know when, and every week or so, I’ll text her and ask, “Do you have a date, yet?” We’re trying to plan out the holidays, but it’s nearly impossible, without definite information.

Time is dragging.

And so, we wait…..

I am waiting.

I am waiting to find out what the swelling in my neck means. I am waiting to find out why an ultrasound was needed…and then a CT scan, after the results from the ultrasound looked less-than-ideal.  Having your doctor call you and say, “We need you at the imaging center right away; how soon can you get there?” is scary…You gather your things, leave your office, make arrangements for your son, and you drive (mostly within the limits)…You get there, and the staff remembers you, and gives you “the look.”

You say, “Don’t feel sorry for me! Let’s get this over with!” and you call your pastor, because even if neither of you know what’s going on, there’s something beautiful in hearing him say, “Let’s pray.” It’s good to know people that mean it, when they say they’re praying.

I didn’t make the imaging center wait; I hauled myself there in record time…But they are making ME wait, and I know it’s not their fault…

But let’s get it over with.

Rip the damn band-aid off, and tell me what’s happening in this mutinous body of mine.

I am waiting.

I am praying.

And I know He’s there now, and He’s already there at the end, and He already knows the results, and He isn’t scared, at all…

This weekend, David & I had an extended date that was already planned. We had a friend who watched JD; David had done their family photos a few weeks ago, so they kindly agreed to take care of The Loinfruit. They love him so much, and I know he was happy to see them. We went to The Original SpringsHotel and Mineral Spa in Okawville, IL (highly recommended), and did a simple spa admission. The mineral baths are heavenly; there’s a dry sauna and a pool, and if you want to pay extra for a massage, they have wonderful massage therapists. We skipped that part, because I’m not a good candidate for massage right now.  The restaurant is AMAZING, and has the best fried chicken you’ve ever had (True Story!), so we stayed for lunch, and headed home…We laughed (a lot), and really didn’t talk too much about the Elephant in the Room.

We just hung out, two people that love each other fiercely, and who have been through so much worse…two people that couldn’t navigate this crazy life without one another holding on. He’s my soulmate, and I’d like to think that I’m his, as well. He’s my very best, dearest, most attractive friend, and he knows me better than anyone…We had fun, and as we drove back, I thought about our life together, and what an adventure we are always on…never a dull moment!

That evening, David did what was to me, the most important photo shoot he’s done since our children were born. He was asked to do an impromptu, informal photo shoot with a family where the patriarch is terminal. So far, I’ve been unable to look at the pictures, because from the two shots I’ve seen, the love this man has for his family, and they, for him, is so rich and so beautiful; my heart can’t handle it. This man loves Jesus, he’s raised a godly family that has had children of their own, and he knows where he’s going. That doesn’t make it easier to leave, or to say goodbye…Well, maybe it does, but it still hurts.

He doesn’t have an exact date, just a timeline…

So they wait.

They cling to each other; they make these the sweetest days…

And they wait.

My friend is waiting for travel passes and adoption papers…my sister is waiting for closure.  I am waiting for answers, and my other friend’s father is waiting for the end of the last chapter of a story he’s been writing for decades….

The waiting will break you, if you’re not grounded.

The waiting will take you to your knees…which is perhaps, the best place for all of us to be as we go through these processes. We find strength in ourselves, when we can answer our own questions. When we have definite dates, we begin the stress of preparation.

But in the waiting, everything is open-ended. Everything is up in the air, and we are on shaky ground…we are on rafts, in the middle of the rapids.

He is our Anchor.

Find Him in the waiting; cling to Him, and have stability in the ever-changing waters of uncertainty…

He is our Peace…He is our steady ground…

All of us that I mentioned in this post are waiting, praying, hoping, and seeking…and all of us know that He has His ways, and His timing…we all know He is not ignoring us, or pushing us away. Our Father loves His children.

So, we wait for Him to rescue us….even when that doesn’t look like what we think it should look like.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVd7Hh5WCyc

Moving at the Speed of Life

Life moves so fast…

Almost 18 months ago, in a state of grace-meets-panic-meets-medication, David and I brought a baby boy into this crazy world. At what was no doubt a pinnacle moment, we realized a miracle, saw God’s favor come to fruition, and had a lifelong dream fulfilled; the miracle of Jericho’s birth will always be altered by how close we came at delivery to losing our little guy (cord incident). I will never forget watching him turn from gray to pink, and hearing those first cries…seeing my husband stand up and cut the cord (he couldn’t, at Hannah’s birth—he was completely freaked out)…and that first kiss…Getting to have my son in my hospital room with me…Gosh. Just typing this makes me choke up. I can’t believe it’s been 18 months!  I have friends who have had 2, 3, 6, 13 childbirths; I don’t believe birth is ever “typical.” Perhaps “routine,” from a medical standpoint, but to a mother? Never.

Our little Teething Tyrant generally sleeps through the night, but for the past two nights, he has woken us at 4am. This wouldn’t be an issue, if not for the fact that my alarm generally goes off at 4:15 (with room for 3 smacks of the snooze button), Those last 15-29 minutes of sleep are my favorite, and losing them to a sad baby is…Well, it just stinks. Yesterday, I tried comforting him in between hastily throwing on my work clothes and running a comb through my mop of hair; I finally had to give up and wake up Daddy, so that I wasn’t late for work. This morning, I stumbled into his room; David actually woke up on his own and took over, telling me I could have my beautiful last 15 minutes of sleep.

I love that man.

I didn’t fall back asleep.

Instead, I listened to a father comfort his son. I’m pretty sure I heard the rocking chair (Old Faithful!)…a few softly-spoken words…maybe it’s just the smell of the one you love, holding you tight…Within a few minutes, he was back to sleep, and David was back in bed with me.  I took advantage of the few minutes I had left, and snuggled in next to him, myself.  Jericho’s on to something, there…there IS something wonderful about the smell of someone you love, holding you tight…

It’s the simple moments in life that mean the most. We’ve all heard it before—but think about your fondest memories. Sure, I have wonderful memories of amazing vacations with my family, but it’s not the location that made the impact: It’s the love. It’s sitting around a table and laughing at the fact that your mom just got presented with the biggest crawfish in history, on a plate of etouffee. It’s memories of washing dishes with my sister while my single mother sang Larry Gatlin songs about Mogen David. It’s learning to put brakes on my car with my dad, and laughing because I’ve somehow got grease on my forehead.

It’s snuggling into the shoulder of the man you’ve spent the last 13 years with, side-by-side, and still finding that he’s everything you’ve ever wanted…It’s the old t-shirt, sheets-are-a-mess, can’t-find-my-glasses kind of morning that you don’t want to end…It’s no alarm clock, because you know your son will wake you up at 6:30 (on most days) with coos and laughs over the baby monitor. 

It’s sitting on the couch, laughing over The Office, because you both have coworkers that match the characters on the show…

It’s BBQ on a Sunday afternoon…it’s ice cream on a Saturday night.  It’s “hey, I’ll take the baby so you can get 15 minutes more of sleep.” 

Time flies, and I find myself realizing the impact of the Simple Things…I find myself asking God to make the impressions…don’t let me forget…don’t let me ever take it for granted.  I love the developments Jericho is making; I love to watch him learn, walk, run, climb…I wish I could press “pause” and watch him for an extra hour every day. Slow down, little guy…Mommy wants to snuggle you a while longer…

Simple things…The Very Best Things…

9 ½ years ago, I married the Love of my Life (where it all began)…Although it seems like a lifetime ago, it also seems like yesterday…moments like remembering his expression when I started to walk down the aisle...finding out David forgot his vows…laughing about my Dad forgetting to have people sit down for the ceremony…that feeling of utter and complete panic before I left the Ready Room…and of singing “Bootylicious” with my bridesmaids before the ceremony in the Ready Room, not realizing that the ENTIRE congregation could hear us…(that STILL makes me crack up!)…

Realizing after the wedding that I’d done it…I’d made the greatest commitment of my life, and there was no changing my mind now…and realizing that was okay with me.

I find myself taking pictures almost non-stop, because I can’t get over how fast life changes…David is the photographer, but he’s taught me to capture memories…I can’t get over how the time is moving. 18 months—really?!?

It seems like yesterday.

Two people…two babies…a dog, a small house in the country…jobs, basic cars... a mortgage, some debt…Nothing fancy…

Everything I could ever want…

We’ve had our mountains and our deep valleys, but God has carried us through…We don’t have much, but we have so much that can’t be seen…

And I am so

Incredibly

Thankful…

The Garden Alone...

I had these wonderful aspirations of sitting down to write every day, and it just isn't happening. But I think I need to be okay with that--I mean, life is hectic (for me, and for everyone else). The drive to write, for me, is frequently sparked in frustration or in a lack of feeling like I've truly expressed myself (most of the time). I write the most when I'm untangling drama in my head; lately, although there's been no shortage of drama, I truthfully just don't care about it. I have other things to think about.
I keep waiting for the "new mom euphoria" to fade, but it hasn't. :) Don't get me wrong--there are days when I'm home at 6, after being up since 4, and I'm exhausted; dealing with the dishes or the house is NOT on my to-do list; and the Tiny Human is in full Tiny-Tyrant mode. Those aren't smiling-happy-shiny-people moments...but I wouldn't trade them for the world.
In my heart-of-hearts, I am happy.
That being said, I don't have much fuel for angst-ridden writing right now...and that's a good thing. I'm learning to write in all aspects of my life...without deadlines...without unrealistic rules...without comparison.  So, sure, I said I was going to write every day. I've failed at it.
Again.
And I have to tell myself that's okay.
It's officially SPRING, which is my absolute favorite season. When I was in college, Autumn was my favorite. After losing Hannah, Fall has taken on a particular melancholy...although I appreciate it, and it's truly the most beautiful season, it will always be colored by bittersweet memories. My life has changed...Spring has sprung, in so many ways...
Green leaves...sunny skies...gentle rains...Even though here in St. Louis, where we have the most bipolar weather in the world, spring still brings with it the freshest smells, longer days, and the sounds of birds returning from their winter away.  I love it. 
Spring also means it's time for me to start working on my Garden.
I started gardening 3 years ago, per the advice of some close friends. They introduced me to the concept of raised garden beds. I live in an area where our dirt is AWFUL; it's full of rocks, and the chemical makeup makes it unsuitable for growing anything but grass. I don't have a tiller (or the desire to shred my back while using one), and my back yard turns into a mudpit during heavy rains, so raised beds were a genius suggestion. I bought two of them, put them together all by myself, and started my small garden back in 2012. The best thing about it, is the fact that every year I start my seedlings in the windowsill of my office. Even my bosses seem to be impressed at my use of space; my windowsill currently houses 80 seedlings that are growing unbelievably fast. They'll sit there until next month, when my Burpee app tells me it's time to plant...(BTW--if you garden, get that app! It's fantastic!)
When I downloaded my Burpee app, it asked me to name my garden. Hmm--that's an interesting thought.
I got nuthin.'
I actually thought about it for a few minutes: Did I want something Cute ("Cooley's Corner?")? Something Funny ("Gnome Home")? What's in a name?
The words to the old hymn came to mind..."I come to the Garden alone; while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses...and He walks with me, and He talks with me; and He tells me I am His own (yeah, I know--you can't read that without singing it!)..."
When I began my garden in March of 2012, I had many doubts. After all, I can't grow anything. I've never had the patience...and the more I worked on it, the more I began to see what a metaphor it was for my life. I didn't think it would work--after all, everything I tried to grow, died...even my child...It was a horrible thought to have, and as I started my seeds, I prayed to God the plants didn't die. I couldn't stand the thought of investing so much, and having it flop. Maybe, just maybe, I could start over...I could try again. Maybe my hands could find something to cultivate....maybe I could see something come to fruition.
I was still, even 6 years after Hannah died, deeply hurt by her loss. I hadn't quite gotten to April of 2012, when for some reason, the love of God just clicked in my head. I still felt like God hated me, like He didn't pick me to be a mom. I was still really struggling with disappointment, with feeling like a failure...I started the garden, praying my heart of hearts that I wouldn't fail at this, too...like I'd failed at parenting...
Clarification: I knew that I really didn't fail at parenting. Hannah's death was a disease, and it was something NO ONE could have seen coming. I just couldn't unbury myself from that feeling, though, that I wasn't good enough to raise her, and that I'd failed her, regardless of the sermons, prayers, and lectures that said otherwise. It just hadn't clicked yet.
So, I started the garden. In March, April, and early May, things began to change in our house. Someone preached a sermon where they stated that just because you had prayed for a healing one time, and God didn't allow it to happen, didn't mean that you STOPPED praying for healing. That registered with me...faith began to grow.
I planted seeds...watered them...prayed over them...I knew they weren't a metaphor, but it just felt like it was...
Someone preached a sermon about the love of God. I'm not sure exactly when, but around that time is when I finally told my husband that I didn't think God loved me...I don't remember what he said, but something clicked, and healing started happening...
And the seeds turned into plants...
Spring brought changes in the house; we did a mini-makeover, and I got to redecorate the living room and kitchen.  We freshened up the house, we opened up some windows and added more colors, and the garden continued to grow beyond my expectations...
David isn't too into the garden. Sure, he eats the veggies, and will do some of the grunt-work when I desperately need him (I really struggle with the 50-pound bags. I can lift them, but the consequences are not good); however, it's mine. And the longer I have a garden, the more I appreciate the investment of time.  It's my alone time...
It's me and God...in the garden...alone.
It's where He speaks to me...it's where He breaths life into something that was dead.
I can't go into my garden without thinking of the times that I felt like a desolate wasteland, and  thinking of the time that He spent healing me.
I spent many years as a broken woman; anyone who has buried their child can relate. The process of coming out of that brokenness is long, and cannot be judged by anyone. And as far as I can see, the only way out is through Jesus.
After many years of winter, March and April of 2012 began a season of Spring in my heart. Just as seeds were planted, hope was planted and renewed...by the time flowers began to appear in May of 2012, I began to suspect changes were on the horizon...
Sure enough...in June of 2012 I discovered I was pregnant.
Spring began...and so far, in my heart, it's still going on. 
My seeds have been planted this year, and are already going crazy in my planters on my windowsill at work. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage working in my garden while taking care of my little one...I may have to invest in a little bordered "pen" in my yard, for him to be in while I work, on the days David works late. I'm not sure--but I know that I am excited as I think about all of the beautiful possibilities in The Garden Alone this year.
Time in The Garden Alone...time to teach my son about life...time for God to teach me more lessons about His love...
Time for Him to "tell me I am His own," for one more season...

White Pickup Trucks and #CallingOnJesus

Can I just mainline my coffee? I mean, seriously—lay open my veins, and shove that stuff in.

Ugh—Every day this week, as I’ve gotten into my car and started to pray (yeah, you’d pray in my car, too), it’s been, “Oh, Lorrrrrd!!!!” As in, “holy crap, it’s 5 am, and I just don’t want to be awake right now!!!!!!” Part prayer, part exclamation, and all exasperation: My mornings are no joke, people. I’m up at 4:15 (and will admit to hitting the snooze button at least once); I’ll take a few minutes for the body basics, grab some clothes (which, if I’m smart, I’ll have picked out the night before), and feed the dog. As I leave my bedroom, I’ll take a quick look around the room…my eyes will linger on the sleeping forms of my husband and my son, and my heart will whimper at the thought of leaving them behind (it doesn’t get better. I miss my baby every single day).

My socks MIGHT match my outfit, but frankly, I don’t care. No one will see them (at least, that’s what I tell myself). I might have a few minutes to do a few dishes or switch laundry loads; I’ll throw a small amount of makeup on, wrestle my hair into submission, and warm up the car while I make a smoothie. By then, it’s 5:00am, and I’m on the road for a 45-minute (to an hour) long commute…

It’s a good time to pray and focus on the day.

It’s also a good time to observe the world around me…

White pickup trucks are the bane of my existence. Most of the people on the road with me are fellow hard-workers like myself; these darn White Pickup Drivers tend to be overbearing, pains-in-my-butt. They speed up behind my compact car, headlights blaring into my rearview mirror. They’ve chased me once or twice, when I didn’t switch lanes in their timing. They’ve passed me, then gone in front of me to slam on their brakes, to make a point (good thing I don’t tailgate). They’ve shouted, honked, and been mostly belligerent to me and other drivers on the road. WPDs tend to be absolute jerks on the road, especially in inclement weather; they act like they’re the best drivers in the world, and the rest of us are only in their way. I’m singling out the White Pickup Drivers, but really, it’s Pickup Drivers as a whole, at 5 am. I’m not a fan.

These sentiments are not the same as my vitriol for the Female SUV Driver—that’s a personal, sexist rant against my own gender. But, unless you have 3 or more people in that SUV,  and have taken some kind of consideration as to the amount of space your SUV takes up when you drive/park, then you need to drive something you can handle. West County Female SUV Drivers are an entirely different species of bad/inconsiderate/dippy drivers. Someone should ban them to only being able to drive crossover/compact cars…or force them to hire chauffeurs. I’m also (you guessed it) NOT a fan.

This is only part of why I pray during my commute. Trust me: it’s for the benefit of the general population. It never ceases to amuse me when I’m in the middle of praying, and someone cuts me off. It goes a little something like this:

“God, thank You for today; I pray that as I go through my day, that I can live in a way that honors You-HEY-YOU-@$$HAT-GET-IN-YOUR-OWN-LANE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Um, sorry, Lord…I really need You to help me get through today, because I’m really, really tired. Lord, I really am working for the weekend! God, I ask that you watch over my husband and my son today-HEY, THAT-WAS-JUST-RIDICULOUS!!!!!  GET OFF OF MY BUMPER, JERK!!!!!!!”

And that’s how my drive to work/prayer time tends to go, LOL.

Good thing God has a sense of humor.

I love that Jesus accepts me as I am, but challenges me in a loving way to be better. Obviously, I have a long way to go.

That’s never more apparent then when I’m driving at 5:00am.

#CallingOnJesus

 

 

Valentine's Day, Black Holes, MILs, Sublime, & The Doggy Dance of #Random

I woke up this morning with no idea of what day it was. In fact, I thought my alarm had gone off in error, and I was ready to turn it off. I realized, Hey! No, you dork! It’s FRIDAY! You have to go to work!!!!  I slept like I was drugged last night (I swear, I didn’t take anything—not even a glass of wine…hey, wine sounds good!). I was SO out of it, that when I “fixed” my hair (this involves me sticking my head under the sink; giving it a towel-dry; adding copious amounts of a leave-in conditioner; somehow combing the tangles out with the ONLY comb that doesn’t break when it attacks my hair; and leaving), I think I stayed under the faucet for like, 5 solid minutes under cold water. I have no explanation for why I’m suddenly so hard to wake up today. …

Okay, maybe I do…

Little guy is at my parents’ house for the weekend (David’s mother is having major surgery today, and he also planned some sort of Valentine’s surprise for me—what is THAT?!?!?, and I have a doctor’s appointment on Monday; plus, there’s a church dinner, a surprise party—shoot, it’s just a crazy weekend), so I didn’t sleep as lightly as I’ve trained myself to do (there’s no training—it’s called “motherhood,” and it comes naturally…along with eyes in the back of my head). I slept like pre-baby Cassidy, and although it felt like something was off, it still felt awesome.

I didn’t dream…didn’t think…I just slept like the dead (notice I didn’t say, “slept like a BABY?” Yeah, THAT is a misnomer). I was out cold, and I can’t remember the last time I woke up this discombobulated. (I love that I spelled that word correctly, without the use of Spell-Check. Score!)

(As I’m typing this, I’m not editing it—thus, the copious usage of parenthesis. Consider this a live version of my ADD.)

So, I pop on PandoraOne, and it starts me out with “Santeria” by Sublime. Call me a ‘90’s throwback if you will; I love this band. No one sounds like Sublime (sorry, 311). Gritty, bouncy, danceable, rebellious, bob-your-head, rawk-fist music that makes you want to do your best to “sing” along…except, you just can’t, because most of their subject matter is simply awful. I still like them, and to me, it’s a good start to the soundtrack of the day.  Having the morning to myself leads to awesome opportunities to sing loudly and badly, and I did just that, while making my coffee.

Speaking of coffee, David and I are on a fitness plan to lose some weight. Coffee, sadly, is not on that plan; though I gave it up cleanly my first week, it has worked its evil way back into my life. I’m drinking less of it, but after reading that my go-to Starbucks venti Pike’s Place with Classic Sweetness has like, 400 calories, I’m going to have to give it up again. Boo. When I wait until I’m at work to make my coffee, my machine only makes 12 oz. at the most, so that’s a guaranteed decrease from my usual 24 oz. I can work with that.

Anyway, it’s a short day for me at the office, followed by a trip to the hospital to be there for David’s family. My MIL has had bad health for a few years now; evidently, before I met my husband, she was an active, busy woman. I’ve only known her as someone who is disabled. She has severe osteoporosis, epilepsy, and diabetes with complications, so I’ve never seen her on a day without pain. She’s spent the past year in a major back brace, and this surgery, though awful, will hopefully correct her issues. She’s facing a very, very long recovery, and could definitely use your prayers. As any daughter-in-law, I’m not entirely convinced that my MIL likes me…after all, I “stole” her baby boy (actually, HE stole ME—just ask my daddy). She’s a simple woman, and a helluva cook! I’ve also very rarely heard her say anything negative about anyone, and in her own way, she reminds me of my Grandma Myers (really, there’s no higher compliment I could pay anyone). She’s old-school, loves Jesus, and has a serious obsession with making jewelry and knitting. She’ll be making buckets of things while she’s in rehab!

Last night, I called her to give her some moral support before her surgery. Just a tip, people: if you know someone who is going in for major surgery, DO NOT TELL THEM ALL OF YOUR MACABRE HORROR STORIES ABOUT OTHERS WHO HAVE HAD THE SAME SURGERY WITH COMPLICATIONS! My poor MIL has had to hear about others’ surgeries and complications for weeks; she says she’s not afraid, but I can hear it in her voice. Ridiculous—I’d like to smack a few of her so-called “friends.” Stupid people—I think they got their Encouragement Lessons from Oscar the Grouch.

In the course of our conversation, we talked about my Hannah-girl. Gosh, I miss that baby girl…and no, my son does NOT fill the void. Not only is that impossible; it’s ridiculous to assume or to put that pressure on him. He is his own blessing, and was not born to take the place of another. He’s created his own beautiful place in my heart. Hannah’s place in my heart will continue to be hers, forever. My MIL has her own understanding about this, and in her simplicity, she manages to say exactly how I feel. Down-home people have no room for rhetoric. They just give you truth, and I love that about her. She’s kind, but she’s honest, and when she says something about Hannah, I listen. With JD being gone this weekend, she understands how I feel like the house is a black hole. She doesn’t tell me I’m being ridiculous. She told me about how it must be, to see JD go through these milestones (he’s standing!), and realizing how I’d never see Hannah do those same things. She’s right—I don’t talk about it much, because I don’t know too many people that I can be candid with about it. She picked up on it, and I have to appreciate that compassion. She nailed it. I don’t always like what she has to say, but I know her heart is good, and I’m thankful to have her in my life. I wish she wasn’t in pain all of the time…

It’s a busy weekend. I really don’t think anyone is happier about this weekend, than Holly-dog. She didn’t seem too sad to see the Tiny Human packed off to Grammy’s. In fact, after I finished soaking in the tub (45 MINUTES!!!) I came downstairs to see my StinkyPete (one of Holly’s 50 nicknames) in MY spot on the couch. Something tells me she’s doing a little Doggy-Dance with Daddy this morning while he gets ready for work.

I hope you have a lovely Valentine’s Day…I thought about getting fixed up for work today, but then was like, “stop bein’ crazy!” I’m not fooling with that nonsense (although I DID wear red). I’ll have some time to get my pretty on after work (for my romantic trip to the hospital). If you’re single, hey—it’s Friday night. Get yourself a pizza and a glass of wine, and celebrate the fact that you can order whatever toppings you like (unlike those of us that are forced to deal with SAUSAGE ON OUR PIZZA-bleh!). Valentine’s Day is NOT a big deal for me (although my Mommy DID get me some lovely, cuddly jammies, so I DID get a nice Valentine), and I think it’s highly over-rated. Married, single, or living-in-sin—whatever you’re doing (it’s between you and God)—I hope you have a wonderful Valentine’s Day. Remember that God is Love, and we’re supposed to be like Him. Be Love Personified today.

The Death of the Stepford Blog...

The other day, I was sitting at a Starbucks with a friend of mine, engaging in a lot of pointless conversation. We were having such a fantastic, fun time; we caught up on each other’s lives; we laughed about the silliness of our friends and family; and we talked about what was going on in our churches.

It was such a light-hearted conversation! In the middle of it, I stopped and took note: The two of us had been through some significant challenges in our lives. We’ve had many conversations that were heavy and tear-filled. We’ve prayed together, cried together, and held out hope for many wonderful things that have come to pass (and are coming to pass), and she truly is one of my greatest friends. I cherish her friendship more than she knows.

This conversation was one of the reasons why: Even in the midst of issues we’re both dealing with, we still found time to laugh about random people in the parking lot at Starbucks.

At one point, the conversation turned to writing. I love to write. I haven’t blogged in forever; I told her it was because I was “happy.” I’ve always thought I wrote my best stuff when I was struggling, or drowning. Writing has always challenged me to find my anchor, and to look up. It’s a way I refocus. My friend, however, writes every single day. She journals faithfully, and I was challenged. How can I call myself a writer, if I hide my “happy?” Doesn’t every emotion deserve to be explored? Shouldn’t I celebrate the mountains along with the valleys?

Then I thought about “what does my ‘happy’ look like on paper?” Is it as deep as my ‘struggle?’ Do I feel like it can touch as many lives? Is there a point in writing my random rants at Starbucks?”

Hmmm….

I’m not intentionally funny. I don’t set out to write things that make people laugh, yet I hear “you’re so funny on Facebook!” all the time. I truly wonder what people are laughing at?!?  But, I’m glad they’re enjoying it…

I have gotten back into a habit of filtering what I write just a little too much. I’ve gotten a little bit canned, and a little too conservative. I think I’m going Stepford, and I don’t like it. Maybe it’s because my mother is on Facebook, and I’m afraid of what she’ll say? Maybe it’s because my church friends are on Facebook, and I’ll have to face them on Sunday morning?I don’t know…and you know what? I don’t care.

I’m going to write my thoughts, rants, and possibly offensive blogs. I’m going to write, because the mountains, valleys, and pratfalls all deserve their story. If you find it funny, great. If you find it offensive, I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not. Go read something else. There are plenty of people on Facebook that post things that I find absolutely ridiculous. If I have to read one more post about pseudo-injustice, I’m going to hurl. There are TRUE injustices in this world that deserve our attention, yet people want to stand on soapboxes for the DUMBEST subjects EVER.

My only soapbox is Jesus. That’s it. This is my blog-I’m going to stop being afraid of politics.  I’m going to stop being afraid to say when something has truly angered me, or when I find something truly ridiculous.

The gloves are off—it’s time to get real. This literary Stepford wife has just been shot in the head.

Welcome to my blog.