HOW TO BE A GOOD MOM

Today when I picked my youngest up from her day care, she was looking out the window as I walked up the steps on the porch.  Her enormous smile and utter joy at seeing me nearly undid me.

I haven't felt like the greatest mom as of late.  I've been distracted by some things, been snappy and raising my voice far too often, been having too many take out nights, because I simply cannot get it together to make dinner.

I don't measure up to the ideal we mamas tend to compare ourselves with.  I don't make gourmet snacks.  Heck, it's all I can do to get dinner on the table most nights.  I don't have the perfect house, and you can bet that on any given day, there are three loads of laundry waiting to be folded and put away.   I don't play with my kids enough.  I don't know the best way to positively discipline my child or how best to handle the never-ending sibling fighting.  I don't want to spend every waking moment with my kids.  I don't always make them brush their teeth or care what they wear to school.  I don't have any of the answers and I certainly don't have it all together.

But mama, that smile told me everything I do.  I love that girl with my whole heart and to her I am the greatest person in the whole world.

Even when I got frustrated with her the other day when she refused with a capital R to get into her carseat.  Even when we are battling it out over the terrible twos (or forty-ones).  Even when she breaks my new chair.  Even when I feed her cheerios day after day for breakfast because we are in a rush.  Even when she makes me so mad that I see red.

To her, I am her stability and her safe place.  I am her comfort and her joy.  I am a good mom,  because I love her unconditionally, and she knows that and loves me back.

Mama, we beat ourselves up so much and feel like a failure way too often.  But that's on us, not them.

The ideal mom doesn't exist.

She is a conglomeration of many, many women we see and no one person can do all that she does and do it well.   Why in the world do we measure ourselves against a fictional being?  She's not real, and her ideal is completely unattainable.

Here's what I've started telling myself. That mom that makes homemade organic everything?  Maybe her house is a mess.  That mom with the gorgeously decorated and immaculate house?  Maybe she doesn't spend much face to face time with her kids.  That mom that is always taking her kids on adventures?  Maybe she goes through the drive-thru on her way home because she's too spent to make dinner.

I think that everyone just has to choose where they most want to spend their time and what they're most passionate about.  One is not more right than the other, but we just can't go around thinking that everyone else is perfect at it all.  That is a complete and total lie.

So mama, that little boy or girl doesn't care one iota where you grocery shop, if their room is Pinterest-worthy, or that you screw up sometimes and have to apologize. They don't care if your body bounced back after having a baby or if you are a size 4 or 24.  The dimples on your thighs don't mean anything to them, but they sure do notice the dimples on your cheeks when you smile at them.

We think we are failing them, and they think we hung the moon.  

There's quite a disparity there, don't you think?

I asked my 8 year old yesterday what makes her feel most loved, and I'm just going to go ahead and say that I think her answer is a pretty fail-proof list for your child to feel like you are a good mom:

1. When you spend time with me, especially one-on-one.
2. When you snuggle me in bed at night.
3. When you read to me. 

Then I asked her if there was anything she'd want to change about my parenting.  She quietly said, "You yell a lot more than you used to."  Mic drop.   She's so right.  You know what makes me yell?  Unrealistic expectations of myself that then get transferred on to my kids.  I'm yelling because I feel like a failure and a fraud and them fighting or being late for school or making a mess while they build a fort in the living room feels like a confirmation to me and highlights the fact that I can't meet the expectations I place on myself of having perfect kids, perfect image, perfect home.

They don't want perfection, they just want more of us.  They want us to spend time with them and cheer them on in their first steps and comfort them in their first disappointments.  They want us to read a book and cuddle them a little longer.  They want to see joy on our faces when we see them first thing in the morning.

My guess is that you are probably doing all these things already, but just don't realize that what feels insignificant and simple impacts their world the most.  We are allowing our fear of getting it wrong to overshadow the amazing things we are doing right.

Mama, you are doing a good job.  You are loving with your whole heart and you are lighting up a little one's life.   You are doing your very best with what you have to raise them well.  You are giving your all.

Will you give yourself grace in all this?  Will you watch their face light up when they see you?  Will you notice that you are the one they come to when they've scraped a knee?  Will you recognize when they want to be picked up for the umpteenth time today it isn't to annoy you, it's because they feel best when they are close to you?  Will you let go of your unrealistic expectations of yourself?  Will you discover that you are the meaning of home to them?

Will you understand that the only viewpoint that matters in your worth and value as a mom is that of your child's?

What is the true measure of a mom?  The look of joy when they see you through the window. 

Today I felt like a good mom.  A really good mom.

TO THE MAMA WHO FEELS INVISIBLE

Hey Mama,

I see you.

I see you cooking dinner with a screaming toddler wrapped around your leg, two older kids racing around the house swinging wildly between playing and fighting.  I see that your nerves are fraying and it's late, but you have to get something on the table.  You worked magic with your grocery budget to be able give healthy foods to your kids, only to have them turn their noses up to this meal cooked with sheer determination.

I see you in the middle of the night, bone-tired, yet up again, nourishing, comforting, soothing.  You are on the battlefield of weariness, mama, and it's a lonely one in the wee hours of the night.  No one knows or really even cares that you got up 2, 3, 6, 10 times last night, but you did.  Or that you haven't had a full nights sleep for years, but you haven't.  There are no cheerleaders here.  There is no mercy. But you are fierce, mama.  As fierce as they come.  Love is a powerful, powerful thing.

I see you use all your might not to hit back, when a raging toddler pushes you to your limits.  I see the strength that takes even though you feel like you're a failure for even wanting to hit back.  You are strong and maybe that self-control only lasted as far as your fists, while your mouth lashed out.  But you are still strong.

I see your weary eyes brighten for one more word of encouragement, your tired arms squeeze a little body tight in love.  I see you apologize for your wrongs, teaching forgiveness by example.

I see you, mama, when your husband looks through you like you are glass.  He doesn't understand what all these nights awake can do to a person, how the never-ending stream of requests and tantrums and laundry can dull your spirit.  He says he misses you.  He can't understand that you miss you too. I see you notice that he doesn't see you anymore.  That he's checking his email and thinking about work before even rolling over to say good morning.  I see how that stings.

I see that you feel invisible.  This is one of the most surprising things about motherhood.  Friends, family fawn over your little one, but never see you.  Really see you.  Rarely ask how you are doing, because they seem to forget that you're still a person too.  I see you wishing that someone, anyone would ask about the state of your heart.  Or anything ANYTHING about you aside from your kids.

I see you eating peanut butter on soft bread because it is the only thing to soothe the jagged edges of yourself some days.  Salad simply will not do.  Sometimes peanut butter on soft bread is actually kindness to yourself.

I see your dreams.  Maybe they are close or maybe far away, but always seeming to take second place to making dinner, changing diapers, loving littles.  I see you day after day think, "I'll get to that tonight," and then crash after a hard day unable to do any more.  A dream deferred for one more day. I see that day become years and, though you love being a mom, I see bitterness creep in.  I see that there are parts of you that are mighty, but squandered.  I see you lose sight of yourself.  Lose a little bit of hope.

I see you lock yourself in the bathroom for two minutes to be alone...if you can call alone having a small child screaming 6 inches on the other side of the door.

I see you hiding. First it's in the bathroom from your kids, then it's from friends, and eventually from yourself.  That invisibility thing that so surprised you about motherhood becomes a cloak that you wear with relish.  It becomes a safe place, only it's not a safe place because it's not a real place.  And the minute a dear soul looks at you and you know that she sees you, like really sees you, you crumble. You've been found out and it feels embarrassing and freeing at the same time.

I see you triage your days like a master.  You are the queen of efficiency at food prep, packing lunches, bathing kids.  I see you manage fights and scrapes and schedules like a champ.  And though you can mom with the best of them, I see you growing weary of the hamster wheel.

I see your messy house.  It is full of love and growth, but keeping it clean seems to take an army that you don't have.  You remember how your house used to be clean, and everything in it's place.  This kind of mess takes a new kind of grit and stamina to endure. I see you cleaning the kitchen while the baby unravels the toilet paper, the 4 year old spills his drink, and the 7 year old decides your carpet would look better with glitter.   I see you shy away from inviting anyone in, but I also see that their house is just as messy as yours.

I see you in yesterdays clothes, sacrificing your body, your sleep, your self, because there is a love greater than these.  I see your tiny ones gazing at you with utter love because you are their world and their light.  You are doing a good job, mama.  I see you holding them close and letting them go.

I see you sneaking in their rooms at night, kissing their sweet faces, smelling their sweet heads, praying that you are raising them well and that they will know how very loved they are.  I see you making decisions that seem way above your pay grade.  What's best for their bodies, their brains, their souls?  It's so scary, but you care so much that there isn't a option for not making a choice.

I see you working so hard every day, but feeling like you haven't accomplished anything. Productivity in a traditional sense left the building the moment your first child was born. I see you trying to form a new definition of success, and I see the world trying to still fit you in the old one.  Neither they, nor you will ever be appeased if you keep looking at each other, without seeing.

I see you in the shopping center when your child has a melt down.  I see the eyes on you...some of pity, some of judgement, some of solidarity. I see you tremble as you try to remain calm in this moment and not have a melt down yourself. You are amazing, mama. Have I told you that?

I see the pride and joy in your eyes when you see your little one...or even just talk about her.  I see you light up because they are beautiful human beings, and you were a co-creator in a miracle. I see you guiding their hearts to be kind and generous and courageous. I see you changing the world in this way.

I see you, mama.  I see you doing hard things in the name of love.  You are not invisible and you are not alone.

I see you.

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tiny sphere

I've been quiet here.  I think we've just been trying to find a new rhythm with school starting back up. Having one in elementary school, one in preschool, and a baby means lots of juggling schedules and a lot of transition in most of our days.  We've just been trying to hang on for dear life, and put some systems in place that will keep the peace (if that's even a thing for families with little ones).

I'm head down over here.  Transitioning myself to a world that seemed to shrink over night with the starting of school and a baby needing to nap smack in the middle of that time.  We stick close to home most days which is a huge change for me.  My sphere of influence feels immediately under our roof.

I'm learning the art of staying home.  Not "staying at home" as in being a stay-at-home mom, but literally staying home.  Not going anywhere.  Not trying to fill our time and days with playdates and outings simply to keep busy.  Focusing on our home and learning how to manage it better and more consistently.  Focusing on actually getting on the floor and playing with my kids, and not allowing the to-do list to hijack the entire day.   More days end than I'd like to admit with me sneaking in their rooms to tuck them into covers that have been kicked off and staring at their sleeping, squishy faces wishing I'd been more present with them that day.  Did I look them in the eye enough when they had a question or wanted to tell me something?  Did I give the impression that I was too busy for them?  Did they feel loved?

Tell me you do this too??  I simply cannot wait for them all to be asleep and for the "Mom!, Mom!, Mom!'s" to stop, and then all I want to do is go in and soak up their sleeping angelic faces.  Gosh, I love them. And I seem to remember and feel that a lot more when no one's fighting, throwing a tantrum,  or whining about what I made for dinner.  

My oldest just started first grade this year, and I'm sitting here watching the lightbulb of self-awareness flicker on.  For the first time, she's realizing that she will be evaluated and judged in school. Tests have started, and a subsequent realization that somehow her score is a reflection of her value and that top scores are highly regarded.  Even her pediatrician asked her if she makes good grades. Geez.  I'm sitting here wondering, "Can't she just be kid for a little longer?"  She seems so young, so not ready to bear the weight of this inevitable pressure.   So, I let her make clothes for her dolls out of her socks and underwear, just because designing is her jam...and I order her some more when I realize she has none left and the shoes she's worn sock-less smell like a frog crawled in there and died.  But hey, all in the name of artistic expression, right?  She spends more time upside down than right side up, honing her gymnastics moves, and I cheer her on, regardless of the fact that she's probably going to be 6 feet tall when she's grown.   She will face enough naysayers in her life.  I don't have to be one too.

My middle somehow grew when I wasn't looking.  He still feels baby to me, but he's almost 5.  I feel like I missed the whole last year with him.  It's all a sleep-deprived blur and somewhere in there he started writing his name and throwing a mean spiral.  His favorite questions are, "Does this look scary?  Is this dangerous?" He's all guts and glory, but with a deep need for belonging and connection.  An insatiable need for belonging and connection.  I'm busy loving on him and trying not to flip my lid when he flips his.  He is big and bold with his emotions (kind of like his mama), but his heart is golden and generous and often surprising.

My little demands our attention.  She's feisty and fierce and makes her presence known.  The root of her name means persistence, and she definitely lives up to that.  She may not be walking yet at 15 months, but she gets around faster than a speeding bullet and climbs everything she can.  Lately, her communication seems to have exploded, and I see her wheels turning, figuring out everything around her.  She lights up when she sees us, calling out the truth and beauty in each one of us.  She is the arc in our family...the little bit that encloses the circle and brings us all back around to ourselves.

These kids.  They've wrecked my life for the better.

Sometimes...often...I want more.  I want God to call me to do something great.  I often need to be reminded that raising these tiny humans is something great.  Like the prophet Isaiah, I want to say, "Here I am!  Send me!"  And as those words leave my lips, God replies, "But will you stay?"  Is it that "here I am" for me means not that I will go, but rather that I will stay and be fully present in this moment.  Here I am in this most important moment with these most important tiny humans.  One day they will grow into big humans.  One day, my tiny sphere of influence, my three littles, will reach out into a big, bad world and hopefully be a beacon of light.  Hopefully, they will be kind and courageous men and women.

For now, we will practice the art of staying home, of loving each other even when it's hard, of celebrating our sameness and our differences, and of laughing a lot.

Mamas, we are called to this beautiful, sticky mess every single day and bravery in that is to simply keep showing up.  Keep making the lunches and kissing the owies and juggling the schedule and cheering on silliness and wiping bottoms and breaking up fights and giving encouragement and being present.  Keep showing up, and our tiny sphere will become the greatest work of our lives.

Every day is a little life, and our whole life is but a day repeated. 

~Joseph Hall

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who told you you were naked?

This morning, my six year old crumbled into a mess of tears, admitting to me that a friend had been mean to her.  Her normally confident, expressive body that never stops exuding energy curved in on itself, literally concaving as she heaved big crocodile tears.

She was experiencing real world hurt for maybe the first time.  Not a "I didn't get my way" or "She didn't want to share with me" kind of childlike hurt, but a hurt that changes her view of herself.  A hurt that steals a little bit of her innocence, a little bit of her uninhibitedness, a little bit of her blind faith that she is perfectly made and perfectly loved.

I've been dreading this moment.  The moment that my bubble bursts and is no longer big enough to protect her from a world that will scratch and dent and mar her into thinking that she is either "too" this or "not enough" that.

Did you know that at the age of five, 90 percent of the population measures "high creativity?" And that by the age of seven, that number drops to 10 percent?

What comes between 5 and 7?  

6.

Exactly right where we we are.  Oh my God.

With her growing body, comes growing maturity that opens her eyes to see that she is unique.  However, our culture values the box and more importantly, being inside of it.  The thief of comparison will come in the night and whisper to her that fitting in is better than standing out.

She will one day stop dancing furiously because she will become aware that someone is watching, and not with the loving gaze of her parents or her Creator, but with the critical gaze of judgement.  Her arms will flail a little less wildly and her feet will start to match the beat, because that's what she's "supposed" to do.

Finley Eversole writes in The Politics of Creativity,  "Our creativity is destroyed not through the use of outside force, but through criticism, innuendo, by the dirty devices of this world.  So we are diminished, and we forget that we are more than we know.  The child is aware of unlimited potential and this munificence is one of the joys of creativity."

When I think of the word creativity, it encompasses for me the idea of the truest form of ourselves.  Me. You. At our very essence, living into the fullness of all that we are.  Unafraid. Unashamed. Unmuted.  Uncompared.  I believe that we are all Created by the Creator, and since the Maker formed us all in His image, we too are creators, full of the richness of His creativity.  

According to Eversole, by adulthood, "high creativity" in our population drops to only 2 percent.  I have to believe that number is not really indicative of lack of creativity, but more so of it being covered over, pushed down, and buried underneath self-protection and conformity.  It is the world that dims our light.

How do I protect my daughter from the inevitable?  

I look to God for answers, as he was in fact, the first Parent to the first children, Adam and Eve.   The Bible tells me that he, too, was heart-broken as his children were deceived into believing that eating the fruit of the forbidden tree would make them more, when in fact it made them far less.  Knowledge gained included self-consciousness, shame, and fear, which set off an avalanche of hiding, covering, and trembling.  Less, less, and less.  Not more.

God comes into the Garden and asks, "Where are you?"  Even though nothing is outside of God's omnipotent gaze, and he knows exactly where they are, he still asks, "Where are you?"  Where are your beautiful, innocent, creative, unself-conscious selves?

His next question though, is more heart-wrenching.  "Who told you you were naked?"

That was my question this morning as I watched her tears fall and fought back my own, realizing that all my love isn't big enough to protect her.  "Who told you you were naked?"  Who told you you weren't smart? Or couldn't dance? Or looked funny? Or were too loud? Or too big?  Or not enough?  Who told you that?

Memories flooded back of my seventh grade year.  Back to the year a girl in my class decided to bully me and then systematically turned every other seventh grade girl against me.  I was ridiculed, barked at, laughed at, verbaly harassed, ostracized, handed my school picture in a million tiny pieces, and emotionally abused all that year.  I was essentially told I was naked, and they were all laughing at me.

That 12 year old girl had never before known that she was anything other than fine, had never looked in the mirror for any reassurance that she fit the mold in size and shape, had never known how cruel people can be.  That year, I went from being vibrant and courageous to doing everything that I could to blend in and not stand out in any way that might garner criticism.

While I've come a long way from that seventh grade girl, I have carried the baggage of that year into every road I have travelled, every encounter with every person I've ever spoken to.  I carried it into my faith and into my marriage.  I carried it into motherhood.  It still holds me back in so many ways, and I am still working to combat the insecurities that grew out of that experience.

At some point, we all realize that we are naked. God, in his heartbreak, caringly stitched clothing from skins for Adam and Eve, but he also banished them from the garden. You and me, we don't live in Eden anymore. We will all experience suffering and loss, and it is in fact necessary for finding our authentic selves.

My heart might split clean open thinking about this happening to any of my children. And yet, I know that it will. And even yet, I know that their greatest wounds might one day be their greatest accomplishments, greatest stories of redemption, and greatest platform for the empowerment of others.  

Ephesians 2:10 says, "For we are God's Masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago." I am His Masterpiece. You are His Masterpiece. We are His finest work that this world scratches and dents and shatters, and over and over again, God tenderly pieces our fallen fragments together, creating us into better versions of ourselves.

We are left with the question of how we go from being shattered to being a mosaic - beautiful in our brokenness and stunning in our wholeness.  The answer I'm convinced lies in revelling in God's love.

Erika Morrison's words say it best:

...I'm convinced that our job as parents is not to protect our kids from human experience - the double-edged sword that will cut them wide open - but to give them the tools that will help them make a resurrected return, again and again, to the brilliant allure of the divine gaze, the tools to know that any stare other than the divine gaze is not the true story and that finding themselves in the gaze is the foundation of self-knowledge.

So, I will unashamedly ask my children to look for God in their world and in themselves.    I will walk with them through hurts and help them face their fears.  I will teach them to hold His gaze, because in it lies freedom and wholeness and a 6 year old girl laughing at statistics and dancing furiously for the rest of her days.

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lasts

Pippa fell asleep in my arms last night.  After a scorcher of a day, her upstairs room felt more sauna than nursery, and we sweated together as she drank her bottle and I rocked her.  She rarely is asleep before I put her in the crib, but last night her little eyes grew heavy in the heat and she drifted off.  I was hot.  She was hot.  But I didn't want to let this moment pass.  I wanted to savor it.  Every day she's a little bit older.

With my first two kids, I was so aware of their firsts.  First time sitting up, first time crawling, first word.  With her, I'm more aware of her lasts.  Last time nursing, last time sleeping in her bassinet, last time falling asleep in my arms.  The tricky thing about a last, though, is you often don't know it happened until after it passed.  There's often not a cheering contingent like there is on those first steps.  It drifts by silently, unseen by most.  Unseen even by me until I look back and think, when was the last time I carried my six-year old on my hip?  I have no idea, but I know that she certainly doesn't fit there anymore.  When was the last time I carried her that way?  When was the last time I spoon fed my son or rocked him to sleep?

When my oldest was a baby, I felt like it would never end.  I was wrapped up in this whole transition to motherhood with a colicky baby, and the days ticked by ever so slowly.  That season felt endless and I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Then one day, I woke up and that season was over.  One day, she stopped crying and one day, she started sleeping, and one day, she became a little girl.  I think we have to go through that with our firsts, to understand that while it seems like it will never end, it does.  It changes.  For good, for bad.  It changes.  And especially, just when you feel like you've got it figured out.  It changes.

Normally, at bedtime, our goal is to get kids into bed as quickly as possible.  Sure we read to them and pray with them, and maybe even snuggle them a little if they ask, but in my head I'm usually ticking time down and thinking about those dishes that need to be done or how badly I just want to sit on the couch and veg out after a long day in front of a tv show.  So, I keep a running tally, score, if you will, as each one makes his or her way into dreamland.  Pippa's down!  1-0.  Leif's down! 2-0  Scout's not down!  2-1.  One more glass of water.  One more tuck in.  Finally Scout's down 3-0!  And the crowd goes wild!!!

Last night though, I wasn't keeping score.  I felt the enormity of her little soul snuggled in my arms, and I didn't want it to end.  Soon enough, my arms won't encircle her entire body and I won't be her everything.  So, I must remember to slow down.  To stop.  To breath in her sweet smell and these sweet moments when I can.  Moments where time stops and I can really see and feel and smell and taste how good my life is.  Last night was one of those.  Beautiful sleeping baby in my arms.

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three things I've learned...

For the past three years, I co-led the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) program at our church.  That time was an unexpected gift...most likely one of the most growing and self-revealing seasons of my life.  And to think that I almost said no when I was approached for the role!  How I would have missed out on some amazing times, friends, and discovering impact that I didn't even know I had in me.  

My life has definitely not had a linear trajectory.  I've not followed a traditional career path or had one singular thing that I've pursued.  At times that makes me sad, because I feel like I'm constantly pouring myself in and then saying goodbye.  And then I wonder, "What was it all for?  Did I make an impact there?  Will anyone remember me?  Did I leave any sort of legacy?"  But if I REALLY look back, I see that, as God has moved me to new things as seasons in my own life change, one constant has remained.  His story for me has always been about loving and encouraging women - college women, women in my church, women in my dance company, women in motherhood, women at MOPS.  I had to search for that thread through it all, but it's so very obvious now.

As I step into a new season, three things I learned during my time leading MOPS have been impressed upon my heart to share with you. 

1) When you feel called, but ill-equipped, say yes anyways. 

I definitely did not see coordinating MOPS in my future when I stumbled into this ministry (bleary eyed and feeling defeated in motherhood), but then somehow I was unexpectedly asked to step into this role.  At first I thought, "I can't do this.  There's no way.  They must have the wrong person."   But as I processed through my decision with a good friend of mine, she said to me, "Amy, you've always had a heart for women.  These are just women in your season."  That was a lightbulb moment for me!  Then I couldn't shake the feeling that God was calling me to this, that He believed I could do this even when I didn't believe I could.  I still had doubts and struggled with feeling like an imposter.  I never felt ready or courageous or sure, but I said yes anyways.   

And this amazing thing happened.  The more challenged and ill-equipped I felt when I said yes, the more the Lord showed me that He had things to do and say through me.  I never knew that I had words to share with other women that were worth anything to them.  I never knew that my seemingly meaningless story would resonate so deeply with some people.  I never knew that I could write words that anyone would want to read or speak words that anyone would want to hear.  

He showed me so much about myself through this whole journey...good things...and some not so good things to work on. :)  But most of the time I was completely and totally out of my comfort zone just trying my best, and because I showed up, He showed up too.  My time with MOPS was a time of intense growth, but also a time of intense support.  I loved every minute of it, and I would have no idea of God's next step for me if I hadn't said yes to this one.  

2) Always serve a greater purpose. It'll inspire you beyond your own capacity. 

My personal mantra while coordinating MOPS was that every woman feels cared for and connected.  I've said it at least a thousand times.  It's not just a slogan to me, it's a phrase that motivates me to love more, be more, and do more.  It gets me out of myself, my weariness, and my desire to sit on the couch and do nothing (which is also an ok thing to do when you are bone tired with little ones under 5!).  But when things need to get done, I needed something more.  The obvious, "Well, God would want me to ________," didn't inspire me enough.  I needed to not only know what God desired of me, but also how exactly my impact looked on an individual woman...how my time and energies would influence her for the better.  

So, when you need to do the task at hand and it seems there is no more margin in your life to do it, look beyond the task to the greater purpose.  Maybe it's seven layers out, but its there.  Search for meaning behind that fifty-seventh email, planning that event, or organizing that meeting, and squint down that long and windy path to where that meets a woman in need.  It's worth it.  

A writer I love and admire penned the phrase, "More love, less hustle."   When all the tasks to be done overwhelm, and I just feel all hustle, I think of my greater purpose in it all, and somehow the hustle becomes more love.  

3) Never underestimate the power of speaking encouragement and belief into a woman's life. Your singular impact can be huge!! 

I've long had a history of not believing in myself and struggling with self-confidence.  Maybe it keeps me a little more humble in a leadership position, but mostly it's just downright destructive.  When I was asked to coordinate MOPS, one person spoke belief into my life.  She told me that the Lord kept putting me on her heart to co-coordinate this ministry with her, even though she didn't know me at all.  And then throughout the years we served together, she spoke words of encouragement to me like I had never known.  I can tend to err on the side of comparison, of wanting to be better than the next person, but this woman showed me what it is like to be striving for the same things and to care more for reaching across and lifting me up, than getting there without me.  When I spoke at MOPS the first time, I clearly remember her smile as I sought her face in the crowd.  She was like a proud mom, who afterwards didn't hesitate to lavish me with the words that essentially said, "I believe in you."  Time and time again, she has encouraged me and lifted me up by going out of her way to speak belief in me.   ONE person spurred my confidence to coordinate MOPS, to love other women more deeply, to pursue the things I love but didn't believe I could do.  ONE. PERSON.  

Can you imagine if we each did that for one other woman?  What kind of positive ripple effect could we create?  How many lies from the enemy could we stifle?  How much joy could we share?

I don't know what God is doing in your life, but I do know that He will use you mightily if you let Him.  Be open to His authorship on your life...let His pen write the words a step before you walk them.   And know that if you trust and follow Him, your days and your impact will not be in vain.  

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apology not accepted

Most days start with the best of intentions.  We have a fun outing in the morning.  And then somewhere between 3 and 4 o'clock, it all goes south.  Some days, we can be at home, have fun, and maybe even get a load of laundry folded, but other days it feels like this house is sagging with the weight of my heart and our overabundance of stuff.  We are all slowly imploding, and these walls and my flesh are groaning against the pressure.  The pressure to be.  The pressure to hold.  But, I'm here.  I'm all here.  I'm committed to this journey that God has called me to.  I'm committed to these three little souls that make me cry and laugh in an instant.   And yet, when I'm surrounded by the mess and the toys and the crumbs and my silk pillows that I once loved strewn about on the living room floor, I feel like my insides are all zinging about and I might explode.  I feel battered and bruised by this day.

Other days it feels like this house is sagging with the weight of my heart and our overabundance of stuff.

We escape.  We make our way to Target where for 10 beautiful minutes in the car we are all strapped down, and the lure of cheese sticks and dried apricots will hopefully keep everyone at bay for the duration of our trip.  Only, I'm still feeling turned inside out.  Questioning.  Unsure.  Unworthy.  Every moment of this day feels like an assault.  I can't even buy batteries without them being chucked out of the cart 5 times by my son.  Oh Target, why do you only have two carts that seat two kids, which by the way always seem to be in use?  

As I go through the check out line, exhaling that it is now 6pm and my husband should be home soon, I feel tender and raw and vulnerable.  Unaware, I apologize to the cashier repeatedly for opening the cheese sticks before paying and again as I'm handing her empty wrappers to throw out and a half-smooshed and slimy Happy Tot squeeze pack.  She says to me, "Why are you saying that? Is it just a reaction?  Sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry."  I froze, mortified that she called me out in that way.  She seemed like a strong, unapologetic woman, and here I stood before her crumpled from my day, wanting to melt into the floor.  I didn't realize I had even said it...apparently over and over again.   I blinked back tears and choked through the rest of my check out, mustering as much confidence as I could in my answers to her questions of whether I needed bags and where to put the paper towels.   

And in those few moments I thought.  I thought about this spoken word poem that I heard a while back.

I thought about the time in college that I was acing a super tough human physiology class.  My test was missing when we picked them up, and when I  asked the teacher about it, she inquired my name and in response incredulously said, "YOU'RE Amy Whitaker??"  As if to say, the way I look couldn't possibly match up with a person who could do that well in her class.  How insecure that made me feel.

I thought about how I've been taught to be nice and unencumbering, and how my knee jerk reaction when my head was down,  and I slugged through the last half hour before my husband gets home was to say, "Sorry" repeatedly.   Why is this so ingrained in me that I feel I must apologize for everything.  For me.   Why do I feel the need to make myself smaller -  in stature, in wisdom, in weight, in space.   In person.  

Why is this so ingrained in me that I feel I must apologize for everything?  For me.   Why do I feel the need to make myself smaller -  in stature, in wisdom, in weight, in space.   In person.  

I thought about my own daughter.  Listening. Watching. Absorbing my habits, my traits, my beliefs, and most of all, my actions.   How do I teach her to be kind, yet confident.  Smart, yet not overbearing. Healthy, yet not overly concerned with appearance and weight.   I have found this world to be a confusing place in regards to all of this, and I'm still trying to figure out my place in it.  I am thankful for the grace of God, and I am thankful that we are continually growing and learning.  That the hard days make me savor the good days even more.   And I'm thankful for the woman in Target for seeing me as more than an apology and for reminding me to soldier on.   

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approaching 40

I looked down and caught a glimpse of my hands and thought, "Who's old lady hands are these?"  When did my hands start to look like this?  I shake my head in disbelief.  But these hands, these hands have held my babies, scooped up the hurt child, bandaged a scraped knee.  These hands have changed thousands of diapers, washed the never ending stream of dishes from the food that nourishes our family.  These hands have hugged my friends, written notes of encouragement, painted walls, worn a ring of commitment for the past 14 years.  I am thankful for these hands.

My belly also looks different than it used to.  But this belly, this belly has stretched to enormous proportions to grow tiny humans and take part in three miracles.  It's skin has gone out and in and out and in and out and in again.  This belly is a soft landing place for my nursing baby, my 4 year old still wanting to sit on my lap to read, and my 6 year old now tall enough to hug me there when we stand together.  These changes, they are war wounds of the best kind.  Road maps for my children of their origin.  I am thankful for this belly.

I glanced up quickly as I washed my hands and saw tired eyes, etched with lines that seemed to appear there overnight.  But these eyes, these eyes have seen places all over the world.  These eyes have seen beauty and they have seen pain and they have seen a whole lifetime of things that I wouldn't trade for anything.  These eyes saw my wedding day and my handsome groom overcome with emotion for glory of that day.  These eyes have seen 8 cities that I've made my home, looked upon a new friend for the first time,  looked enough times upon that friend that a mere glance tells me what they are thinking.  These eyes have seen my babies from the moment they were born, seen their newness and their vulnerability, seen them grow strong in health and personality.  And these lines, they are from smiling.  They are from dancing overcome with joy.  They are from cheering on my daughter as she rides her bike for the first time.  They are from sitting with friends over a glass of wine and laughing until our sides hurt.  These eyes and these lines, they tell the story of my life if you look close enough. I am thankful for these eyes.  

The gray streaks in my hair keep me honest.  I can fool a lot of people about my age, but the gray that is taking over outs me now.  But this hair, this gray hair shows people that I have lived life, with its worries and its joys and its love.  It makes me seem more credible, wiser.  I am not mistaken for a college student anymore, but I'm ok with that.  I have spent nights up with colicky babies and sick children.   I am not afraid to call out areas that need work in my marriage and work on them.  I have given time I didn't have to serve others, and I'd do it all over again.  These things take a toll, but the wisdom I've gained fair surpasses the gray hair that now grows in response.  I am thankful for this hair.

My legs are shaped differently than they used to be.  But these legs, these legs have run a race of life of which I am proud.  These legs have danced for years and years on stages all over this country.  These legs have run 2 half marathons.  These legs have carried 3 babies inside me and 3 babies still wanting to be carried even now even though they are too big.  These legs walk my daughter to school, run with my son, and sway with my baby in spite of weariness.  These legs are strong and mighty.  I am thankful for these legs.

This is my last year in my 30's.  This decade has been the most changing and stretching and challenging of them all.  But it has also been the best and most rewarding.  I have experienced change and growth beyond belief.  I have made lifelong friends.  I have created my family with my own body.  I know more of who I am and who I want to be. 

And despite all these physical changes, I am more comfortable in my skin than ever before.  

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life giving

The cursor blinks in the top corner of this blank screen taunting me like the dripping of water, like the ticking of a clock that mocks me with each second spent since seconds are hard to come by these days.  And when a second does come, I'm paralyzed by indecision.  Do I clean the kitchen, fold the laundry, swap out kids clothes for new sizes for the millionth time, paint that window trim, organize our bathroom closet, read a book, rest, write?  Whatever I do seems the wrong thing.  If I rest, I'm kicking myself for not being productive.  If I try to be productive, I'm kicking myself for not fueling my soul.

These seconds came because my husband took the kids out of the house for a few hours.  He knew that if he didn't, he would have a mess of a wife for the next week.   I'm an introvert, and I desperately need alone time to recharge, and quite simply to be a functioning human being who isn't a basket case day in and day out.

We have a 6 year old, 3 year old, and 4 month old (at the time of this writing).   I don't sail into motherhood gracefully.  Rather, I crash land with each new birth.  I used to beat myself up about this, but now I just accept it.  I know that I will go to dark places, that I will take more time than most to bond with my kids, that I need time to myself away from my kids, even that brand new baby.

On the whole, our life is beautiful.  Three amazing kids, a home of our very own, great community of friends and family.   But I have often felt like I'm drowning, like someone is standing over me, holding me down with a hand on top of my head as I thrash and flail against them.  I have felt so defeated as the house is messy again, my son screams in my face, my daughter runs to her room and slams the door, the baby has trouble nursing, there's dinner to cook again and clean up again, diapers to change, lunches to make, toilets to scrub, parenting books to read.  What is urgent overshadowing what is important.

Yes, this is holy work, this raising of tiny humans, but I don't know how to balance the monotony with the chaos of this task.  I don't want this mundane hand on the top of my head.  I haven't learned yet to find beauty in the simple rhythms or to understand that sometimes it's these ordinary moments that make life extraordinary.  I'm working on it.

And so, I seek.  I write.  I make a list of what brings me joy...what is life-giving to me:

And I write down what is life-sucking:

And then I stared at them...hard...and what should have been blatantly obvious suddenly became so.  Almost EVERYTHING I'm doing, the things that make up most of my days, are on the life-sucking list. Hardly anything I'm doing is on the life-giving list.  Somewhere along the way, I got lost in my own life.

I normally pride myself in my strength and being able to handle any challenge, but sometimes that self-sufficiency becomes a crutch not that holds me up, but that slows me down and makes me limp.  I'm learning to ask for help and to say specifically what I need.   I'm learning to think about what brings me joy and pursue those things even if in the margins.  Hence, this blog that is stumbling along.

So, I ask you.  What brings you joy?  What makes you come alive?  What is life-giving to you?

Whatever you must do...do that.

If you'll humor me, write what is life-giving to you in the comments here.  I dare you.

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