Brave, Anyway

Tag: work in progress

  • What Spills Out

    For every awful thing I can name that’s upset our world, there are at least a dozen related things for which to be thankful. For every negative way our lives have been impacted, at least a dozen positives or silver linings. For every mean girl, at least a dozen kind girls. For every disappointment, at least a dozen people or things to make us smile.

    The changes heaped on the girls were all unfair. And it’s a lot sometimes.

    A lot a lot.

    Especially on the night before a holiday, beginning a new holiday season, when the worry in little minds about how things will go is at its peak. And there’s only me to take it out on. And only me to help deal with it. Only me to help try to focus on the positives while acknowledging the not-so-positives. Only me to say “things aren’t the same but they can still be great.” Only me to try to figure out a distraction. Then only me to listen to the confusion caused by people who think everything should be ok by now. Only me to offer understanding for why it isn’t. Only me to help everyone wind down. Only me to say “you’re right, it’s not fair.”

    And only me to bite back the commentary in my head. It’ll continue to be unfair for literally the rest of your life because even twenty years from now when you’re an adult you’ll be trying to figure out how to get to four houses during Thanksgiving weekend while the people who wreaked all this havoc in your lives will still be oblivious to or not care about the impact their choices had on you and they’ll be somewhere focused on themselves, watching TV or decorating something.

    Deeeeeeeeeeeep breath.

    And yet, my relationships with the girls are stronger, I think, after navigating many tough moments together. Even the ones where we’ve all been super shouty. (Maybe especially because of the ones where we’ve all been super shouty.)

    I get to hear my children giggle with their friends at all hours of the day and night. And I get to see my children with their friends and see the whole “them,” because kids are different with their friends than they are with their parents.

    I get to enjoy impromptu after-dinner dessert creations. And then I get to listen to them argue and snap at each other, only to awaken to the alarm they set so they could get up together at 4:45 on a school day to do hair.

    I get to listen to their go-to music choices, and realize that at tough moments they both ask Alexa to play worship music. I get to see that they rely on God to help calm their storms, which makes my heart happy and also reminds me that I need to rely on Him more.

    I get to see – I am privileged to see – the good times and the bad times and the blah times and the working-through-something times, and the moments of discovery and the moments of frustration and the moments of trepidation followed by the moments of triumph and even the moments of punch-drunk silliness. In part it is simply being present in all of those situations and moments that strengthen our bonds. Sometimes it is really, really hard to be the only one present in those moments but I am so grateful to be present.

    I’m thankful for dozens and dozens of things. My Aunt is in town for Thanksgiving. My parents are all healthy and celebrating another holiday season. Home and car and food. My church. Laughter with old friends. My work family. All of our helpers. Teachers who really care. Veterinarians who work you in at the last minute. Chocolate covered raisins. Extended time off this week – time to read, time to prepare for the holidays, and time to watch an episode of The Crown. Photographs. Memes my daughters text or share. Forgiveness. Tender little hearts that want to see the best in people. Conviction. Snuggles and declarations of love when eyes are too heavy to keep open just before sleep sets in.

    My cup runneth over with things just from today.

    I saw a long post on Facebook recently about “what’s in your cup?” and it really stuck with me. Paraphrasing…If someone bumps into you while you’re holding a full cup, what’s in the cup is what spills out. Tea or coffee or hot chocolate. When life happens, what’s in our heart is what spills out of us.

    My cup runneth over…And yet what spills out in a bump is still a bit of a work-in-progress.

  • Freedom

    Freedom

    One of the unexpected interesting things about WordPress is the analytics. The countries site visitors are from, and then being able to find and communicate with other people with similar writing styles and interests. These pages are part of my journal and I never thought analytics would be of any importance to me. And yet it’s curious how many times a day the same couple of people hit this site.

    A couple hundred times over the weekend, and more than 60 times since about 9 last night.

    Seriously, move on. Live your life. Actually enjoy it. Two little girls have cried countless tears and been to countless doctor appointments as a result of actions you took to presumably find happiness. So find it, and spend your time and energy on that. Live lives that add something positive to the universe, not lives where you have to constantly worry about what other people think. That’s when you’ll find true happiness.

    My daughters deserve nothing less than your total commitment to living lives that make you worthy of them. And you know what I deserve? I deserve to turn on my computer or open up my app to write, and not be greeted by analytics that connect me to you. I deserve freedom. I don’t care if you read what I write, and you can sign up to get the posts via email if you want. But, I deserve freedom from you.

    I deserve freedom, and frankly so do you. We’ve all been through a lot of pain to get it.

  • Cannot. Stop. Laughing.

    Priss is defined as a “spoiled or uptight person who thinks they are too good for everyone or everything.”

    Urban Dictionary also has several definitions, including my personal favorite, “superficial plastic wanna be princess.”

    Sometimes I laugh at really dumb things. Sometimes I laugh at really mean things. Sometimes I laugh at really ironic things.

  • It Is Well

    The Emergency Broadcasting System alarm message is the absolute last thing you want to hear when you’re on a long drive with two children, and one of them has just asked to stop somewhere because she has to go to the bathroom.

    Tornado warning.

    Tornado immediately takes my mind down a path of images of an F5 that tears up towns all around Helen Hunt. Warning tells me conditions aren’t just conducive, but that something has been spotted.

    I knew the weather report called for rain, but that rain was scheduled for at least a couple hours later. It was dusk and not raining, but the sky did look a little odd. I found myself in the position of wanting not to alarm the girls while also wanting more info so I could make the best decision about what to do. Should I stop somewhere and hope that our luck was a little better than that of Cary Elwes, or keep moving to hopefully put distance between us and the storms?

    I asked Ella to Google the area and see what she could find out. The answer: three funnels, although pretty far away. That made the decision to keep driving very easy – we could add some distance between us and those storms and keep making progress toward home. And I had about 10 minutes of pleasant driving, feeling good about my decision, before the sky became dark and the rain began to pound onto the windshield.

    And when I say dark with pounding rain, I mean I and the other drivers around me turned on hazard lights and moved slowly over to the far right of I64. The rain hitting the car was intense and visibility was bad, and Audrey became frightened. I’m not sure what I said, but I found my “everything’s fine” Mommy voice and produced words to encourage her and assure her we were fine. The special lights the triangle button makes tell people where we are, and we’re all together, and the other cars are in it with us, and this is part of our adventure, and even though the rain is noisy the really bad part of the storms is far away, and this rain is going to make sure great flowers grow soon, and we’re fine.

    I had no idea if she really believed my complete load of crap. I didn’t have the luxury of turning around to make eye contact. I had to be mindful that my body language was in line with my voice and did not show unease, I had to focus my external attention on the road, and I had to focus my internal attention on prayer.

    And when I say prayer, I don’t mean Dear God It’s me Beth and it would be nice if this storm calmed down a bit. I was praying hard. More like, This is awful. Get us out of this. Please. Quickly. How did Jesus sleep through storms? And calm me down, too. I need help to stay calm because this is awful and the girls don’t need to know how awful it is. How could this happen at the end of our awesome spring break? Please. Please. Please. Keep us safe. Keep us calm. Are you there?! This is so bad.

    The noise from the rain on the car seemed angry, and was adding to our tension. So I hit the button to switch from radio to ipod to try to put a soothing sound in the car. A recent addition to our song library came on, It Is Well – a worship song that samples the old hymn It Is Well With My Soul. The song’s beginning is quiet, with little instrumentation, and the singer almost seems like she’s praying quietly to herself, so you have to kind-of focus on her soft voice to hear the words.

    And at the exact same moment, a couple minutes into the song, Ella and I started singing: “Through it all, through it all, my eyes are on you. Through it all, through it all, it is well…the waves and wind still know His name.”

    Click here, and at about 1:45 is the moment.

    Just a few weeks ago, I learned the story of the man who penned It Is Well With My Soul, Horatio Spafford. He wrote the words during a time of personal tragedy, just after the loss of his children. I cried when I heard my friend Anne tell the story, and again later when relating it to Ella. It really is *that* moving. How can someone, anyone, have so much faith during a time of such profound darkness and despair?

    Click Here for the It Is Well With My Soul history

    As Ella and I were singing the song, peace filled me. In part because I needed something besides the storm to focus my brain on. In part because the song itself is quiet and calming. And in part because I had this sudden realization about a needed shift in my life, specifically as it relates to faith and prayer.

    I talk to my girls about God and faith and prayer, and I take them to church and we say prayers before bed and we sometimes even pray that we’ll find the missing book we need before we leave in the morning. But there’s a big part of me that I have not shared with them yet, and that’s how I pray and how often I pray. And a dark truth – that sometimes I don’t have total faith in my prayers.

    I have always been alone with my prayers. In my own head. In my own space. I typically don’t share them or talk about them, out of habit more than anything else. At home I didn’t talk about my prayers because I wasn’t surrounded by people who take faith seriously or because it seemed like the girls were too little for that big stuff, and at work it’s not always appropriate to share that kind of thing.

    I talk to God all the time, all throughout the day. It’s more like an ongoing conversation where I sometimes get louder if I think God isn’t listening. It’s what you might call cerebral prayer – a mixture of my nature to rely on facts and data, with faith in a God that doesn’t always need my facts and data, with my impatience in a God that doesn’t always move as quickly as I’d like. If you charted my faith, it hasn’t grown in the nice upward lines we like to see in financial documents. It’s up and down, sometimes all in one day.

    My faith isn’t perfect. I don’t always believe everything will work out the way we want and pray for. Sometimes when I hear about a horrible diagnosis, my initial reaction is not for a miracle but that some people get their healing in heaven instead of here. I wish I could say that I have the kind of faith that moves mountains, but I don’t. But what I’ve realized is that my girls don’t need to see my faith or prayer perfection, which is not real. I don’t want them to think that perfection is the standard and that if they don’t have 100% faith they are a failure, or there’s no reason to have any faith if they can’t have full faith. They need to see my work in progress faith, because that’s real. And seeing what’s real is in part what will enable them to embrace work in progress faith in their own lives.

    It’s OK to pray when I don’t know what to say or how to say it or have doubts. It’s OK to pray without the formalities of intros like Dear Heavenly Father and for me to speak like I’m talking to my friend in Colorado. It’s OK to pray and admit to God and everyone that I am afraid even though I’m praying. It’s OK to offer a song as a prayer, showing my daughter that sometimes – many times – I don’t have words, and other peoples words are the best words.

    Within just a few minutes, the rain seemed less ominous around the car. The sky was a little lighter. Cars were spreading back out across all the lanes of the highway, and started moving more quickly. Our storm had actually passed pretty quickly. Ella and I talked a little about the scary few minutes and the song and our singing the waves and wind verse at the same time – one of the most memorable moments from the trip. And then I turned around to check on Audrey, wondering at how quiet she had been, and found that she was fast asleep. While I had been fearful during the worst part of the storm, struggling in my cerebral prayer, Audrey had fallen asleep…childlike faith at 100%.

  • Refurbish, Brave Girl

    I hate messes.

    I don’t like sand in my car, I don’t like PlayDough that gets stuck in toys supposedly designed for PlayDough, I don’t buy glitter or powder or terrariums if I can help it, and I don’t like substances like Desitin or vegetable oil that are really hard to clean off of things.

    I hate messes, and yet my whole house is a mess.

    And when I say it’s a mess, I mean it’s in crazy complete disarray. Like, stacks of books on top of my dining room table and china resting on shelves in the sitting room and gymnastics mats in hallways and toothbrushes in the dishwasher.

    In the last three weeks, a wonderful team of people has painted our walls, baseboards, casings, doors and railings. Literally everything. As they moved from room to room, we moved our things from room to room. Every night we spent preparing for the next day, shifting what we could to accommodate the next round of work.

    The last few days of painting happened while I was in Dallas last week, and the biggest change in color – a room going from cranberry to a linen color – had not happened when I left town. I absolutely could not wait to get home and to see it and then to start putting things back together. It’s been so hard for OCD-me to embrace the mess. Every day I’ve longed to just put things back together and back where they belong. On Thursday night I came home very late to a completely quiet and still house – my father-in-law had long before gone to bed with the kitties – and I walked though each room marveling at what a brighter, lighter place it is. It’s completely transformed.

    The house that I’ve lived in for a decade has a completely different feel now. Same doors, same walls, same wooden railing…and yet with fresh paint in lighter shades, it’s different. It’s different and yet the same. It feels like my old house I’ve always loved and it feels like a new house that I’m so excited to live in.

    It’s like old me and new me. It’s all me, but I’m different than I was two years ago. I have the same core foundation of components like faith and family, but I look different and I feel different and my countenance is lighter. Just like my house, I’ve been under construction for a while. Or maybe refurbishing is the better word.

    The me that has emerged from refurbishing is stronger, focused and determined. I recognize I’ve aged as a result of anger with and disappointment in people, but at the same time I’m once again filled with youthful laughter and hope because my life is filled with genuine and kind and happy people.

    The me that has emerged from refurbishing that is accountable to and for only me and my girls is a freer and lighter me, even with the weight of added responsibility. This me sets better boundaries and fiercely guards what things get my time and thoughts, to ensure that freer and lighter me stays that way.

    The me that has emerged from refurbishing has realized that there’s a huge difference in Beige and Crisp Linen. Something can seem like it’s neutral or light, but once you’ve experienced actual light the darkness is revealed for the shade that it is.

    Now that all the painting is done my next task is to put everything back in its place. But as I’m doing that I’m realizing that I do not want some things back in the same places they’ve always been. And not only that, but I do not even want some of those old things in my house at all. So room by room I’m making more changes – some additions and some deletions and some refurbishings.

    I guess that’s what we should all strive to be as we age – a mixture of all of our learnings. We should be made up of additions or the things we’ve tried and liked along the way, and of deletions or the things we’ve learned aren’t right for us and we’ve removed, and of refurbishings or the pieces that change with us and with the times. And actually maybe we are refurbishings, if we’re doing life right – going through cycles of renewal or reconstruction.

    Beneath the Crisp Linen that covered a deep cranberry tone in my sitting room are the same four strong walls that have always been there. The walls look different now but they are the same walls that hold up a second floor and a roof, that sit on a foundation that has not changed. It’s already kind-of hard to remember what that room looked and felt like, which makes me so glad I have this snapshot of the transition time – the time when some of one coat of primer covered the cranberry walls so you could still see the old room and yet start to envision the new room. In a corner where two of the walls met, it looked like there was an arrow.

    An arrow is hidden deep within my home, in my favorite room, reminding me that refurbishing is an opportunity for me to be brave.

    An arrow can only be shot by pulling it backwards. So when life is dragging you back with difficulties, it means that it’s going to launch you into something great. So just focus, and keep aiming. ~Unknown