Here’s how Mr. endometriois works: The endometrium grows outside the body and clings to everything it shouldn’t—it’s like the drunk party guest that just breaks lamps, knocks down glasses and spills drinks and then leaves you to clean up the mess.

I will never forget my doctor standing over me post-surgery, still disoriented from the drugs with her reflection looking more like the end of a kaleidoscope —I could barely make her face out, but I could hear her perfectly. With the best poker face there ever was she told me in a flat line tone, “ Lindsay, you are going to have a very hard time having kids.”  She was right. And she was wrong. Granted to this day I am convinced that my ovaries are a bit dyslexic and spit out sperm with the grimace face of one that has just gulped a tepid and very flat diet coke .  What that doctor told me that day gave me this unhealthy fear of getting older—I didn’t fear the lines setting in around my eyes like unwanted linear tattoos or my derriere tapping out to the great enemy known as gravity.  No I just feared losing my femininity—my ability to bring life into this world. Always picturing my female anatomy turning into dried up bread left  out too long –bringing no nutrients to this world—just a bland flavor and a stale bite.

I tell you this because we as women are so tied to this fire inside us that burns—that spark that is lit the moment we take our first breathe by the Creator. To love.  To nurture. To be a Mother. It’s visceral. Ask any woman that can’t conceive to verify. I always told Seth it was like being ravenous with no hope of food. It’s just that powerful.

Are there really any words that can sum of being a mom? It’s the hardest role there is yet this mothering gig comes with no road map—most days it can feel like a maze with no exit and often it feels like there are plenty of trap doors lying behind uncertain circumstances. As of late I have grappled with the magnitude of this role we females are given. Like God dropped millions of dollars of diamonds in our lap and said, “It’s yours to protect, nourish and when they become dirty by this world’s winds you are to find the beauty in them and bring them to life again. Good luck, each diamond is unique and one of a kind.”

I mean, what does one woman do with such a task?

Recently I called my friend Boothe, ever honest and exuding proverbial wisdom. I find her words like a bright light to my clouded thoughts—like when you open the curtains to a dark kitchen—the light shakes you, wakes you, you reevaluate your surroundings with the  precise accuracy that only light and truth can bring instead of grappling in  the darkness hoping you are grabbing a spoon and not a knife.  So I told her that I just felt kind of worthless because I hadn’t been writing much as I had this revelation last fall that I needed to slow down and  that it didn’t matter how much I wrote if my kids didn’t know I loved them –that they were more important than writing. I needed breathing room. I was over leveraged and under- energized.  And it was all self-inflicted. I suffer from a disease called “I want to do it all”. So far there is no drug to remedy my ailment.  This last late fall was the first time in my life I began to understand that mothering is a long term investment with no real returns until your kids are 30 years of age  at best  and quite possibly never at worst. But I began to see that my children were my biggest venture—they did not ask to come into this world and what good did it do to give writing my first fruits and twiddle with twitter , fiddle with facebook and give my kids my left overs all because mommy made writing and achievement her idol. You know, deep inside I never wanted to hear them say, “Mommy was writing to the world about Jesus’s love for humanity, yet she never made any  time for us.” I am so glad God revealed that to me.

You see, something ensued last  spring ( I will write more about this later). I had a crazy thing happen to me—someone from a major publishing house contacted me about my story in regards to my mom and Posey. At first I shut the door on it…scared and overwhelmed by the task at hand and wondering did I have what it took to even do a book proposal? I mean, I can’t keep up with my keys and I often call my child by my dog’s name– not exactly Jane Austen material. All that to say, I did it. I did the proposal..all FIFTY EIGHT pages.  I turned it in in April. It passed the test in May. Things moved fast and furious –by late July I felt like I was in the final episode of American Idol–each week making it past one more filter.

I  had made it to the very end.   Then I got a phone call on August 1^st. They couldn’t go forward, the publishing house had to pass. They were gracious and wonderful and  I had given it my all.  And you know what is crazy? I am so thankful. Soooooo thankful.

It’s like God picked me off a train going 190 miles an hour headed not toward mayhem, not even the wrong direction, just not on His timeline.  I know this sounds bizarre, but I realized if the book would have been published I would have missed out on so much of my kid’s lives. Ironically I wouldn’t be able to spend time with them because I would’ve been writing about them. Foolishness is made evident in the rearview mirror.

Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to write. Doesn’t mean I don’t think the book will be published one day. In my heart I know it will be but it must be in God’s time, not mine. What does all this mean?

It means you  nor I need to shelve our passions—we just have to find balance; a priority shift. Truth is no one is going to stop you and me on the road and say, “Wow, you are an amazing mom for loving your kids and instilling time, affection, and tenderness into them.” Our society doesn’t work that way. But if you write a number one song, decorate like Martha Stewart, post the best updates on twitter or facebook well then you get to wear the crown of “ I matter. “  Truth is there are no Oscars for Moms. It’s just the way it is—much like gravity you cannot change it.  And oddly, I am learning to be okay with that principle. I am learning to somewhat embrace it. Sacrificial love would never be such if everyone followed you around with cameras and a spot light. Because it would then  be about me, about you—not about those little ones nuzzling around our feet at supper time….their bellies temporarily hungry, their souls permanently starving for love and validation.

Hear me out: Now,I am not angry about this nor do I think we should all quit our jobs or passions and wear our hair in buns with no makeup and sing kumbya all day and reread Dr. Seuss 1,398 times.  I am just simply saying, being there for your kids, investing in them so that they can in turn bring life,joy, and love to the next generation all because you made them feel important is the most significant job IN THE WORLD. You will never get a crown, a raise, and you may not get acknowledged in the news. But there is no price tag to be found on a human soul that knows it is loved and cherished unconditionally—it’s the key that unlocks our potential magic. A boy that holds his head high and  knows how to love a woman with respect and dignity, a  girl that grows up into a woman and settles for nothing but a gentleman that treats her as she was a treasure—well that is priceless.

Titles come and go—no matter what you and I are good at we will be replaced by the next big thing.  The next best writer. The next best surgeon. The next best CEO. So if you are a mama work at your passion whether it is being an attorney, a homemaker, or a doctor. By no means feel guilt or shelve these callings—that would be reckless as well. Just know that what you do when no one is looking, when you are dog tired and reading that book for the umpteenth time or having an incoherent conversation about Avengers with your four year old on the way to school instead of talking on your phone…well, those things matter. You are changing the world.  Because you are changing them. Love always seems to lend itself to masterpieces without even trying.

And may I say one last thing to my fellow infertile friends?. Don’t lose heart. You are worthy. You are loved. You are good enough. You are woman enough. You didn’t drink too many diet sodas and mess up your anatomy. You didn’t start trying too late. Too young. Too whatever it is that is beating you up at night. Being  a mother  comes in all forms and fashions…because in essence being a mom is saying,

“ I choose you and YOU matter and no matter what happens, no matter who leaves or goes or comes or criticizes  you—I will be here and I love you. “

And that makes all woman entrusted with this amazing gift called motherhood.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

some of my favorite motherhood moments…

Left)   Roman at 3 months. Still the cuddler.  born at 42 weeks and still running late:)  My little mini me…in his own world and always wildly imaginative, but ALL boy and ALL heart.

right) the day Posey was born…before the adoption was final.  I was so scared and yet so sure.  She is sassy, sweet and beyond a blessing.

my babes.

my little man…on his 5th birthday.

Posey with her ultimate obsession, her Daddy:)

couldn’t resist. this pretty much sums up his entire personality!

this was last summer. I love that they love each other.  Roman will protect her more than she may like and I have a feeling Posey will organize him for the rest of this life:)

I have this on my desk because when I am dog tired and have worn workout clothes for 5 days without really working out I realize that my children are gifts and i don’t want to to take them for granted.

I read a book a few years ago titled Choosing to Cheat by Andy Stanley. Sad to say four years later I think the concept is finally anchoring itself in the sea of my tossing thoughts.

Maybe it took 1,460 days to rewire my brain and fully comprehend the thesis of the book because you and I live in a culture that lives by this unspoken creed: we can do it all, we can be it all  and with ZERO sacrifice.

Even a fool would tell you nothing really good comes without having to give up, dig in and push through.  A seed dies to become a burgeoning begonia, wintery snow and ice gives way to revitalizing spring, nine months of incubation and a baby emerges into this world pure—a bundle of untainted joy and perfection wrapped in untouched flesh. Creation tells us this truth, but we still thrust on…we live in a culture where we don’t want our kids to fall, to get hurt, or take accountability.  A culture in which you and I believe we can have the house we want, the kids we can design and create like Play-Do, the not made in reality marriages we see in Hollywood with the simple twitch of our nose like the 1960’s character in Bewitched.

But what am I learning is that I cannot write all the time ( though I love it like a drug and it can become my idol in 2.5 seconds),nor can I be friends with everyone on twitter, connect on fb 24/7, “pin” every creative notion that sends my heart ‘aflutter, check email promptly every 2 seconds, be  fully engaged in conversations with Seth, attentive and loving towards my kids all at the same time. As much as I was obsessed with Wonder Woman as a kid, I suck at being her. I can try to put the red cape on but when I jump off the cliff there is no flying high for this gal just hitting my face SPLAT onto the pavement reminding me of my humanity–failing everyone..including myself.

So here I am writing a post that has literally taken me three weeks of sitting down and then getting back up because my babes need me, my husband wants to spend time with me, my best friend lost her precious and perfect baby girl, Georgia, and in between all this starting and stopping I am learning that who I am is more important than what I do. But, inside me there is this inner struggle –this fleshly tug and pull to write more, perform more ( because if I accomplish more people deem you more important, right?), but I keep thinking this: you must cheat, Lindsay, for the sake of your family.  Who cares what you do for this world if your family is a big ole mess?? So I cheat on facebook, I cheat on my house being flawless, I cheat on my roots not being done very six weeks–basically, I cheat on perfection and all of its kinfolk. But it’s a sacrifice that has paid high dividends over the last several months.  The time I have surrendered I have in turn  gained this:  time  with my family and a greater peace of who I am in God’s sight–slowing down enough that I can enjoy my life, my kids, my husband.  The mundane things that use to get in my way now  serve as little lights guiding me down my day’s path showing me that I just need to follow their simple  flickering prompts such as, “listen Lindsay, to your son more when he goes on his creative Avengers tangents because it shows him that what he has to say matters, reread Posey’s half gnawed off  Minnie mouse book one more time because it makes her day, and cut off the computer at night and have a real live conversation with my husband.”

Now, here me out—I am still not the Mary Poppins type –it’s not in my DNA—we will most likely be listening to “the” ZZ top as Roman calls it instead of nursery rhymes while my kids bop to the beat, I will still live by the seat of my pants because that is all I know, I will still be a free spirit lost in my own world because that is how the good Lord made me and  I will still have THAT  kid with the really cute outfit and big fat stain front and center.

But it’s okay. Cheating liberates YOU. I am  slowly and steadily winning the battle over my schedule, which use to bind me but now has served to set me free. I mean what in heaven’s name are we all rushing towards anyway? WHAT is it? I cannot even figure it out to save my life.  To prove we matter and then die? It’s like this false race we have allowed ourselves to be thrown into and once the blindfold is taken off we realize we are going a 1000 miles per hour up a steep mountain that if you are lucky enough to get to the top of you can’t even enjoy the view because you  just end up falling right off and nosediving into the canyon of who we thought you were suppose to be simply because you were too busy to remember your parachute.

All these thoughts have woven this web in my mind lately and all my actions seemed to be attached to these new mindset.  I was journal-ing about all the little things I have learned while applying this whole “cheating concept” and put it in a letter form for my kids.

Things I wish I would’ve known but as always learned the hard way.

Dear Posey and Roman,

I write this in hope that the words will sink deep and that I will not just write them but that I  too will live them— that you will live them.

Find something you love to do, but always know this: it isn’t who you are.  The soul cannot be fed without human interaction…the soft gaze of the eyes hushing the pain, a gentle touch easing the anxiety, a smile melting our self-inflicted insecurities; so put whatever distracts you down  and have an emotionally infused and tender conversation with your kids, your spouse and those that love you without end.  The friends that love you when you have nothing won’t love you any more when you have plenty—those are your true friends, fight for them, stand up for them and let go of all the ones that were in the shadows when life got hard. Know there is no good time to forgive—and the simple act of forgiveness revives the deadest spirit. The heart is an empty room what are you filling yours with? Don’t be afraid to speak the truth in love.  Do not be afraid to give a loving, but firm “no”—an over-committed schedule equals an underwhelmed life that limps through each day to meet expectations that have no real ceiling.  Don’t criticize—a critical spirit is like drinking poison and wondering why your soul feels sick all the time. When you love people for who they are instead of what they can do for you then you have found life—Jesus is the ultimate example of this.  You will never have good friends until you become a great friend yourself. If you have nothing nice to say then say nothing at all–words have the power of life and death–always choose life.  Don’t leave when it gets uncomfortable—that means you are on the brink of something magical—most people never taste that magic because they bail too soon—they settle for dust instead of glitter all their lives. Love yourself, your flaws, your story and don’t exhaust yourself trying to be someone you are not. Your life is your greatest sermon—words are cheap, love is expensive…let the world stop and wonder what is different about you.  And always remember God’s dreams for your life are much bigger than your own.

Love, your Mama

and because no blog post can go without unrelated pictures!

Posey taking charge of the tricycle, me trying to squat and keep my balance and Roman as always in his superhero world

Posey with the love of her life, her Daddy.

Posey and I taking a little wagon ride stroll…

But here I sit at our farm table eyes swollen from eating a bit too much, jewelry from the night before strewn across the table because I was just too tired to put it away when I got home, a warm cup of coffee in my right hand serving as a liquid mitten, and my coat crumpled on the table like a worn soldier from yesterday’s cold. You see, last night Seth and I went to our our quaretly-ish supper club with old friends from high school. Last evening, on the way to dinner while rolling down a wintery moonlit Hillsboro road in my cluttered SUV I was daydreaming out the passenger window when Seth turned down the radio a couple decimals and said, “I really am looking forward to this because it’s just so nice to simply laugh and be comfortable in your own skin.”

And that is exactly what we did.

After a full banter session, with words and stories flying out in between bites of Italian food we all moved from the dining room table to the living room to stretch out, grab a refill and to play a very un-orderly game of “ I have never….”. If you ever want to laugh until your obliques are on fire and maybe pee in your pants just a smidgen…this game is for you. Oh and leave your pride and ego at the door it’s like opening up your diary and letting someone have a free for all with all your youth’s missteps.

As we were playing  there were so many comments of this variety: “ oh I wish I had never done that….” Or “ can I just forget about all the mistakes I made in the 90”s??” and as much as we were laughing and lovingly pointing fingers at one another it made me think, wow, we have all come a long way. And a part of coming that far is sowing the seeds of our stories. Even if our stories have lots of toiled places, quite possibly more dirt than flowers. But regardless, they are ours. And they make us who we are. We could have never laughed like that at 21 years of age because we had not made enough mistakes to learn, fallen enough to know what it means to walk, and failed enough to know the meaning of grace.

I say all this because we all have our journeys, our stories. It’s the one thing no one can take from us. It is our gift. Sometimes we want to exchange our story in for the pretty girl at dinner that seems to have it all. Or stare at “that” person’s facebook page eyes glazed over with envy. “That” person seems to have it all and when in reality their pictures that we freakishly stalk represent a false reality. We gaze through their Christmas album from 2011 and tell ourselves we want their life—when it reality those pictures merely reflect moments, glossed with false perfection in their reflection.  All human lives if the curtains are pulled back all have  worn out characters that collapse from time to time with scars that can only be seen behind closed doors. No one has it all. You and I must stop  wanting someone else’s life—it’s like treading water with  200 pound chains on your ankles— you will get nowhere  and absolutely exhaust yourself.

Truth is this: We all have something to share that might just possibly set someone else free. I hear so many people either say one of two things:

1. My life is boring I have nothing to share or help anyone with.

OR

1. My story is so ugly—I have so much  hurt and shame… I am embarrassed.

Both are Big. Fat. Ugly. Lies with three heads.

There is only one YOU and only one story like YOURS. That’s God’s gift to you. The worst thing you could ever do is run from your story or pretend your life is so perfect that you have no need to share your story in hopes that no one will know the real you. Both mindsets are delusional the latter is deadly.  And Guess who really needs your stories? Your children.  Why?

Because habits and mistakes get passed on unless we look them square in the eye and decide not to pass on our “issues” to our kids. If we don’t deal with them and make them a part of our story to be learned from then we might as well go  to Michael’s craft store and get the fanciest ribbon and shiniest bow there is and wrap our “stuff” up ever so beautifully and lay them in our kid’s laps—voila, here…. little Mary Beth, here is my eating disorder and control issues, enjoy! . Laugh.  But in essence that is what we are doing.

I ask you as much as I ask myself to address head on  whatever it is in your family’s past that you don’t want to repeat— and with God’s grace and unconditional love for you take your crap out of your secret storage bin that only you know have the power to open and start sorting and trashing.

Most of the heaviest burdens we carry are invisible ones. We think no one can see our baggage when in reality we are walking through life humped over—our undetectable luggage casting shadows on every move we make. We can’t fool each other. We can ignore our hurts but that doesn’t stop them from growing–by looking the other way we are simply fertilizing our pain. Whatever you feed grows. Whatever  you starve dies. Plain and simple. What are you feeding in your life by ignoring it?

Absorb that. What in your life do you not want your son or daughter to repeat? My family’s pattern was improving the dance of perfection and carrying around shovels 24/7 so our secrets would stay buried in hopes that other generations would never find out.   When in reality Secrets are buried alive so not even the best shovel can kill them—they climb right out and walk all over our emotions.

BOOM. There it is.  There is my junk. And trust me if you wanted to just sit and read I could give you more of my own flaws.

But there is such power in knowing that God uses weakness to bring Him glory. In knowing our identity isn’t in where we live, how perfect we appear, how thin we are, and whatever other ties that strangle us into a slow death. Our wounds and dog ugly places in our life are our treasures. We don’t have to live in bondage.

Don’t cheat yourself or your spouse or your kids or your friends. This is your life. God only gives us one. Dare to reckon with the rough places and they will be the things that set you free to live. I had to write down mine in my journal. I just started listing them and asked God in his abundant mercy to help me. Not just to help me but to give me the strength to live differently, not looking to past generations with judgment but with forgiveness.

There is no magic formula to living a full life, one in which you purposefully close the door on things that cause you and I to live small lives with your eyes on yourself.  But I will say this as someone that has messed up A LOT  a prayer of humility is a prayer of power.  All you have to do is ask…and God has a beautiful way of taken the very things we once tried to hide and using them as the very things that set ourselves free from the inside out.

~~because I didn’t want to make this so long of a post that you need to take ADD meds I decided to end it. But if I can find, rather make  the time between dirty breeding laundry and getting my out of control roots done  then next week I am posting my story—the one I worked on with a publishing house last year and have yet to share on this ole blog. Because I like you…get scared when people know “it” all. But it’s my gift and I am ready to open it.

and…some pictures because relationships are why we are on this little round ball:)

world meet princess posey—tiara with fluffy feathers on a Tuesday..why not?

A REALLY blurry picture of us because I am that desperate to have a pic of the hubs since I my children will have all of five pics when we are gone!!

Poor Posey…she doesn’t stand a chance.   Roman has passed on his love of all things super hero! And God bless that matress they are jumping on….the springs are going to pop through any minute!

yes, a little bizarre and scary. But my sweet friend Natalie somehow got roped into being the Hulk with Ironman Roman. Just another day at the Jennings household:)

Grocery shopping in Kroger’s version of the 18 wheeler. I HATE this thing.  oh, the words your eat when you have kids…such as: “i will NEVER drive one of those things.” awe, the crow is so tasty:)

You know, I told Seth I really was having  a hard time coming up here to hospice because I hate seeing her look like this—a shell of who she was just one month ago, minus the polish on her nails which reminds me of her spunky, sassy, feminine self that  once was just 30 days ago. But as I was walking up to St. Thomas hospital almost dreading what she may look like today, her frail body fading into infinity I realized I was being selfish. Going to sit with her isn’t about me or me feeling uncomfortable with death’s blow; it’s about her. It’s about my grandmother, Mary Lane. Loving her when she doesn’t know or see that I am even there. Not for the praise or the admiration or even the validation—just for the sake of loving her if only with my presence.

As I sit in this medicinal room cossetted in this awkward, faded floral, very uncomfortable chair, staring out over a parking garage, I recognize here lies a women that has lived and loved; strong and steady, with a bold spirit and a tender heart.   She with Jesus’ grace and compassion has made her time count on this monotonous, yet glorious ride around the sun. Time teaches us so much if we allow it…each year brings more mistakes, which if embraced brings more wisdom. And here is a woman who was born in small town Mississippi in the 1930’s six weeks early and was fed through a goat dropper and slept in a drawer because she was so small. Seems she is a miracle herself.

And the only words I can seem to write are invisible ones she wrote on my life:

Time teaches…..

Time teaches you to live more fully, forgive more freely because you realize we all get lost in this maze called life. Some by unwise choice, others by unpredictable force.  Regardless, we all walk in circles during certain stages of life—searching, seeking, restlessly hoping there is a door that has been left open so that we might not have to find our way, but rather escape our circumstances. We grope for the next big moment that will numb our present circumstance because sometimes living through the mundane is harder than living thought the tragic or magical moments of life.

Times teaches you that we all grope through darkness and find our way like cars traveling in the night—with God  shining light only five feet ahead at a time onto the highways of our life. But our human hearts somehow can travel thousands of miles this way, one beam at a time a time we move forward often not knowing where we are going, but finding momentum in that fact that we are not where we use to be.

Time teaches you that you must only old standards for others that you can live up to yourself. Or else they aren’t standards  at all—they are simply  a noose strangling those that you love the most and suffocating the meaning and power of GRACE in your own life.

Time teaches you that there is no room for judgment or  energy on stones being thrown because all of our lives are lived in glass sanctuaries. We all are prone to wander minus God’s saving mercy and loving kindness;  so who are we to pile up our rocks in our torn  pockets and wait to cast them?  And if the stones are indeed flung which at some point we all succumb to this ugly act then the judgment always seems to ricochet tenfold because that is what judgment does, it destroys lives. Love builds.

Time teaches you that God more often than not gives us, allows us circumstances in our life that are far beyond our comprehension, our understanding—most often leaving us perplexed and questioning the validity of our  faith…quite possibly God’s goodness. We often become bitter or better when these tragic events arise. There really is no in-between space to linger because difficulty never bore apathy—but struggle will always breed  either a hard heart or an overflowing one. It’s yours to choose.

Time teaches you that relationships are all that matter in this life. In the words of Les Mes  “to love another is to see the face of God”.  The memories we have of the ones we hold dear are the mortar of our soul’s home. The people we love each a doorway leading to undiscovered space in our heart.

Time teaches you that beautiful people are not born. They are wrought.  They are usually formed and fashioned through plans uncoiled, love lost, love not returned, and most often life handing equal parts  pain and joy. Brokenness has a keen way of breeding beauty. A beauty in which we all gravitate towards because beauty’s nickname is authenticity.

Time teaches you that it is better to believe the best of people and be disappointed than to expect the worst and live jaded.

Time teaches you that love is worth the hurt. That a thousand cried tears headed southbound with your shoulders quaking, your heart breaking because death has crept in and stolen your loved one without permission is worth it. To truly love others you must be willing to get hurt –there is no other formula unless you settle for counterfeit love all your life.

Time teaches you that the only way to resuscitate a broken heart is to keep beating even when you want to quit, to hide, to stop, to go numb. Yes, yes, you must always keep beating. Feeling again. Living again. Loving again. Forgiving again. Dreaming again.  All these acts of the human spirit pump more blood, more life, more freedom.

Time teaches you that words are cheap,actions are expensive. No one really care how many scriptures you know, they just care that you live out your faith with conviction and love.  The way you live your life Monday through Saturday is your greatest sermon, you need not say a thing.

Time teaches you only what it can once you realize it is not yours to hold forever…

love,

I usually include a lot of photos but now just doesn’t seem the time. But I did want to share this photo.  I had this amazing night with her last Thursday while she was conscious and alert and she just squeezed my hands  with all her might the entire time and mustered up  from deep within ” you know I will always love you..” in her thick southern brogue. I will forever be grateful for that time.

My precious grandmother entered heaven today,  January  9th around 4 pm. I am heartbroken, but rejoice that she is in the Lord’s embrace eternally. Love you always, sweet Mary Lane.

1. How the holidays can stir up all kinds of emotion that lay dormant eleven months out of the year but once the lights settle on the tree and It’s a Wonderful Life gets pulled out of the vault and replayed for the 187^th time something happens.  There is something about the flickering of the lights, the hustle and bustle in the air, and the child like spirit that takes over our jaded hearts that causes memories  to surface like a dead body  that was anchored by the monotony that the rest of the year brings apathy and fear. When we begin to feel those memories  they become unfettered and we often feel like we are being pulled under by the tide; waves of joy and sadness splashing off our longing spirits.
2. We all want shortcuts in life these days. ( stick with me on this one, I promise!)

We live in the era of 5 second texts, microwaves, diet pills, credit cards and instant gratification—if it doesn’t feel good then we avoid it at all costs.

We want to be fit without sweating, we want to be healthy while shoveling Skittles in our mouth as a main meal, we want good friends without being one ourselves, we want a bigger and better house now because being content is much harder than aimlessly grasping for the next big thing, we want the best kids with the least amount of effort, and we want to the world to get better while lugging around our own emotional, tattered, ragged luggage around like weighed down skeletons with breath.  And like I said in the post before most adults, that is, you and I are just kids with a little money and  quite possibly some invisible scars in which all of life is experienced and reflected.

And as Christmas and the holidays approach I have been thinking and praying about this whole epidemic of fast and furious and wondered, Dear Jesus, how do you and I live differently and is it even possible or realistic not to get on the vortex of cheap detours? And while I was fighting this struggle out in my head last week as I was absent minded-ly filing away  age old clutter that was collecting dust on my desk, I came upon this poem hidden under the snowy like layers of white paper piled high on my desk. A piece given to me  some time back by my writing mentor Amy Lyles Wilson and  as I reread each line with eyes absorbing, it seized the covers off my quiescent heart and woke it right up—resuscitated each chamber  to come to life, to feel, to risk being fully disappointed,  in order that I can also know what it means to hope fully, dream fully, live fully.

I think there is so much God wants to give us in this life, so much healing Jesus has to offer, but  part of healing means digging through the hurt; not around it. Bad parents. Abuse. Rejection. A mom that didn’t care. A sibling that hates you. Drug abuse. A nasty divorce. An empty womb. For me a half-brother that lives in Nashville that I once knew, but no longer do and I don’t really even know why…and whose birthday is in two weeks—that hurts deep down even if I tell myself I do not care. I do care.

These pangs of pain make our heart cramp for love and redemption. They are simply slits and slashes on the soul. But cuts don’t just go away because we ignore them—actually the more we ignore them the bigger they get. They start to excrete and exude the more  we turn our heads the other way, close the door on them and shove them into that dark closet that has no real lock. And truth be told, all our junk that is underneath the gash oozes into all of our daily action. Our anger pusses out, our frustration leaks onto the innocent, our hurt gets projected onto our spouse, the screaming in our head becomes irrational yelling at our loved ones. All because we ignore the bleeding laceration that no one can see but yet dictates and directs our thoughts, our greatest longings. The hemorrhaging won’t stop until we feel the pain—the only way to the other side is through, right?  There is something about feeling “it”, taking a hold of “it” and the scar shrinks. It doesn’t go away.  It will forever serve as reminder of who you are– your story, your journey. But the more you turn your face to its ugliness, the more “it” loses its power—it becomes a blemish that makes you distinctive and irreplaceable in this world, not handicapped.

And these little gems of wisdom written by Rumi are the ones I found as I was cleaning out my oh-so-messy desk the other day.  The words that remind me to not run from the pain, the frustration, the disappointment for what could have been, but to feel each event that has scripted itself into my life, your life—the good, bad, downright ugly and the blissful. And in feeling it we become free; we own “it”; it no longer owns us.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

And because I just can’t read a blog without pictures….a few happies for you:)

the Roman and yours truly…

Ms. Posey on her birthday August 12th, can’t believe God brought her into our lives a year ago…

Nicholas in his gussied up uniform…thank you Merritt Goodman and Pastor Sullivan for being an amazing support for him!

I mean, they are pretty stinkin’ cute. Roman and Posey.

yes, the hubs got the shaft on this post which means i will be following him around with a camera the next month!

But I have had too many conversations with too many people who are fraught and careworn by this ole demon. And as I was thinking about what to write while parked at a red light today half engaged in a conversation with Seth about different places in the world we would like to go one day—my mind played a little hop scotch and landed in the
territory of what IF….WHAT IF we conquered this pesky pitch- forked demon that
seems to plant on our shoulders all too often. Then the light turned green and as I pushed the pedal gently I caught the face of a very beautiful lady in her mid-forties, blonde hair freshly colored, walking the sidewalk of the Hill Center here in Nashville, clad in
lululemon, jewelry of a princess with the sunlight bouncing off each gem, but with a face of gloom painted on her porcelain skin with her head hung, eyes lost in the cement sidewalk below.  It was in this little glimpse out of my right eye that I realized that maybe we never outgrow THIS problem, THIS struggle—you and I. We conquer it some days and on the days in between it sucker punches us to the ground leaving us breathless. Funny how when I was a little girl I thought adults had it all together; they had the world figured out like a 5,000 piece puzzle effortlessly and easily put together. I was wrong.  Adults are just kids with some money and quite possibly some invisible scars in which all of life is sifted through. And under those layers of adulthood, our adulthood are deposits of insecurities, broken dreams and hopes for who and what we want life to be—what we thought life should be.

How do I know this?

Because I look at my own life and the lives of so many and I
can see an emotional bumper car pile-up along the highway of life for most of
us. All because we were trailing the other guy, trying to keep up, trying and
thinking that if we were them or just a little like them then we would roll
right through life—we would surely enjoy the ride of life so much more—if we
could just catch up.

Maybe you have always loved you and your life.  Then this post isn’t for you.

But if you have your moments, when your eyes are glazed over
and all you can think about is trading your life, yourself in for a new and
better version, well, this is for YOU:

As I said, I don’t usually do this–that is… repost from the past. However come holiday time we all need a good swig of  “I love my life– the good, the bad, and the ain’t so pretty”:

THE FREEDOM THAT COMES FROM EMBRACING YOUR LIFE (from February 2012):

I heard someone comment on another couple last week, letting this roll of their tongue:  “Oh, they are the perfect couple—to have their life…. “ With a fake and very forced knowing smile I nodded and then wished I could find some kind of paper bag to release my impending puke.

I was sick.

Downright nauseated because truth is there are great couples, but there are no perfect couples because there are no perfect people. Maybe on the cover of People magazine, but not here in the world of reality.

When I was a little girl I would dork out and watch Anne of Greene Gables over and over and over. Until the VHS tape would unravel. Why?

Partly because I was a chunky, prepubescent goober and had nothing better to do.  And partly because I loved the storyline, but mostly because I would get in lala land over Anne and her ever dramatic love life. Because every little girl dreams of what their Prince Charming will appear as in their own life.  What he will look like. And who he will be.  Even the hard core feminist wants someone to love her.

All that to say, we all have our fantasies and last week as we were going about our hectic ordinary,routine life,  as I was chasing down something I had lost—usually my keys, phone, or one of my umpteen writing pads. This day it was my blessed keys. Seth was lumbering behind me huffin’ and puffin’  and lovingly sniggering which really translates: “My goodness I love this girl but how does she lose her friggin’ keys EVERY day? We have gone through SIX spares.” So he is always there, behind me trying to retract my steps to help me because it’s an infirmity no drug or therapy can fix—always trying to find whatever it is that I have misplaced.  While his role is to usually play a full time Sherlock Holmes and be my “life secretary”, my role  is very different as Seth loses nothing. Besides his sanity over my insanity. I however, usually find myself walking around the house talking out every direction of my mouth, always trying to encourage him because the melancholy monster can get ahold of him sometimes and shake him down and truth is me and the monster don’t get along because I just won’t stand for him to beat up my husband like that. At least without asking me first.

A lot of our days our messes. Glorious messes. Not at all like the movies. Or my imaginings as a preteen of green gables and its heavenly landscapes. Or even my dreams when I met Seth as a teenager. There are no horses, no golden carriages. There are no whisking me away and writing he loves me in the sky (which would creep me out anyhow).

But there is the glorious mundane things such as: snotty noses, Roman running naked in the house with his backpack on because he wants his cars and trains with him at ALL times, Sonny passing gas in the corner because Joe, our neighbor, fed him fried chicken, Nicholas playing jokes on me by putting stickers from the grocery store that say “boneless” on my rear only to have someone stop me and tell me, Posey talking as much gibberish as me except hers is expected because she is cute and 6 months and I am thirty- four years old and know better.

Then there is just Seth and I. Two people who on the outside see life through completely different telescopes —mine is bright orange with pink polka dots, messy,nicked and probably has dirty handprints all over it—his is black, shiny, clean, gleaming, not a smudge, not a smidgen. But what we see inside those telescopes are the same. The same dreams. The same love for traveling. The same brokenness  that has led us the crossroad of  Jesus- whatever-you-want-for-my-life-it’s- just-too-dadgum-hard-without-you. The same love of the urban life. The same love of big breakfasts and bold coffees. The same love for talking too much. The same passion for music though we have negative music talent—I love the lyrics, he loves the beat…that about sums us up. Then there is that same desire for our kids to know at an early age that there are people unlike them, that look different, act different and have way less. We always pray that if our children are going to compare their lives then we pray they’d compare it to those that have less, not more.  And we have that same longing that ourselves, as well as our kids would know that poor people are often rich people with hurting hearts, in other words the harvest is plenty just look around.

Usually if you are that ant that I talk about, that nomadic one wandering the crooked walls of this geometrically challenged old house you will hear Seth telling me he wants to be in my brain for at least a day just to see what all goes on inside there because it seems so free –it’s the very thing that he adores about me and drives him nuts . Then you will hear me chuckle only to remind him that he really doesn’t want to enter the unchartered territory otherwise known as my noggin because the chaos and commotion would wear him plum  out before he could take his first step—I always think my mind is like a dresser with all the drawers open…clothes hanging out, notebooks half open and pen smearing’s everywhere because the only way to create order in my mind is to have a little bit of pandemonium! A tidy mind would be my demise. My only saving grace is that I am driven as all get out so at least it keeps the commotion and bedlam moving along:)

And with these acknowledgements of who we are and who we are not we try to live out our lives…

Most days I come home with Posey, Roman and often Nicholas around 5:30, Nick complaining that he is s-t-a-r-v-i-n-g even though he ate a 5,983 calorie snack after school, Roman shedding his clothes as soon as he walks in the door  because doggone it he missed his calling to be President t of the nudist colony. Posey being her sweet self, waiting for me to take her out of her blessed car seat and let her jump up and down in one of those obnoxious bouncy seats that I swore I’d never have, but then quickly realized that over the top, primary clad thing would allow me to make dinner and take a breath .

Shortly after I get home, Seth comes home grabs a kid or two, depending on how overwhelmed I am. Either wrestling with Roman or loving on Posey while he watches Jeopardy because that is just what you do when you major in history and don’t use one lick of your degree to pay the bills. The man has to show off his random, superfluous knowledge somehow. Then while eating we may or may not be serenaded by some over the top rap music which is our neighborhood’s trade mark. Most neighborhoods have kids riding bikes, Moms with babes in strollers. Nope, not ours. We have gangster music,wanna be artists, a hippie next door growing legal produce while I try to merely keep my house plants alive …oh, and an incredible view of Charlotte Pike…seriously, don’t be jealous.

Why do I tell you all this?

What does this have to do with a perfect marriage?

Well, it doesn’t.

It has to do with the fact that sometimes when you let go of what you thought your life should look like then it brings freedom to every facet of your life—including your relationships. This truth leaks into the smallest crevices of our thinking…every room in our heart gets remodeled: our marriages, our friendships, our everyday humdrum days that end up being our lives. All of a sudden life looks different. The rooms have not changed. No walls moved. The dreadful paint is still there. The worn out rug still the same. The pictures still hang crooked. The tables still need dusted. It’s just you learn to appreciate it instead of always wishing it were something else. Then that which was ugly becomes beautiful because it’s yours and no one else’s. Your imperfect life becomes your gift.

I am so thankful that life didn’t go the way I had planned, that I didn’t work in NYC like I wanted, that I didn’t move into a typical neighborhood, that the first few years of our marriage were hard…really hard…like I wanted to move back with mom and dad hard and thank the Lord for good counselors kind of hard!! But it’s the roads that Jesus sends me down…you down, the roads we try to desperately to avoid, that lead us straight to where you and I need to be…which is being  yourself.

For most of our lives nothing has gone as intended for Seth and I. We plan to go South, God plans for us to go North. We plan to fly; God wants us to walk straight uphill. I planned to be done with kids by 32…well, we all know how that worked out We want Him to promise life will be safe for a good solid year, He gives us a tight rope and gently holds our hand not telling us where we are going BUT letting us know we will not fall if we just keep our eyes on Him.

Then there has been the journey of discovering who we really are when we thought or rather fought who we were. Seth and I have had to accept that he is an entrepreneur at his core (even though I brawled this like hell) – it is the most flexible and rigid lifestyle possible.  Some years are over the top great. Some years not so much. But we have learned that plenty or want– it all is from the hand of God. All we are and have—time,money,talent, even our children are simply on lend until we are called home.

We have both watched me journey to accepting myself. I struggled with who I was—the way my mind worked—at an early age my mind was in the clouds…more like beyond the clouds.  Even in elementary  school I would “check out”. In first grade my teacher wanted to send me back to kindergarten because my mind wandered and I literally would leave this world during math and reading and escape to these unknown places—I would hear a bird or see a tree outside and there went my imagination off into “Lindsay Land” as Seth calls it. I hated it about myself. But it was in my DNA. My grandfather was the same way. He got lost going home because his awareness would wander, imagine, create. I will never forget my senior English teacher chewing me out about it one day because she said I dreamed too much. And she was right. I cannot help it. It’s what makes me lose my keys. It’s what makes me so disheveled. It’s what makes me the worst admin person EVER. But it is also the VERY thing God has used to allow me to write stories. I can stand in the grocery store line, world spinning around me and I will be constructing some sentence in my head all because I heard some sound bite, some interaction, something that signaled my subconscious…and  off, off and away goes my mind. My brain takes a hiatus from this world and meanders down these wild, wondrous places that even I don’t know where they lead until I later write them down.  Weird, I know. But, I either embrace it or go mad trying to be someone else.

I digress. ( can you tell I battle myself way too often??)

The voyage to me finding freedom in my flaws and beauty in my brokenness has been a bumpy ride. I for so long wanted to be who I was not.  So often we get derailed in life, in our relationships, in our lives, because we are constantly getting on someone else’s track. When we get on someone else’s track we walk in circles—going nowhere fast, when we get on our own path, it may be a steep climb but at least it is going somewhere—the top. And the top is the only place you can see how far you have come.  Only when you get to the top you see that you were never equipped to walk that other path. Only yours.

I have mentioned before when the weight to be someone you’re not becomes heavier than just being yourself than you have found your freedom. And it’s so true, my friends.

Why in the world am I divulging all this nonsense? What has this to do with you?

Well, it has everything to do with YOU. Because in life, in any kind of relationships…we have to love who we are to be able to love others…spouse,friends,family. And that means accepting that we are perfectly imperfect. Life is not the movies. It is so much better.

Because it is ours. It is yours. It is your story. Your legacy. No one else’s.

You’ll never live life fully until you stop looking at everyone else. Don’t get me wrong you will still peek at times. On  really bad days you will glance over quite a lot.  And that’s okay.

It’s the coming back that counts. It’s the: this is my flawed, wonderful marriage and no one else’s. It’s the: I am still single and I hate it every second of it but at least it’s my life I am living and no one else’s. It’s the: I am struggling with infertility and everyone is popping out babies like bunnies, but at least it’s my journey. And it’s the: money ain’t coming in, but my God I am learning that the phrase: “He is faithful” is not some feel good church cliche, it is TRUE.

All these things have one thing in common: They will end up being your story. It will be what changes and resuscitates the lives around you. Your story is the greatest gift you have in this life. No one can take it from you. It will be passed on for generations…if you just let it be yours.

Truth is this: Envy rots the bones, scars the soul, and suffocates the power of your own story.

Be YOU.

Don’t let someone else write your story.

…And some all too ordinary pics of that which is our crazy little life.

Our post school treat..aka, Sweet Cece’s. if there was stock in this ice cream store, we’d be buying it:)

Posey and her boyfriend, Elliot, my good friend Jennifer’s son. I like to title this,  “EXCUSE me, but are you getting fresh with me?!!”

Roman naked with a spoon. Of course, why wouldn’t he be?? And sweet Posey B.

Roman has been persistent about sleeping in our bed. And this night he won. Snuggling with my big boy…

Pretty in pink.

Nothing like your child getting into black paint while you take a shower. Oh, and did I mention most of  our house is white??

This is what happens when Seth and I get WAY too involved in our own little world of babbling…me oh my.

I love this pic because one day a week I don’t do any other writing but writing on my book. It’s not exciting or glorious. Just emotionally exhausting. And when i wanted to quit that day…because I just didn’t have it in me. There she was with that sweet smile. That’s all any Mama needs to keep on keeping on.

Roman with a backpack and a book. But he is making up his own story because poor thing he has way too much of me in him. The sweet angel “checks out” just like his mama. I have a feeling SEth is going to be chasing down TWO people’s set of keys one day.

SERIOUSLY. Are you taking another picture of me, Mom??

Exhibit A: THE obnoxious thing.

On our way to Chucky Cheese because Nicholas did his homework for TWO whole weeks. Oh, sweet Jesus, miracles still happen!!!!

I definitely went through 199 anti bacterial wipes that night then some. That place is breeding grounds for some kind of funky flu.

If you stopped me on the side of the sidewalk and asked me earnestly, Are you  a perfectionist? I would give you a belly roaring laugh laced with mockery for such a question and reply with a resounding and over-confident NO. I mean, how can someone that hasn’t set up her voicemail on her phone that she purchased almost three weeks ago and stores her makeup in an oversized Ziploc bag be a perfectionist??  I scoff at such a possibility, such a notion.

But that has changed in four days.

I am headed home from a little beach getaway with my mom and my sister. I promised myself no being productive, no checking email with my phone serving as an extension of my right hand– even no writing. Just being still. You see, I am wretched at resting, it makes me nervous. But I have been sitting in the valley of writer’s block, with the mountain called  “worn out” to my left and the even higher peak called “non-stop schedule”  to my right. I have had no time to reflect; rather I have chosen to have no time to reflect. I am woman of the 21^st century. You are a woman of the 21^st century.  We are super human. ROAR.

While I am thankful for the feminist movement on many levels—that we as women can vote. We can have an opinion. We can be doctors. Attorneys. Accountants. You name it—we most likely have the option to do it. But yet, we gloat too much, I think. We are the generation that is so liberated that our liberation has us worn down to the core. Making doctors appointments while getting our hair done, returning phone calls while making dinner, shopping online for Christmas gifts while in carpool, getting ready for work while packing lunches, getting our reading done while working out,  and if we were to be honest we would schedule sex on our to do list  if it wasn’t considered a bit bizarre. A thousand hats interchanging within half seconds.  Our freedom propels us forward; by golly we can do it all, we need no one. We are in forward motion with no red lights only green lights flashing,  go,go,go—there is more to be done, accomplished, balanced and conquered.

Or at least that is how I feel recently and perhaps I am singular in this sentiment and not typical.  But as I sit and recall all the conversations with multiple female friends of various paths over the last week, I think not.

Maybe that is why as of late, I have nothing to give, to say, to write. I have been emotionally flat. The go-go of this generation’s fast paced life has zapped any carbonation that life would offer— everyday life has seemed all bland, no bubbles.  I would think to write but nothing would come, just white noise. And God knows between the Kardashians and Jersey Shore there is enough gurgle-murmur-babble in this universe so there is need for me to post something senseless to add volume to the humdrum lull that beckons us to mediocre lives.

I promised myself when I started this blog I would not follow all the blog rules that the blog universe had set in  motion:

• Write once a week or no one will read
• Put flashy titles or people will get bored
• Less than 300 words or people won’t read.

I determined that if I was to write I would write form the heart because words are only as good as the soul behind them; and when there is no flesh laid bare behind words …well, then they are nothing more than letters taking up cyberspace competing to fill our time and deflate our spirits.  So all that to say, the last three weeks I have had nothing to say. Or at least I thought I had nothing to say.

But I am slowly realizing  the culprit: I forgot how to be silent somewhere along the way. I bought into the lie that the faster the better. Silence is like the tulips you plant in the fall only to bloom in the spring, the fruits of being quiet can take time to blossom, to reveal the wonder that is being woven while one shuts out all the chaos takes time. Our society doesn’t value being hushed, soundless because there are no rapid results for stillness. We want fast, we want quick.  We want weeds, not tulips. We don’t care what it is —even if it is ugly, we just want it to grow, to do something.

You know what this whole silence song and dance has taught me over the last four days?

It has taught me that I don’t need four days to reflect? I just need to slow down a little bit each day.

To be thankful, to realize I can’t do it all as a mother ,wife and friend. To reassess. To let go of certain relationships, to gravitate towards others. To recognize that we are all in his rat race and we don’t have to be. Why do you and  I stay in this rat race of best house, best car, best kids, best clothes, best jobs??  And on and on and on it goes.  Even if you and I win we are still rats.  Have we stopped to ask  God what He wants for our lives in every area? I haven’t lately.  I’ve been too busy being busy.  But I am these days, What is there to lose? We aren’t here long…life is a brief breath comprised of humdrum and glorious—wildflowers randomly blooming on an endless gravel drive.

What I am realizing is this: I am a perfectionist. I am that girl drinking ten glasses of scotch and water, saying, what alcohol problem?? You think perfectionism would’ve died off with my infertility issues , being married to an entrepreneur with an unpredictable schedule and income, and all of the other not- as -I -planned moments of my life, but it didn’t—it still breathes through me.  I want it all now.  I want to be the best mom. Best friend. Best wife. Best writer. Best. Best. Best. Best. And why? Maybe it gives me this false sense of worth. That if I can control those things, be good enough, then people will like me and…well, maybe my life will turn out the way I want.

Lies. Lies. And more lies.

As my friend Sibi says Satan takes our excellence and distorts it into perfection.

In essence, perfection is the pretty word for control issues. We all do it.

If we do this +this = our life will be what we want, as we plan.

Perfection is a leash tied to nothing but nothing, hot air at best. In essence we are walking around and around the same block with hands clinched to this leash. We feel we are in control because we are moving and we have a grip, but that’s all we have.

You see, silence and perfection are archenemies. Silence teaches you to listen to  Jesus’ voice, to stop doing this or that just because everyone else is doing this or that. Silence teaches you that perfection is just loud noise meant to distract you from the symphony that is your life.

Life is lived most fully with hands held wide open. Receiving what only God can give you as you lay our head down to rest in the sweet pastures of surrender. You may not feel in control because the leash is gone. You may feel a tinge of fear, rather you will feel a tinge of fear because you are used to having something to hold onto.

But as a convalescing perfectionist who is learning to kind of like the silence, learning to find freedom in the fact that I cannot do it all, cannot be it all, learning to accept that life is not a race defined by what I got done today, I will tell you that it’s better to lay your life down–to live a full life a little scared than a small one thinking you are in control only to realize you have been walking in circles all your life.

And because pictures make us happy…whether they are related to the post or not!

I have posted this before, but  I love this picture for many reasons.   For one, I never EVER thought this is what my life would look like, but I would not trade all the tears and frustation for THIS.

our amazing friends  david and nicole’s daughter,  Ruby Love, and  Roman.   They are missionaries in Italy and  I am loving havign them home for a bit to soak in their laughter….and wisdom.  Ruby  Love keeps Roman in order:)

we went on a little weekend trip to Dollywood ( which a whole other blog for a whole other day!!).  All that to say, we could not find her and….

For a gal that grew up with one sister and  Barbies,  I sure have learned a lot about Avengers…and all things superhero-esque as of late!

my sister Jacquelyn and me at the beach

Because  seth is obsessed with Harleys and cigars….thank God he chose to take a pic on the Harley and not the latter:)

my mom and sis at the beach….yes, I look like my Dad and they…well, you can decide.

thanks for reading….I know life is crazy for all of us. Take five minutes to turn the radio down and the silence up this week.

xoxo

I digress.

The laughter escalates higher with more flamboyance saturating the commercial air of Target like the smell of hot brownies lingering in the air, I want some of what they have—these young women spewing out merriment like a water house gone wild. But in reality I know it wouldn’t be good for me…or at best it would leave a bittersweet taste of regret in my heart. Sidetracked into the land of nostalgia as I catch a scent of the youth that permeates every syllable of their robust cackling, my mind buckles itself onto a time machine and memory is the highway onto which I am deported to 1998.

Then boom.

Just like that reality sobers me up as Posey has now Houdini-ed her way out of the cart and is standing up eating some glitter-fied, good golly awful looking  “Happy Birthday  Grandma”  card leaving me with moral obligation and guilt to by the slobbery mess. Roman is wearing a Captain America mask shooting Spiderman webs, fully convinced he is made of superhero blood, not human flesh. The clamor and clatter that is motherhood- in- action drowns out the roaring laughter now turned chuckling, clucking and chitchat just one aisle over. I still cannot see the faces behind the merriment, but their ways, their laughs, their subject matter, their demeanor, the fluctuation of their words—all of it  feels like a road I have driven a thousand times blindfolded but have not visited in years. These faceless, mysterious young women playfully joust with words crafted with spunk and spirit. They laugh and revel in shallow talk as I try to wipe runny cobalt glitter off Posey’s lips that now look like a Smurf lipstick  stain with Roman singing his rendition of Adele’s Rumour Has It –with the wrong words, right tune.

Then I turn my piled high cart of unnecessary necessities.  I catch their faces. Vibrant with life. Lacking wrinkles. Lacking my tired face. Lacking my smudged mascara.

They are young, wild and free. And for a moment I envy them.

Then I realize I hold a far greater gift in my soon to be 35 year old heart: my story, my life failed, my  life lived, and the glorious ownership of who I am with splints and splinters and shimmer and shine from learning lessons learned by just flat falling on my face instead of the girl that ran 100 mph from conflict, pain, and tried to  rent out everyone else in hopes that they might fit, they might work,  and recklessly hoped that the world around her might actually buy the whole shenanigan.

Sometimes when the devil tries to perch  on my shoulder I can feel that girl rising back up, on my bad days  it feels like she never left, on my good days she feels like a foreigner and I wonder how she ever finagled  and foisted her way into my conscious.

You know, it’s comical sometimes living in the heart of the city, bookended by Vanderbilt and Belmont students. I seem to think I was just in college then when they roll back in town come late August each year, I am sobered up out of my time warp and reminded that No,no, Lindsay, my dear fool, you have been out of college 12 years. You are about to be 35. You can see 40 clearly when you look ahead and you have to get a telescope to see 25 when you look back.

But you know, as my 35^th birthday looms in the distance like a stranger that the clock is forcing me to be best friends with, I wouldn’t trade my age for those fresh faced college girls high on the moment in front of them, living as if they were eternal, not sure who they are not and no idea who they are. I realize I am painting a mighty broad brush, indeed. I have  indeed met confident, self-assured, never doubting who they are young women from time to time. I was not one of them. For this gal my twenties were tumultuous and foolish. Those two adjectives say it all. Tumultuous and foolish.  Foolish and tumultuous. The fool took a long time to die and once he did the tumultuous had no one to breathe through.

I love my thirties. I love my wrinkles setting in around my eyes like an unwanted guest I have grown to love and ask to stay a little longer. I love that mistakes are the highest educator and I have finally learned to take my seat as the student instead of trying to budge the door open and run the hallways of ease.  I love that I am confident in who I am, not running to someone I am not… I have learned to love myself– marked with an unorganized mind that is spinning 12 plates of thought at one time, losing keys too frequently, finding new thoughts habitually, judging less, seeking Jesus’s heart more, singing loudly off key to any good melody with even better lyrics,  making recipes in my head because my brain cramps at measurements, loving my neighborhood most days when the rap music is low and the energy is high, thankful my sleep has been robbed by two night owls that are one and four years of age, overwhelmed at how far  God has brought Seth and me in our journey of 20 years…a marriage marked with challenges, bliss, tears, endless banter and laughter, plans going not as planned most of the time, and for letting go of what I wanted life to look like. Because age teaches you that sometimes the things you want most are the things that rob you of your freedom, your story, and your life. You can open the door on this- is- what- I- want-my-life-to-look-like-dangit as many times as you want, but you will step out onto nothing but hot air and fall flat faced a 1,ooo feet onto the soil of a small life fertilized with delusion and discontentment. Because our youth makes us think we can fly, but age teaches us that we are finite—that falling is the only place where we can rise again because we learn we are not in control and that the moment in front of us, this very second is the only one guaranteed by our Maker.

Sometimes in our youth we have to open 146 barred doors to realize there is one door WIDE, OPEN in front of us marked: YOUR LIFE. You don’t have to jimmy it open. You don’t have to knock three times and stand on your head. Nope. The only person that can open it is YOU. Age teaches you to let go of that door knob your hand has clinched with a white knuckled grip. Because age teaches there is freedom in letting go. All the trying. The faking. The manipulating. The selling of yourself in hopes that maybe they will not only notice you, but maybe  like you as well. But here’s the deal, there are many 90 year old fools because age will only teach you if you invite it to sit awhile and it will only radically change your life if you let it move in your soul.

I’ll shoot you straight, though. Do I miss a back that doesn’t ache, hands with less age spots, perkier breasts, legs with less varicose veins? Sure, maybe a little bit.

Those gals at Target may gain all that I lack on the outside, but you and I, the ones that have fallen enough to be free, well, we are the ones to be envied because we have experience and experience is the greatest treasure on this earth because it teaches you to stand taller, to be unabashed about your imperfection, confident in the tiny fibers that make up who you are, and  it wedges more light in your eyes because you spend less time on what is not important and more time on what is.

You know, you and I should be the ones quaking with robust laughter. We know a little secret those young gals do not know. Experience is a gift, a gem, a pearl, a prize. But it sits high on a shelf –one that our youth cannot reach not matter how hard it tries. We can see what they cannot, we know what they know not and it this : Experience can only be grasped  and unwrapped by hands of time.

because I just love to post pics unrelated to a post…because no blog post should go without some faces behind all the words:)

Roman playing a good ole game of hide n’ seek. he has fun…my curtains take a beatin’. oh well…you can always rehang curtains, you can’t recreate joy.

Posey looking sassy…because yes, she already wants to wear necklaces…to bed. me oh my. can’t wait for 16:)

the husband…and yes, a photo of me dressed and makeup-ified. rarely get shots of these moments…

just taking a bath..batman style.

riding in daddy’s truck…I think he just entertains her.  It’s not every day you get to ride with Captain America, people.

I love this photo because Posey hangs onto her daddy’s every word.    this captures it all. this is pretty much what our evenings look like–that is minus running around half naked with a cape in the to the far right:)

Before I could breathe life into an impending hello, she spoke words crumbling, Woody died, Lindsay.

Woody was a family friend of ours who I adored. I won’t bore you with details, but the man had one challenging life and in the last five years he had really lived freely.  Woody  loved Jesus, he loved people, and he loved life. Despite what his 61 years of heartache had handed him. I can still hear his voice clad with energy and zeal with a thick ribbon of southern dialect tying up all his statements.  I can still hear him thoughtfully asking about my family whenever I saw him, “Well, how’s mama and sistaaaaa, doing?” I can still hear him talk about Oreo his dog and best friend like he was talking about his spouse, gushing on and on.   I can still see him sitting by himself at my sister’s wedding in the very back of the sanctuary, giddy with delight that he was simply included in the festivities and not alone for the night. And I can still hear Woody talk about how free he was now that he knew and lived in God’s great and unconditional love for him.

As I sat there my carefree twirling now a rigid rocking back in forth,  my  flip flops torn by the lackadaisical soon- to- be -gone days of summer now  gentle tapping the sun soaked deck below me to the cadence of a leaky faucet. I was fighting back potential southbound streams soon to be raging rivers rising in the corner of my eyes, I just wondered WHY? Why did he die when he was finally in a good place, happy with life, himself, at peace with the jagged pieces of his past? WHEN he was the most fully alive he died.

Watching the kids now circling the pool like a race track, splashing their soaked  and sodden bodies’ residue on me as they made laps like  wet puppies set free from a bath, I kept making that ugly, squinted face—that one you contort in hopes that your tear ducts will shut down and your brain will heed the stop sign your heart has raised high that reads: please-stop—the-tears-from-coming-because-I-can’t-lose-it –in –front- of the-kids -right -now. Fighting off waterworks like it was the fight of my life, I mentally compartmentalized what my mom had just told me in hopes that I could bring it out later in the night and toss and turn in it until the tears dried up on my pillow.

Then as I watched the kids robust with life, flush faced with frolicking, echoing giddy laughter and life of the thickness of late summer air, I thought back to an email my friend Elizabeth Broyhill had sent me a couple weeks ago. She had sent me this piece written by Robert Gowan, a man in the prime of his life with two little ones who had just lost his wife Amy this August. Amy, a woman I never met, but after reading bits and pieces of her full and flavored life two things stir up in my soul: 1) I wish I could have met her in person to drink up her free spirit that seemed courageous beyond words 2) I am challenged to live life with every ounce of my being like Amy;  we need more Amy Adams Gowan’s in this world to bring light to the dark places.  Amy lived a life that will live on even without a physical presence.   Shouldn’t we all hunger for the same kind of freedom–a life embraced instead of one that we are always trying to makeover,rearrange, and trade in? Amy dared to do what seems harder than skydiving with no parachute: living fully right where she was. Even when right where she was was the land of Lou Gehrig’s disease.

Now, before you get all depressed and close the screen to mindlessly peruse Etsy or Pinterest because let’s be honest death isn’t something we jump in line to read about in our free time. I ask you to stop. And think that maybe, maybe in trying to wrap our minds around the mystery thief that is death that we might truly realize how to live. Most of us live like we are eternal—plowing through our days like they are to be survived, not lived. That death is for the next guy. Not for me. Not for you. But, maybe if we saw how small this life is we would live bigger, better lives. Complaining less about our 1^st world problems of not having a new car. Forgiving a little more because we are all flawed. And not living for things, stuff and for the next guy or gal  we are trying to keep up with… but for relationships. Because at the end of your imperfect story the only thing that is left is who you loved.  And more importantly who you loved well.

Thank you, Robert, for allowing me the privilege of sharing your story, Amy’s story. May we all learn to live the way Amy did and more importantly may we fly in freedom like she does…

Here is what Elizabeth shared with me. Written beautifully by Robert Gowan:

On Sunday my mom gave me a children’s book called “Waterbugs and Dragonflies”. It’s a parable for helping young children understand death. In the story there is a pond full of waterbugs. Every once in a while one of the waterbugs inexplicably crawls up a blade of grass and above the surface of the water. After the waterbugs crawl up the blade of grass the waterbugs in the pond never see that waterbug again. After this happens over and over, a group of waterbugs gets together and promise that whoever goes up the blade of grass next has to come back and report on why the waterbugs never return. A few days later, one of the waterbugs making the promise goes up a blade of grass and he soon turns into a dragonfly. The new dragonfly tries to return to show and tell his waterbug friends what has happened to him, but he can’t get below the surface of the water. The new dragonfly is sorry that he can’t let his friends know how amazing it is to be able to fly and be free, but he knows they will all soon be with him and just as happy and excited as he is to be there.

Since Amy and I moved to 855 Glendale Lane in October 2001, I have never seen a dragonfly at our house. And I would remember if I had. Amy, Catherine, Will and I get excited when we see new bugs and animals around our house: fireflies, crickets, praying mantises, spiders, snakes, groundhogs, wolves, deer, foxes and possums have all visited us over the years.

Wednesday morning I went out on our deck to read the paper and when I started to go back in the house there was a dragonfly crawling up the blind on the door. Again, I’ve never seen a dragonfly at our house.

Back in May I told Amy that one of the things that scared me most about her illness was knowing that I was going to have to tell Catherine and Will that she had died. She told me that she had told them over and over that she was always with them whether she was in their physical presence or not, and she said they understood because they both ended up telling her the same thing many times. She also told me that she would find a way to let us know that she was ok.

Amy stopped breathing a little after 6:30 pm, Wednesday, but before she left she found a way to let us know that she was ok.

I’ve shared this story with a few people that were with Amy in the last few days. A few of those people have started to send me pictures and tell me of dragonflies that have started magically appearing – so far, from West Nashville to North Alabama.

Amy is more than ok. She is free.

I love this picture because it is a dragonfly that can’t seem to break through to the water below, yet his shadow is on the water for those below to get a glimpse of the real thing.

As I thought  pensively what to write about an event that so rocked my world, gripped my mother’s heart four years ago and still has yet to loosen the hold, I kept going back. Back to what I wrote.

So I serve up to you words and sentiments still tatooed on my heart. May this story stir you to do something.

Voila:

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night.

I think about her. I think about him.

I think about what it felt to hold his sweet, childlike, fresh skinned  hands for the last time. To miss his hugs at night. To kiss his sweaty, cherub, flushed  cheeks after running in the yard.  To hear him banging his cars around on the kitchen floor creating loud crashing noises from the depths of his little lungs. To feel him slip through time and space to the other side.

I  so often think, “How does she breathe? How does she get up in the morning? How does she go on? And this thought bobs its head  out of my visiting sadness, “How does she not  get angry  at Jesus…to the point of shucking her faith and flat out giving the bird to heaven– I mean a child, God ?”

Her name is Gillian, she is my friend,she is a mother,and wife. I like to think of her as a hero.

She has endured my greatest fear. Every mother’s greatest fear.

Gillian lost her dear son Joseph right at his 4^th birthday in 2008 to a battle with brain cancer.

I went to his funeral 4 years ago on a hot, humid August  day that was almost as sweltering as the pain and anguish in that church where the service was held. Hundreds gathered to bid adieu to a four year old whose life had been abruptly interrupted by the sickness that permeates this world. We all gathered between the four walls of Christ Community church to attend to the funeral of a 4 year old.  Yes, read that line again. And again. FOUR YEAR OLD. It will never read well, or smoothly,or without your mind failing to compute it without developing some big ulcer in your stomach.

Why?

Because it’s an event no one should have to experience, especially two parents in their prime years—their thirties…years when we are supposed to be smiling,laughing,bbq-ing, going on trips to the beach, looking forward to our futures –finally get comfortable in our own skin. But we live in a fragmented world that was shattered into brokenness and compunction many, many years ago so this experience was just a remnant of the puzzle of the perfect life that shattered voluminous years ago in a garden half way across the world.

So here I sit with my laptop in my hands..diggin’ and burying words…and diggin’ and burying some more words..trying get something to resurface that would capture what walls were torn down and built back up on that day Joseph’s  life was celebrated. The wall of faith crumbled and crushed watching a four year old’s coffin  stare back at you as if it were the embodiment of injustice. And the  walls of faith were built back up even stronger knowing that God was in control. That this life is so not it. That we are a vapor. That we are souls with bodies,not bodies with souls as C.S. Lewis so eloquently points out. That life is one redeeming story in rewind.

It doesn’t negate the pain or anger when these kinds of tragedies arise. But it does heal the  gaping wound with the ointment of hope that Jesus says we will meet again, that Gillian will hug and chase Joseph around  heaven  with sheer delight and he will cup her Mother’s  face in his perfect, disease free hands and tell her  over and over with childlike bliss what a great mama she was.  Oh, my friends,this life is a pit stop to the real thing. Often a very excruciating and surreal pit stop.

But that’s not what that post is about. At least not today.

This post is about Joseph. This post is about children sitting in a hospital room hooked up to IV’s with doctors poking and prodding on them as they try to watch Elmo. It’s about childhood, a time that seems eternal and blissful merging with the brutal reality that life is harsh, interrupted and often unfair this side of heaven.

It’s about helping these little souls.  It’s about easing their pain. Lengthening their lives,and quite possibly saving their lives.

I think we all whether Christians or not get overwhelmed by the heartbreak in this world..this unjust spin around the sun that we are on. Particularly when pain knocks on the door of a child when it seems it should have visited the crotchety elderly lady down the street that is 109. It’s just not right,not fair at best, cruel at worst.

So, one thing I am going to start doing each week is to provide you and I  with one or more things we all can easily do to help show the love of God. I think we all want to help..we just get overwhelmed and don’t know where to start. So I am going to do my durndest to lay some options in your lap each week.  Because at the end of the day all hearts respond to love. All.

I have been talking with Gillian, Joseph’s mama, and a friend of mine about what I could do and I decided that I would blog about the race being done in his honor September 1st, a race done to raise money to fund research for childhood cancer. Did you know childhood cancer is the least funded cancer out of all of them? Did you know that childhood  cancer is the  number one disease killer among children?

I don’t say this to guilt you, but rather make you feel responsible. To whom much has been given much is expected.

So here’s the scoop. No child should have to have their world of cartoons and make believe interjected by the ugly voice of cancer. For every Joseph there are more.  Thousands of more. Millions of more.

Here’s the one thing you can do to help change the life of one, possibly a multitide.

There is a Joe P race, go here to find out more on September 1st in Nashville to raise money for childhood cancer and of course to honor this sweet little boy:

PLEASE sign up if you are in Nashville, or pass this along to someone you know lives in Nashville. OR donate if you can. Or help if you are a local business. Or say a prayer for this family and the family of others as they fight a battle that would wear down the stoutest of soldiers. Anything you can do is an act of love. And love is our highest calling.

We all can do one thing. Each day. For one person. One effort at a time.

Apathy is what makes this world so grim. Reject it. Pull out your love muscle and use it.

After all, we are the most alive that we possibly can be when we are pouring loving into others; when we  empty ourselves  into others we are filled up. Even if those others are little ones running around heaven with gobs of ice cream on their face, tiptoe-ing their tiny feet over heaven’s borders to hug their mamas in their dreams.

Whatever it is you today, remember that we can’t do it all, but we can do one thing.

May this race be your one thing…

***not one to ask this if you have read this blog for any amount of time, but if you would pass this on to whomever wants to strap on some running shoes and do something fun and purposeful on a Saturday morning….well, then please by all means spread the word:)