Snow Day

I woke up and told my sweet husband I needed 10 more minutes of sleep. . . 10 minutes later, that saint is back to remind me that the day awaits and if I'm going to have a shot at getting to work on time I better get up; the roads are bad.

I don't want to get out of bed. I want to sleep in like my daughters are. I'm stiff as the cold floor meets my bare feet. I hate the cold.

I look outside. The stupid snow is glaring at me. On the days when I was a stay-at-home-mommy, I would look outside at the snow and see images of making snow angels with Essy, building a snow man, or simply eating handfuls of the white powdery ice until we couldn't feel our fingers. . . we'd come inside and make hot chocolate (or "warm-chocolate", according to my very literal 3 year old) and we'd snuggle and watch movies and warm up in our pajamas. All day. We'd go no where.

But not anymore, now I am tiptoeing around my house, trying not to disturb those sweet sleeping beauties while I make a days worth of bottles and meals.

Derek leaves to go get the sitter. Yes, the sitter - because although the rest of the world still has to go to work, our childcare is closed for the day due to "inclement weather". Thanks a lot. Now I get to pay for your services that I am not receiving AND a sitter. Let it snow --- let it freaking snow!!

My girls wake up just in time. Just time to make me late, but I don't care. I want to hug their little bodies and feel those sweet rosy cheeks next to mine, still warm from being tucked in bed until 2 minutes prior.
I go to leave so I can be to work on time and change my mind. I'll sit for just 5 minutes and snuggle. It'll get me through my day.

I slip and slide a couple of times on my way there but no damage. Monday morning awaits with plenty to do. I get right to it.
I'm so busy, I have little time to notice how badly my throat is hurting, or the ache in my bones. I didn't feel to well over the weekend but now it's time to put my "big girl panties on" and deal with it.

I get am email at 9:00am. Lucy's school has decided to open. . . Awesome. After some coordinating with the hubs, he decides it makes more sense for him to get Lu and take her in while Ester stays home with the sitter. It'll be easier on everybody.

All day I feel worse and worse. . . but i keep thinking about my loves that need me and I press on, requesting updates from my sitter as the day passes. 3 o'clock my cell rings. It's Lu's daycare: "she has green mucus, come and get her. She can return with a doctor's note."

Oh - joy.

I pick Lu up and take her to the nearest Urgent Care. The receptionist gives me attitude for not having my license because OF COURSE I left it with my husband from our date the night before. That's what I get for trying to have a little fun, I guess.

After calling Derek's administrative assistant to fax a copy of it over to us, we're squared away. 75 minutes and $100 later I have my note stating that Lucy is not contagious and may return to school, it's just allergies.

I am so grateful she is not "REALLY" sick but annoyed that I had to take time away from work and time away from home and hard earned money over this. . . thus, is parenthood, I suppose.

We pick up the sitter and Essy, take said sitter home, and return to ours . . . FINALLY. As I pull the girls out of the car I see that most of the snow it melted. The roads are clear and all that is to show from it all is a tiny patch of melting snow on
our lawn in the shade of our tree.

We come inside and I smell our dinner. . . burning in the crock-pot. FAIL. I peek inside and see the meat caramelizing in the barbecue sauce, all black and crusted. I forgot to turn it to "keep warm" when I left this morning. Whoops. I am super-mom.


I give the girls a snack while I try and throw something else together. So much for saving time on cooking in order to have more time playing with my children.

I swear, this feels like one of those stupid Ben Stiller movies that I hate where everything goes wrong and while everyone else is laughing about it, I'm left stressed, just wanting something to go right for the guy! I mean, his name is Gaylord Focker, for crying out loud!!

Out of the cinema - back to reality - feed your children.

Dinner is done: cheese, lunch meat, fruit, and left-over baked potatoes. Watch out, Betty Crocker!!

Daddy is home - just in time! We eat and my husband stomachs the meat in the crock-pot. Saint, I tell you! The man is a saint! I wash the dishes while I hear them all playing in the living room.

Here it goes. My favorite part of the day, when we are all together. The part where I can forgot about the last 10 hours and be thankful for the remaining 2. This is it, Lord. This is it. This is what I do it all for. This is what makes my soul awaken and my heart leap and my eyes well up with gratitude. Those giggles that quickly move into belly-laughs. All those hugs and tickles and even the toots that make us curl over in laughter. Little girls are so cheery. And these are the moments that get us through the bedtime routine. . . the meltdowns and tired whines that lurk around the corner from my little time in paradise.

But as soon as those sweet minds calm and eyes are sound asleep = Bliss. Because I can look at them peacefully.

Tonight, as Lucy fell asleep on my shoulder, I sat with her for a moment in the darkness and I rocked her. I felt her sweet breath on my neck as her hand held on to the other side of my face. And I breathed her in. I thanked God for this sweet, sleeping baby and for this precious window of time that I get to hold her while she sleeps. I felt her body on top of mine and began to cry. How is my sweet baby already 10 months old? How is she so big that her body drapes from my shoulder to my knee? I cried because I love her. I cried because I'm grateful. I cried because I am sad that time is slipping by me so quickly. I cried because someone else gets to play with her most of her days while I am away at work. I cried because I am so proud that this little one is mine. I cried and I cried and I cried. . . and I'm crying while I type this.

And tonight, in about 10 minutes when Derek pulls Ester out of our bathtub and we begin to get her settled and she falls asleep, I will go in her room and watch her breath deeply. I will stroke her hair and be grateful that she is safe and that she is mine. I will cry because I love her. I will cry because I cannot believe how big and how smart she is. I will cry and cry.

Because even though this snow day made me cranky, and even though I didn't get to spend it playing outside with my girls, and even though I still feel like shit and my throat feels like it's on fire, I am still grateful. I am so very grateful for all of the moments that I DO have. And hopeful for more. And just maybe the next time it snows it will be on a weekend, or a holiday, or my work will close too . . . and if not, then maybe I'll take a vacation day!

Panic! . . . not the disco kind.

This post will probably be similar to the last in that I am writing in exhaustion and desperation. Those are two words that I feel most days: exhausted and desperate.

It's almost midnight and I should be asleep. The rest of my house is. I can hear all 3 of my loves breathing deeply and I am so glad that they are resting peacefully. But I can't tonight. To be totally transparent: I am anxious. My heart is racing as fast as my mind and they are both moving at a speed that makes me feel dizzy.

So instead of lying in bed like a tortured spirit, I am getting up, opening up, and releasing . . . and like a girl of Gen Y, I am choosing to do so on some form of social media.

I do this a lot lately: panic. I started to struggle with anxiety my senior year of high school. I remember the first "panic attack" that I had. I was driving and I pulled over because I literally thought I was going to die. I thought I was having a heart attack. I got dizzy, sweaty, I was shaking, and my heart and mind felt out of control. I clammed up and almost felt out of my body. I tried to pray but I couldn't get control of my mind. I was so scared and my heart was burning and pounding, like a knife of pain was shooting through my chest, from the front to the back. I threw up and then waited. I don't remember how long I waited but eventually I realized I wasn't dying and felt "with it" enough to drive home.

That happened on and off the rest of my Spring semester of my senior year. It would happen out of the blue and I eventually chalked it up to the stress of life and didn't give it much thought. . . Until about a year later. By the Spring semester of my freshman year of college I truly was a mess. It got to where I had several panic attacks a day. It got so bad at one point, I was scared to leave my room. I hated how out of my mind I felt when it would happen. And it usually happened right in the middle of class or right in the middle of work. I hated it. Hated it.

That was a really hard time for me. My lifestyle wasn't very healthy, as I was barely sleeping, eating greasy/crappy food, and staying up late. I had gained a lot of weight, my face had broken out, and I was really stressed in general. I was "unhappy" and struggled with a lot of self-hatred. One day, I woke up and decided to get help.

I went to the clinic on campus to talk to a doctor. I was so honest about what I was going through. I figured the doctor I was talking to (who barely looked a day over 20) probably thought I was crazy. But I didn't care because I felt crazy and didn't want to feel that way anymore. He quietly listened to me ramble on and on and cry and sob about it all. He nodded his head and said he was going to get something and left the room. I sat there alone, crying. . . and started to have a panic attack.

A couple minutes later, a (female) nurse came in the room and handed me a piece of paper with information about "panic disorder" on it. She sat quietly while I tried to read it as my mind raced and tried to make sense of the words on the paper. She then handed me a prescription for Xanax to walk over to the pharmacy.

I was dumbfounded.

I went home.

I prayed.

I panicked.

I decided to do some research. . . I Googled it.

I decided not to take Xanax. I didn't want something that might help. I wanted a REMEDY.

Let me take a moment and switch gears - If you take Xanax or any other similar drug, I am in NO WAY making a statement about your decision or situation. I am not a doctor. I am not you. I do not know what is best for you and what works for you and how your body is made up. I am not your Creator (or my own) so I am not pretending to have a clue about the drug, or anything relating to it other than the fact that after my tiny bit of reading things found on Google, I just felt that it wasn't for me.

So, instead, I made an appointment with a counselor. I started exercising. (I wish I could say I started eating healthy and sleeping better but those life changes came later)

It got better. I started to panic less and eventually I got to where when I had an "attack", my mind didn't freak out. Instead of getting wrapped up in the chaos and confusion of my brain, I would speak truths to myself - mostly scripture. I did this until my mind would quiet. Often times, my body was still reacting (shaking, shortness of breath and chest pain) but I refused to let my mind react. It almost became a personal challenge. I would start to physically feel the panic setting in and I would immediately start speaking truth to my mind, to my heart and inner self.

I learned to live with it. I'm still learning.

I know that when I am stressed, they are more likely. I know that when I am eating poorly, not sleeping, and very busy, they are more likely.

Currently, I am in a season of a lot of stress. This is another "hard time" for me. My mind is so cluttered with things to remember, responsibilities that I have to meet. . . Like I said, I am exhausted and desperate.
I am a little lot crankier these days and my head feels in a fog most of the time.

So, as expected, I am struggling with panic attacks. . . but I am hopeful that "This too shall pass."

To be totally honest, I've been "in a rut". I've been guilty of a lot of "stinkin' thinkin'" lately and my attitude has been horrible. I feel most guilty about how this affects those around me. (My family, my co-workers, my friends).

So, it's time to redirect. It's time to start speaking truths again. Not only to my own confused mind, but to those around me. It's time to choose to have a good attitude. It's time to put to practice the things I know in my heart to bring peace, to actively seek the rest that is offered to me (even in the midst of the chaos I create or the chaos the world offers to me).

And it's time to go to rest. Metaphorically and literally . . . because after all of this release, I am no longer anxious, but only tired. (Thank God!)


"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. . . do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me — practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you." - Philippians 4:4-9

I cannot.

These days, I'm stretched pretty thin. Like all moms, the entire time I am awake, I am giving. I am trying to meet someone's needs and often times in neglect of my own.

From the day I found out I was pregnant with each of my girls, my mind was consumed with fulfilling their needs: "Take your prenatals, drink enough water, eat well, rest, exercise. . ."

Then they came out: "Nurse the baby. Change that poopy diaper. Nurse the baby. Eat something so you can nurse. Try to sleep when the baby sleeps. Nurse the baby. . ."

Now with a Princess-3-year-old, a 9-month-old who becomes more aware each moment, and a new full-time job - I often times feel like my brain literally thinks in needs: "Give Essy her vitamins before you get dressed for work and don't forget her suncreen, oh! And she wanted to wear the pink headband. The one with the flowers, not the sparkly one and did I wash her pink dress she asked to wear yesterday? Gah! I need to read to Lucy! I keep forgetting to read to Lucy! She's not going to be able to speak EVER if I don't read to her! Where are my black heels for work? Heels! Ester's shoes! I forgot to clean the mud off of Ester's tennis shoes . . . I'm going to be late to work again and Lucy is still crying because she misses me and she is so big now and will be 1 before I know it and I'm missing all of it looking for these stupid heels!"

That may seem dramatic, but trust me - I go there. Often. Daily.

The truth is this- I can't do it all. Like I said, I am stretched thin - and that's not going to change. Not while I've got 2 girls who need me, a husband who needs me, a job that needs me, extended family that needs me, friendships that need me... and even a me that needs me to do it all. And I can't.

And on top of all of that, my girls are both sick. I don't mean that they have a cold or are fighting a bug or any of that. Both of my girls' guts are sick. Their nervous systems or immune systems or a combination of both are sick. They have some stuff going on inside that I am not (yet) smart enough to fully understand. I spend a lot of my "spare" time reading on ways to try and treat their gut. They both have eczema all over their little bodies, food allergies, allergic reactions to different environmental factors. . . etc. I have gotten some answers to some of it and we have appointments with specialists to try and figure out more - but that's not the point (of this particular blog... bc trust me, already I could write a book on our little family's experience with all of this). . . the point in this moment is it's A LOT for me to try and handle.
And I've come to this conclusion: I can't. I can't handle it all.
BUT HEAR ME NOW - I ALSO CHOOSE TO REST IN THIS CONCLUSION: I CANNOT LORD, BUT YOU CAN.

When I am lying on my bed crying because I cannot for the life of me figure out why Ester has broken out AGAIN in a rash all over her back - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When Lucy is crying as I drop her off at daycare - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When my husband looks to me for some attention and I have nothing left in me to give - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When Lucy's arm is bleeding because she won't stop scratching in her sleep and I have changed my diet down to fruit, veggies, and meat trying to keep her breast milk as pure as possible and I do not know what else to eliminate - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When Ester wakes in the middle of the night and is in a half dream/half awake state of panic for 2 hours just after Lucy has woken for the 3rd time because I have yet to help her learn how to sleep through the night - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When I am at work and I have to ask how to do something that someone has already showed me how to do 3 times that week - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When I am brain dead but trying to study for the Series 7 - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When I cannot sleep at night because I am running through the list of things that wait for me when I wake up - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When I get short with my family because I am so stressed and so tired and so human - I cannot Lord, but You can.

When I am sleeping. When I am breathing. When I am - I cannot Lord, but You can.


I know everyone has stress. I know mine is probably miniscule. I'm not looking for pity or praise or anything else pointing to me.
I'm looking for JESUS in it all. Jesus in my stress. Jesus in myself. Because that's all I have to cling to and that's all I have to offer. That's the BEST thing I have to offer. I am not enough for my sweet girls. Although every part of me and every bit of my mind and heart LONGS to be enough to satisfy their sweet souls - I am not. I cannot. I know I am needed and I am thankful that God has entrusted those precious babies to me. Please know that. But even in my thankfulness, I recognize that I cannot be it all and so I refuse to live in the lie that I can because all that brings me is a broken heart, discontentment, and bitterness. It makes me hold on to a guilt that I have been freed from -

I want to live in that freedom. In the freedom that this confession brings: I cannot Lord, but You can. The confession that not only shows my desperation but also (and more importantly) God's grace: I cannot Lord, but You can. And You did. You did, Lord - by Jesus.

I am SO thankful, and I am SO desperate and I am SO empty. But I hold on to the HOPE that My God IS enough for me. And Ester. And Lucy. And Derek. And You.


I cannot Lord, but You can.

Oddy Mommy Body

Disclaimer: Men - read at your own risk. I am not going to sugar-coat any of this. It may get too "gross" or crude for you. Women - if you are too prim and proper for "toilet talk", you should stop reading now.

You're still reading! Ok, well, you've been warned.

Last week I was curious so I stood on my scale. I pulled it out from behind a large stack of toilet paper and boxes of tampons under my bathroom sink and dusted it off. I stood on it and looked down. . . WOW! I weigh my "pre-Lucy" weight! At first I got really excited. Then I got really sad. This sinking feeling came over me and I got off the stupid scale. I put it back under the sink, and behind even more things to create more of a barrier between us.
How is this possible?! The scale says something that you would think would make me really happy and even proud of myself for. I mean, this is why I endure the early morning/late evening runs around my neighborhood. This is my motivation for the one or two times I denied an offer to indulge in a sweet treat. But somewhere along the way of trying to get "back into shape", it didn't happen. The shape part. The number on the scale is the same, but the mirror reminds me that my body didn't get the memo to return to it's original, pre-Lucy form.

My tummy still very much looks like a little person grew inside of it, stretched it out, and then exited - leaving a saggy chunk of skin that hangs over my belt. The skin is even a different color! And that "linea nigra" still hasn't gotten the message that we are no longer pregnant so it is free to go. I have a 7 month old, for crying out loud!!

This all happened after I had Ester as well. And honestly, it wasn't until she was about 2 years old that I started to feel (and look) like my normal self. It took that long to get comfortable in my new skin. And it took that long to realize that I would never fit back into my size 0 pants so I should just stop trying... I mean, my hips had stretched to fit a baby down my birth canal so it makes sense they didn't shrink back! But, don't you know - as soon as I started to feel okay with my new post-baby body, I got knocked up again!! Go figure. (I guess Derek was likin' what he saw as well) ;)

But even though it took that long for me to get over obsessing over some number on the scale, my skin didn't get to this sad or saggy state the first time around. I do, however, remember what my chest looked like after I stopped nursing Ester. She nursed for a year and a half. That's a looooong time to have someone sucking on and pulling on your boobs - Every. Single. Day. For 18 months my boobs filled up and were emptied. They were big then small. Big. Small. Repeat. But then when I stopped nursing her, they not only remained small, they defined the laws of gravity. (I said defiNed, not to be confused with defied.) I wasn't prepared for that. I had always had smaller boobs but at least they were perky! (That's how I made myself feel better about their pre-teen size) But after breastfeeding, the perkiness was no more. They looked more like deflated balloons.

Speaking of nursing, can I just switch gears for a second and say that breastfeeding your baby while being a working mom is a job in and of itself! Gracious! I literally get to pump myself every day, like a cow! But at least cows get a barn! Know what I get? A cold electrical closet right off of our break-room. You know, the room where the computer brains and all that techy stuff is at. And they have to keep it cold so the system doesn't overheat. So every workday, I go into this little closet, set up in a corner and PRAY that the tech guys don't walk in on my milking myself. Then, when I finish, I get to carry my giant pump back to my desk and try to do so discreetly. I'm pretty sure most of the men think I am just bringing in a cooler sized lunch box every day and that I must have some anxiety problem because I randomly disappear into the tech closet. I hate it when a man is in the break-room and I bust out of the closet, probably scaring the crap out of them because no one EVER comes out of there.
-- End work pumping rant. --


-- Continue body rant. --
You know how they say "you don't know what you got til it's gone"? In this case, I believe that to be true. Anytime I hear of another friend or family member getting pregnant, I give them all the same advice: Go home and take pictures of yourself in your lingerie! DO IT NOW! Because you may NEVER look like that again!! And you will want to remember how cute you were and how your skin looked before it was a collection of stretch marks, like a road map! (so seriously, if you just found out you are pregnant or you haven't been pregnant yet - stop wasting your time on this blog and go take some pictures of yourself! Work it!! Go schedule a boudoir photo shoot or something)

I hope you all know, I write all of this in fun. I feel the need to assure you that I do no dislike myself. I may not always like what I see but I have learned to laugh a little and carry on. I truly do love my body (not in the "look at me" kind of way that may have sounded but in the "I want to take care of myself and be a healthy person" kind of way.

I hope you also know that although my almost 29 year old body after two babies doesn't look like the 24 year old body I had, I would never trade it. I wear my new skin with pride. I don't cry about it or stare at it much. I cloth it in things I like, I dress it up sometimes, and I even un-dress it for my husband. I know that he is well aware of the toll that childbirth took on me. He watched them both enter this world and I am sure that he is grateful because not only did I willingly go through that, he is grateful that he will never have to. He has watched my body grow and shrink, grow and shrink - so that we can have our two beauties. I have (and continue to) offer my body to them for growth and nourishment. I am grateful for the miracle of being able to have my own children and breastfeed both of them. It is not something I take for granted. And I would trade all the bikinis in the world for my one-pieces.

I just also think it is healthy and good to laugh at yourself a little. I want so badly to teach my girls to love themselves in a way that is not dependent on a mirror. To dance and frolic and run and jump and play hard in their skin. To embrace their colors and shapes and sizes. To accept their talents and even their weaknesses (they may not both be so lucky to inherit their Daddy's love and ability in sports and may both end up the last man picked for kickball like I was). I want them to believe their bodies are good because something much bigger and greater than them has made it to be that way. I want them to be thankful for what I went through (and continue to go through) and draw strength from it, because someday (Lord willing) they may also have children. I also want them to know it is okay to not always like what they see, but to consciously choose to love it and embrace it. I want to be able to be open about this and not have them feel any shame for the changes they see and feel.

We go through so much for our babies. Physically, mentally, emotionally. . . and I want them to know that I am not perfect, but I am intentionally choosing to be a channel of love for them - one that is open to the Lord working through me, to show them the sweetness He offers and choose it instead of a lot of chaos and confusion and even deception that this world tries to offer them.
I want them to celebrate their beauty, and the beauty of others. Outwardly and inwardly.

So, I hope that you have laughed with me. I welcome you to laugh at me. I am comfortable in my own skin enough to do that and invite you to do the same. But I also invite you to love yourself. Not in a self-seeking sort of way that toots your own horn, but in a way that is grateful for what you have been given - the opportunity to live today and use your body to do so. Whether that be through a hug, a smile, or heck - (my personal favorite) - through a funky dance!!
And if you are a mommy, love your tummy. Love your stretch marks. Love all of the left-overs that remind you of the miracle of your baby (whether that baby be with you here on earth, or waiting for you in heaven).

1. Ester inside - 2011. Photo taken by http://hayleymichelphotography.com/
2. Lucy inside - 2013. Photo taken by http://hayleymichelphotography.com/
3. My sweet family outside - 2014. Photo taken by https://www.facebook.com/SherriGlennPhotography

A Time to Transition

When I look back at the last decade, I remember my life in seasons. There have been "dry" seasons where I felt like I was just going through the motions like a robot and there have been seasons of growth and joy (like when we lived in Honduras). Of all the different phases, the one that sticks out to me the most was our family's season of trauma and crises. If you know me well, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you don't, you may remember when I was updating my facebook status, asking for prayer for my niece, Lily. Lily lived 40(ish) hours. She was one of 3 deaths that happened in our family in less than 9 months. That season also included many sleepless nights for reasons I am not at liberty to discuss... That season was stormy. A dark cluster of pain and anger and confusion and desperation. It lasted from about May of 2011 to Feb of 2013.

Around Feb of 2013, life went on autopilot for me. I was tired of feeling so much all the time. God let me rest and honestly, I feel like he just sat and let me be. That was so refreshing. That was a really quiet time for me, like the few moments when you are waking up from a bad dream and you are deciphering between what is true and what you just saw. It was foggy numbness and He (God) slowly woke me up, breathing life and clarity into my bones.

From then until now, that is what has been happening for me. God is so kind and gentle and has given me time to draw me back into actively and intentionally "living". I don't know if that makes sense to anyone else. I don't know if I fully understand it myself, but I know that He is kind. And I also know that He has been up to something. God is ALWAYS up to something.
Thankfully. Because I am pretty much comfortable being up to nothing.

Right now, there is a stirring inside me. A swirling of energy happening and unlike what I described in the first paragraph of this post, I do not feel confused about it. I do not feel lost within it. I feel . . . grateful. Anxiously grateful.

There is a lot of transition that is taking place, but instead of feeling overwhelmed by that, I am choosing to feel "sifted." Like God is shaking out the access and unnecessary in order to purify a part of the whole. This is an essential step in the creative process, in the growing process.

My oldest sweetie, Ester, doesn't like change. She is comfortable with routine and does not deviate well. As result, when we know change is coming, we try really hard to prepare her for it. We have several conversations about what is to come so that she is not caught off guard. This helps her warm to it, and and ease into it. But there are also times when we cannot prepare her for change. When we don't know or when some unsuspected thing occurs. At first, she wigs out. She cries and fights it. But with time and us talking her through it, or helping her process it, she eventually trusts us and let's go.

I bring this up because I am a lot like Ester. In fact, I am finding that many of my struggles, I expose to my sweet girl and then I see them begin to take root in her (but that is another topic and one where I hold on to the freedom that grace brings for both of us). - Ah! Tangent! Back to change: I tend to fight it most of the time but then realize that there is very little control I have of it all so slowly (and with white knuckled fists), I release it- little by little.

So, that's where I'm at. In the middle of a lot of changes: I am going back to work full time for the first time since I had Ester. Ester and Lucy will both be in full time child care as result. Derek is in the middle of some transitions at work that will require more of his time. Derek's parents are moving to Oklahoma City after pastoring in Ardmore for 20 years. I have a nephew on the way. My sister is moving. My other sister is probably moving within the year and switching career paths . . . ya-da-ya-da-ya-da. Lots of change. Lots of learning and unlearning. Lots of sifting and moving parts. And as result - lots of letting go.

But in it all, I hold on to this: God is good. He is in control and I am not.

We Ain't Never Scared! . . . Ardmore High School Class of 2004

I don't know if this will resonate with anyone else, but when I look back at high school, I tend to have a lot of regrets. There were a lot of things I did that I am embarrassed and/or ashamed about. There were a lot of things that hurt my feelings and confused me and there are a countless number of things that I believe will always leave me a little bit puzzled.

High school (for me) was such an awkward time. On one hand - I felt so grown up, and yet on the other - I was still completely dependent. I thought I knew what I wanted in life. I thought that was the point (what "I" wanted). I thought I knew who I was and perhaps, I did know - just not fully. I depended too much on how I thought others defined me. They may have not had labels for me at all, but I was sure they did and I was just as sure that they were not good. I was insecure. I was lonely a lot (even when surrounded by my friends) and I had a lot of judgment. If I'm totally honest, I had a lot of judgment for others but the person I had the most for was myself. That is probably still true.

The period between childhood and adulthood is muddy, the boundaries are unclear and everyone is trying them, pushing them, and "searching" them. I did a lot of searching then. I do a lot of searching now - the only difference is, I have found healthier places to look.

Most of my regrets from high school do not have to do so much with the things I did, but rather the things I did not do (this quote applies - for all of my fellow "Empire Records" lovers). I didn't defend my friends like I should have. I didn't give much of an effort in making sure my boyfriend didn't get in the way of my friendships. I didn't keep my big mouth shut. I didn't reach out to those around me who looked as lonely as I felt. The list goes on and on. . .

Not all of high school was horrible. In fact, most of it wasn't. I don't want to be so melodramatic and make it seem like I was this ultra sad case. I wasn't at all. I had great friends, many of whom I am still close with (by God's grace they still keep me around after all the crazy I did and said). I guess I just felt the need to share because I wonder if this will hit home with anyone else. More importantly, I wanted to share because if my ignorance or self-centeredness or insecurity or whatever it was at whatever moment, resulted in me hurting you, I am so sorry. I can't help but wonder if some people were left scarred by something I (or maybe someone else) did or said. I can't help but wonder if someone else thought that everyone else was labeling them as well. If that is you - I am so sorry. If you were labeled whether it be in your own mind or out-loud by someone else, on behalf of them (or me) can I please just say - I am so sorry.

But can I please also say this - Don't give away your power. Don't wear that label any longer. I sat around for a long time during and after high school trying to define myself based on lies in my own mind. I wore names that were not true and was even called some of these to my face: "Liar", "Ugly", "Bitch", and "Hypocrite" are a few. All of them (for me) came down to one mega label - "Unlovable". In my case, I was the one labeling myself most of the time. But slowly, by opening myself up to voices louder than those and louder than mine, I began to believe what I heard from those who truly love me - I AM LOVABLE. YOU ARE LOVABLE!

This past weekend was my 10 year high school reunion. It's still pretty crazy to me that it's been an entire decade since we graduated. I don't feel that far removed from those days and yet, a lot of life has happened in between now and then. It was a BLAST! It was so freeing to see everyone and not wear the labels that I did back then. Maybe some people still have those for me, but I refuse to wear them. If they are there, I choose to stay oblivious to them.

I had so much fun catching up with my fellow classmates. I had so much fun opening myself up and letting go of any insecurities. I hope others felt this freedom as well. Honestly, I had so much fun I'd be up for having reunions on the regular! I realized that I missed out on the opportunity to share life with a lot of my classmates during high school. I was so wrapped up in my small little self that I totally missed getting to know my peers more intentionally. But I tried that this weekend - I let my hair down and cut loose! It was a blessing to me to see people who never used to hang out, kick it and enjoy one another. I watched one of our star athletes who went on to play college ball sit down and have a beer with a guy who I don't know if he's ever picked up a football. You know what they talked about? Bowling. BOWLING! And they talked about that for at least 20 minutes.

If you graduated with us and you chose to not come because of some past hurt, I am so sorry that you felt like you didn't have the freedom to let that go. I offer that to you and encourage you to live in freedom. I hope that you will come to the next one. And if there is any way that I can make any of it easier, PLEASE reach out to me. This is something that has been on my heart since the reunion.

Our Senior song was "I Ain't Never Scared". The truth is, in high school, scared was all that I was. The truth is, now, I am not.

This one's for you - Ardmore High School Class of 2004. I ain't scared and I got nothin' but love for ya! ;)

photo courtesy of Craig Murray - Inspired Visions (of Ardmore)

Mercedes Convertible Lady

They say you can tell a lot about a person by their car. I drive a used Honda, CRV. I'll tell you what I think that says about me: Used because I cannot afford a brand new car and used because I don't want to throw away thousands of dollars the second I drive a new car off the lot (just my personal preference/belief). Honda? Because I have experience with Hondas and my experience shows me that they are reliable. CRV? Because I have 2 small children and wanted a little more space for their car seats and other accessories but did not want to drive a "boat" like a Pilot or a larger SUV. Why not? I am more comfortable in smaller vehicles and I also don't want to spend a lot of money on gas.

The other day I was running late (this is common). I had just dropped the girls off and was on my way to work. I was going through a neighborhood, towards the highway when out pulls this lady in her Mercedes convertible. She pulled right out in front of me and then slowed down. She was driving all of 10 miles UNDER the speed limit. She was NOT in a hurry. I was. And the entire time I was stuck behind her, I got more and more anxious and agitated. I also got more and more judgmental. These were some of my thoughts:

Hurry lady! I got places to be! Not all of us have the luxury of taking our time!!. . . Not all of us have the luxury of driving a Mercedes!. . . Some of us actually have jobs and don't get to dilly dally through life! . . .Look at her stupid blonde hair blowing in the wind. I bet that's not her real hair color. I bet she's on her way to yoga. Sure wish I had time like that, to get my hair done and go to yoga. . . ya-da-ya-da-ya-da. . .

Ugly, huh? But it's the truth. Thoughts like that go through my mind often. And when I get really real with myself, they stem from jealousy and discontentment. I was so jealous of that lady that I knew nothing about other than that she was driving a fun car and driving it slowly. Maybe she does have a job. Maybe she worked really hard for that car. Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe her hair really is blonde on it's own. Or maybe it's not and she likes it that color so she pays to have it that color. Maybe she does go to yoga or maybe she hates it and doesn't. It doesn't really matter at all who she is, what she does, or how she does it. It's none of my business and shouldn't affect me. My feelings had nothing to do with this lady and everything to do with ME. The ugly in ME.

Part of this ugly just comes naturally (my innate nature). And part of this ugly comes from a culture and even the history of mankind that says "You deserve more - go get yours and knock anyone out that stands in your way!"
When did I get so wrapped up in "getting mine" or resenting others when they have what I don't? When did my heart get so full of discontentment?

This isn't a post about not wanting to be materialistic or being happy for others or living in harmony or any of that feel-good-Kumbayah-shit. Those are all good things. But this isn't about that. This is about exposing the UGLY TRUTH. The UGLY TRUTH that I, when left to my own devices, can convince myself of all sorts of lies, but they all come down to this one lie. The lie that I am missing out on ANYTHING.

This is the same lie that Adam and Eve fell for. That God was holding out on them because He didn't want them to have something that they wanted to have. That God was keeping something from them that they deserved. . . and I guess in a manner of speaking, He WAS holding out on them, and it was even something they deserved but not the way we usually mean that. He was holding out on them the pain and brokenness we receive as a natural result of not trusting Him, of not being in relationship with Him.

From this stems my jealousy, my discontentment, and ultimately, my distrust in a God who is trustworthy.

I have so much to be thankful for. My beautiful, messy family, my house that keeps the weather out, my car that works, a job that helps pay the bills, food on the table, and all the other cliche' but true things that most of us are blessed to list. But all of this FAILS in comparison to the TRUTH that I have a God who loves me and isn't keeping anything from me. A God who wanted to give me so much, that He gave me the best thing I could ever have - He gave me Himself.

That may not make my hair blow in the wind, that may not make my mornings any less rushed and it may never change some of the things in life that exhaust me. It may never change my circumstances. But it changes something more central than that - it changes my heart which then changes my attitude which then changes my perspective. It allows me the vision to see clearly that I may not have all I want, but I have all I NEED. It allows me to see the lady in her convertible for what she really is - my neighbor. Not my competition, not my enemy, and probably most appropriately, not my goal. Just my neighbor.

I may never get to own a truck that says "I'm tough" or a jeep that says "I'm adventurous" or a Prius that says "I care about the environment" or a Ferrari that says "I have lots of expendable cash" or a mini-van that says "I transport a lot of kids" or any other stereotype that we (or maybe just I) attach to vehicles, but I am OK with that (in this moment, I am CHOOSING to be OK with that).

So, to you Mercedes Convertible Lady, I am sorry for projecting my own ugly onto you. It had nothing to do with you. I am sorry for judging you and being jealous of you. I am sorry for riding your ass, glaring at you with that look that means "Can you PLEASE speed up?!". . . but seriously, next time, can you speed up a little? Because although you are my neighbor and I am trying to allow the Lord to change my heart, I still feel that you were driving annoyingly slow. . . I don't know if there is a lesson, truth or growth to be had in that, or if it's simply a fact.

I am NOT a Runner

I am NOT a runner. I hate it. I hate the way it makes my body feel as I lug myself around the pavement. I hate counting my breaths between steps. I hate how the sun beats down on me. I hate how it makes me sweat. I AM NOT A RUNNER. But I run anyway.
I started "running" in college, purely out of necessity.

Let me give you a little background. When I was in high school, I never thought much about my weight. I was so active and busy (and I was a friggin teenager with a fabulous teenager's metabolism) that weight wasn't something I struggled with. And then something happened when I graduated . . . Womanhood!

You know how they call the weight you put on your first year of college the "freshman fifteen"? Well. . . let's just say I am an overachiever in that department. I had gained 10 lbs between high school graduation and freshman orientation! I had taken a seasonal job in Nashville for my summer between high school and college. It was such a wonderful experience and I made lasting friendships. God used that time in my life to show me so much about myself and about Himself. But out in the "real world" I no longer had 3 healthy meals a day, prepared by my mother. I was no longer spending all of my free time at the dance studio and the activities I kept myself busy with were replaced with trying new foods in the new place I lived. When I wasn't eating out, I was living off of 3 food groups: store bought bagels, cereal, and sandwiches. That's a hell of a lot of bread! And like Shakira, my hips weren't lying. . . only, the truth they were telling was that I was getting pudgy.

I started off freshman year that way. My lifestyle had changed and I continued to not get the sleep I needed, not eat the food I should, and not exercise consistently. By the end of my first semester, I pretty much lived in gym shorts and t-shirts because that's all that fit anymore. My mom had tried to encourage me to "maybe work out a little" so when I told her I needed new clothes for Christmas, she bought me a used treadmill. . . subtle, huh?

But I needed that treadmill. I needed to make better choices. I needed to get healthy again. So I started running or more appropriately, I should say I started stomping because when I "ran" my moves were so damn heavy that it felt more like marching through water or mud. I didn't gain any more weight my spring semester, but I also didn't lose any. I just maintained my pudginess. If I was going to lose any of the "freshman thirty" (don't hate), I was going to have to do a lot more than just jump on my treadmill 3 times a week. I needed to reverse what I had done to get to this point. I needed another LIFESTYLE CHANGE.

(Side Note: Derek and I started dating while I was in this pudgy stage. I'm pretty sure at that point my waistline was bigger than his. He never once made me feel pudgy and I love that we started dating during this VERY awkward time in my life. Awkward not just physically but in so many other ways - but I'll save all of that for another post.)

I would love to tell you that one day I woke up determined, started sleeping well, eating well, and exercising. . . but that's definitely not the case. The life changes came slowly. It started with the treadmill 3 times a week (as mentioned). Then I started cooking for myself instead of eating all of my meals on campus or at Panera (don't get it twisted, I still love me some Panera). This was even more true my second year of college as I no longer had a "meal plan" so I couldn't afford to eat on campus. I also couldn't afford to eat out often.

That year I also got a bike (an awesome pastel pink cruiser that I still own and adore). I no longer stayed out all hours of the night (like freshmen do.) I had real classes that required some sort of real sleep. And most importantly, I found my first gym buddy (love you, Courtney Jo). We met up at the campus gym several times a week. It's amazing how a little accountability and healthy competition can motivate you to actually follow through with good goals. She was someone I could talk to while I ran to get my mind off of the running.

Running for me is a lot like acting like an adult (I say acting because being an adult, and ACTING like an adult are 2 totally different things). Like running, acting like an adult is not something I am naturally good at. It's not something I'd say I enjoy, but when I force myself to make good choices, I am slowly transformed. It feels less awkward. It gradually moves from something you have to make yourself do, to something that you don't have to really think about. It becomes your norm. This isn't something I am able to do in and of myself. It requires something greater than me. It requires Jesus.

My consistency with running ebbs and flows. It's probably safe to say my consistency with acting like an adult does as well. But I have found that in order to maintain this discipline, I need backup. It starts with making up your own mind but in my experience, it's only sustained by the help of others. We all need each other. We need people who are like-minded, cheering us on. We need to be cheerleaders as well, like a running buddy. And how about another cheesy metaphor to top it off? We not only need running buddies or cheerleaders, we need a coach. (Yep, that's the Jesus part.) For me, it is best if I take it step by step, one day at a time. (Sometimes I have to take acting like an adult one moment at a time. . . especially since I've become a mother. . . but again, that's for another post).

This morning I woke up and ran. Derek woke up earlier and ran first. So this morning when it was my turn, as much as I wanted to roll over and get that extra 30 minutes of sleep, I didn't because he didn't. I am not as strong as I was before I had Lucy. She is almost 6 months old and I am still further behind in my running than I'd like to be. But I got up. I ran today. And you know what? I'm pretty damn proud of that. During my run, I hated every minute of it. But as soon as I was finished, the endorphins kicked in. Energy rushed through me and I was WIDE AWAKE, ready for the day. I took a cold shower and felt my sweaty skin steam in it. I love that feeling.

You've probably figured out by now that I hate running. But I LOVE the way I feel AFTER a good run. That's what makes me struggle through the work of it - the reward. It makes me proud (like "I AM A WARRIOR" proud). It makes me feel alive, even the ache after. It makes me not "need" coffee. It clears my mind and relieves my stress. There are so many good things that come from the discipline of running and it's for those things that I keep at it. There are so many good things that come from the discipline of acting like an adult, and it's for those things that I keep at it.


If you are not a runner, I urge you to try it. Run. Release. Feel - even if it's pain. Because feeling something unpleasant is better than feeling nothing at all. And in life - RUN YOUR HEART OUT. Or better yet, RUN YOUR ASS OFF! (But not all of it, because there's nothin' wrong with having some ass left to grab on to.) SPRINT! Run to the point that your lungs are burning from within you. . . or jog. Or glide. Whatever you do, do so intentionally. I think you'll find that you are capable of more than you imagined. I think you'll find that you secretly start to want to run, or be, or love, or do a number of things that make us vulnerable. That make us connected. That make us healthy.


I am NOT a runner. But I run anyway.



(Picture taken with my friend Jessi after my first 5k. Jessi IS a runner)


". . . let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith. . ."
-Hebrews 12:1b - 2a

My First Tattoo

"YOU have a tattoo?!"
I love getting that reaction from people when they see it on my foot. Yes, I have a tattoo. Let me tell you about it.

I got it when I was 18 years old, in 2004. One day while at school, shortly after my dear friend, Shannon's 18th birthday, I told her I'd buy her a tattoo to celebrate the occasion and I'd get one too! We drove to "Smokin' Joes" after school that same day. We had to drive to TX since they were still illegal in OK at the time.

Before we left town, I had to drive through the bank to get some cash. I remember that part because that was when I called my mom (on my old-school Nokia cell phone) to tell her what we had decided to do. She seemed fine with it. Our conversation was brief because she was working.

We were off! We giggled the whole way, talking about what we were going to get. They would be matching, of course. And I decided I'd let Shannon pick it out since it was for her birthday, after all. (Only an 18 year old agrees to letting someone else pick something that goes on their body permanently.)

When we arrived at Smokin' Joes they asked us what we wanted. We didn't know. We looked at the designs on the walls for a while and Shannon picked a flower. Sure, why not? So we got matching flowers right on the top of our right foot. We took pictures of each other getting our new tats on a disposable camera.

It didn't take very long and it wasn't as painful as I had imagined. We walked out of there feeling VERY cool. . . or at least, I did. On the drive home it started to dawn on me: this flower was going to be on my foot, FOREVER! It's not going to come off! Is this still going to be cool when I'm 28? 38? 88?! I never mentioned a word of this to Shannon but I was panicking inside. Some other thoughts I hadn't considered before: "What was my grandma going to say? Or all the adults at church? What is this going to look like when I'm a grandma someday? Oh crap, MY GRANDMA!! Are tattoos a sin?" (Keep in mind, these were questions in 18 year old Nancy's head).

I dropped Shannon off and we showed her mom. She didn't seem too thrilled but I may have read into this since she didn't say much at all. What was done was done. I then went home and waited for my mom to come home. When she did I jumped up to show her my foot. SHE WAS LIVID! Come to find out, my mom thought I was joking when I called to tell her my plans . . . Whoops.
(Side-note: If you ask my mom today, she will deny this part, as our memories of this event remain very different.)

I was mortified with my mom's reaction. So, like with all things in high school, I called my youth minister, Jeremy.
(Side-note 2: I still call Jeremy from time to time to talk about life's issues.)
Me (sobbing): "Jeremy, what do you think about tattoos?"
Jeremy: "From the sounds of it, it doesn't really matter what I think about them. Why don't you come over and show us."
So I did. I went and showed them my foot but I was a little ashamed to show his daughters.
Jeremy told me to stop hiding my foot under his coffee table and get over it. I had done it. It was too late to worry about it now.

The next day at school was much more fun than that first evening home with it. I LOVED hearing everyone's shocked reaction that we had gotten tattoos. We were, after all, "goody-goody" and this was very unlike what people thought we would do. I think that was part of the reason I wanted a tattoo. It seemed bold and daring and even a little rebellious. Living most of my life "straight-laced," it was fun to get a rise out of people. I had made a lot of the decisions in my life considering what I should do, or what others thought I should do. It was a little fun to be on the other side of that. Until my grandma saw it.

I don't remember the exact timing of when she saw it, but I remember how I felt. I was outside watering the grass for my mom and my grandma came out of her house (next door). I was barefoot. I walked over without thinking to greet her and then as I approached her, I remembered. Too late. She saw it as I went in to hug her and she squeezed me a little tighter than normal. She held me for a second and said "No matter what you ever do, you know I will always love you." We both knew what that meant and she has never mentioned my tattoo directly. I was relieved with how she responded to finding out but part of me felt like I had disappointed her, and I hated that. I still remember the knot in my stomach as we hugged.

A few months after I got the flower, I decided to add a verse beneath it. I wanted my tattoo to say something about me, personally. I picked Isaiah 40:8 which says "The grass withers and the flowers fade, but the Lord remains forever."
I like this verse for 3 reasons:
1) I believe this verse to be true
2) It mentions a flower so I felt that tied in well
3) It's kind of ironic (being a permanent tattoo and all)


FAST FORWARD 2 YEARS TO 2006. Derek and I had been dating for about a year and were driving somewhere. Tattoos had just become legal in Oklahoma (I think we were one of the last states if not THE last state to legalize tattoos). As result, there were tattoo parlors going up like hot cakes! There was a billboard in Ardmore for a tattoo place called "Wookies" in Mansville. It said the following: "Do something awesome with your best friend!" When Derek saw it, he laughed out loud and said, "Who would do that?! Who would go get a matching tattoo with their friend?" Then he remembered my first tattoo story. . . I would. I would go and do something like that, and I did.
I love this story because it is one of the few times in our relationship where Derek was the one putting his foot in his mouth. ;)

When I talk about my tattoo now, people often ask me if I regret getting it. Nope. Not at all. I have seen my tattoo create opportunities for me to talk to people that might not have happened otherwise. It's amazing how people will open up once they feel like you have common ground. I have even gotten additional tattoos since then. And will probably get more.

I also don't regret getting a matching tattoo with Shannon. Although we do not get to see each other as often as I'd like, I still consider her a friend and love having this memory with her. We've known each other since we were 6ish. She is a good woman and has always been a friend to me. I have so many memories with her and most of my fond high school memories include her. She was my best friend then and is still a treasure to me now.

I wish I had a picture from the day we got our matching tattoos. I'll have to dig one up soon. This is a photo of my flower tattoo next to my college roomie's ankle tat. (College girls take lots of pictures of lots of random things. This is one of those.)

When I first wrote this post, I ended with the photo. But after giving it some thought, I began to realize why I wanted to share about my tattoo in the first place. If you notice, all I talk about is people's reactions to it. I think my tattoo means so much to me now because of that. Not so much the random people who see it on my less pedicured 28 year old foot, but the ones who saw it in the beginning, shook their heads at me, hugged me, and loved me in spite of it. It serves as a little permanent reminder of the people in my life truly love me. Impulsive 18 year old me, and the sometimes still impulsive 28 year old me - they are both loved, equally. It's kind of like this blog. I know that some people will not like everything that I type, but there remains a select few that will shake their heads at me and still want to hug me and love me. Even if they completely disagree with me. That is so special and freeing, to be loved like that. To know that no matter what silly thing you do (or permanent decision you make), you have people in your corner, cheering you on and doing life with you.

So to those of you (my grandma, Jeremy, and others) who love me in spite of my unconventional, irrational, emotional and sometimes just plain stupid ways, THANK YOU. Thank you for giving me the courage to believe I am loveable. You are a godsend and I know that you are storing up great treasures in heaven for loving this little sheep.

Keep Me Where the Light Is

In light of recent events in my life, I have been doing a lot of thinking about darkness. . . hah, started this post off with an unintended pun.

In our home we have a picture of a ship's wheel with a verse underneath it. The picture isn't my favorite. To be honest, it was one the things that Derek owned when we got married and he wanted to keep it and I didn't. So, naturally, it hangs in my bathroom. (That right there says a lot about me as a wife, huh?)

Anyway, I'm getting side tracked again. Under the wheel is this verse: "I will guide you. I will turn darkness into light before you and make the rough places smooth." - Isaiah 42:16
I've read this verse so many times while using the restroom. (I doubt Isaiah had that picture in mind when the Lord revealed to him these words.)

"I will TURN darkness into light." Think about that for a moment. I've been thinking about that a lot this week. You see, there is a very dark and heavy something on my heart. Something very specific that I am not at liberty to talk about (that whole not exploiting those I love thing) and it has caused me to really consider this verse.

At first I thought the dark and heaviness on my heart was there as a result of someone else's actions. Someone did or is doing something that caused me great sorrow. And in the middle of my flailing about in the dark, throwing a fit, and crying out to the Lord about it, it hit me (God hit me): The darkness was there because I was allowing it to be.

You see, friends, Jesus is the light (see John 8:12). And since Jesus lives inside of me, the light lives inside of me, meaning I am also the light. What is darkness? The absence of light. Where Jesus is, there is no darkness. That is how God "turns darkness into light." Therefore, where I am, there is no darkness (as long as I am allowing the light inside of me to shine). This may sound super cheese-ball to you, but it is actually quite freeing when you begin to live in it.

No matter where I go or what I do (or what others do, for that matter), I am not to be afraid of the darkness because I am the light. The dark circumstances do not change, but my focus does. Instead of keeping my eyes, heart, and attention on all the dark around, I have the FREEDOM to CHOOSE to keep my eyes, heart, mind, soul and attention on the light within me. That's where I want to be. That's how this world and even those I love have no power over me. Or better, over the Christ within me.

When you are in the dark, the light is annoying as hell (but that's a totally different post). But when you are in the light, you recognize the beauty of the light. It is warm. It is liberating. It is necessary, like air.


My husband realized this paradigm long before I did. I have had glimpses of it but I'm a slow learner. . . I have to relearn things over and over again. And thankfully, God is my patient teacher.

Unlike myself, Derek is a quick learner. He is a principles guy. He is also a writer. I'd call myself a rambler or really good bullshitter. Derek, on the other hand, has a beautiful gift. God gives him songs and other writings that sometimes never turn into songs, but they are beautiful nonetheless. His words are lovely and deep and it is one of the things I adore most about my man (and watching God bless others through this gift). Below you will find one of these writings and I believe it says so eloquently all of the mess I've been trying to say this whole post. He wrote it in 2010ish. I hope it blesses your heart because I know it has mine.


"So charge into the black
Plunge into the deepest darkness
For its only weapon against you is uncertainty that is, in fact, a lie
For the name inscribed on your chest is a certainty
The certainty that is truth regardless of perception
The truth is that this and all darkness is no match for the light that rest in your heart.
And it will burst forth in exactly the right time
You have no responsibility to produce the light that shatters the darkness
Only, as it gives you the life to do so,
To carry it."
-Derek Lehman

(picture taken by Jeff Reed)

Let's Get It Started!

Nothin' like a good "Black Eyed Peas" song title to kick of a blog! Am I right? Actually, I don't listen to much of their music but when it comes on the radio, I can't help but dance. I love to dance. It's good for my soul.

I'm starting this blog on a whim. Like just about every other human, my life is full of messy, hard shit. And sometimes it helps me be able to turn my brain off at night if I have written in my journal or vented to a loved one. Well, my journal has a stack of dust on it that would make a mite foam at the mouth and my husband, Derek, usually falls asleep in the middle of my rants so. . . sorry internet, you're up!

A lot of people have asked me what my blog is going to be about (and by a lot I mean two co-workers and Derek), and the truth is, I have no idea. I guess it's going to be about me.

I want to live more openly. I'm not talking about the kind of open where someone is not afraid to speak their mind; I've pretty much mastered that. You know the old saying, "open mouth, insert foot." Yeah, I'm one of those people. So that's not what I mean but rather, open to the point where I am sharing my struggles and growth in the rawest way I can (without exploiting my loved ones, of course. . . but the unloved ones, Psht! Stay tuned for some major exploitation! Juuuust kidding.)

Well, this is probably the world's worst introductory blog ever written but it took me about 75 minutes to decide on a background and I have yet to eat dinner. And holy crap!! I just glanced at the clock on my computer and it is 9:59! For a mother of very young children, that's about when I turn back into a pumpkin.

Turning into a pumpkin runs in the family.
Here is a picture of my oldest sweetie, sound asleep.
Ester, age (almost) 3
P.S. I let her pick her own bedding. . . don't judge.