A Brighter Day

 One of the perks of being a one on the enneagram scale is that when I decide to do something, I plan it out and it gets done. Lists are my friends, spreadsheets my loyal companions. I have been called a lot of things in life, but the word that tends to come up a LOT is the very unromantic descriptor "responsible." In movies, my character tends to throw off all inhibitions by the end and do something reckless that manages to transform her life for the better, but that's just Hollywood's spin on learning how to be yourself. In real life, I am definitely learning spontaneity in ways I never would have imagined before I turned 40, but not at the expense of my good traits - as a complement to them. 

That said, I have had the song Brighter Day in my head for a few days now. If you don't know it, it's an old school Kirk Franklin song playing off an even older school Bill Withers song has a catchy refrain that goes "it's gonna be a brighter day, brighter day, brighter day, a bright-er day!" (Go ahead and take a little dance break if you need it, I'll love you even more for it.)

And as it's been tooling around in my head, I have been pondering just how insane the last six months have been. So much uncertainty. So many unknowns. So MUCH togetherness in the family home. So many days that do not feel any brighter than the one before. It's been truly difficult for so many of us, adults and kids alike, to have so little of life be familiar or plannable. And for those of us with kids who may now be planning to guide them through at-home virtual learning and IEP's and homeschooling, it's so easy to be focused on what we are doing to keep the family functioning, to help our kids' mental health as we transition into yet another unknown, and for many, uninspiring, reality. 

It is so very easy to feel like we are in the dark. To feel sad. To feel angry or hopeless. And it's so very easy to neglect ourselves when so many around us need so much to stay stable. 

I've mentioned before my struggle with PMDD. After a few years of trying more conventional methods to treat it, I stumbled upon a book by Dr. Jolene Brighten called Beyond the Pill. As the pill is the most commonly used way to treat it but as someone who does not enjoy its unhelpful side effects, I was eager to hear if there were alternatives. I read the book immediately (another thing us ones are good at), developed a plan of action and took it to my doctor. I refrained from boring her with a powerpoint presentation about why I should go off the pill and try it, but I was sorely tempted. Thankfully, she was on board with the protocol as it was rooted in nutrtion, exercise and rest (woohoo, science!) and the next day I was busy buying supplements and making schedules. 

Oh the sweet joys of a freshly minted calendar and plan! Within a week, I was happily ensconced in the challenges of lifestyle changes that I knew could make a significant impact on my health. 

One year later, I have seen amazing success when I have stuck to it. I have learned about my body in new and amazing ways. I have a deep and newfound respect for my adrenal gland in all it's glory and power. And as I sit on the cusp of all these changes for my family, I have been reminded anew that I need to get back on this protocol with a new focus. It fell to the wayside when all my kids ended up home from school in March. It was just too much to keep up with three super-energetic boys (one with significant challenges himself) AND the protocol. It was survival mode.

But I can't abide living in survival mode for too long. I want a brighter day. 

I know, it feels like the last thing most of us need, to add something to our life, our schedule. But I know for some of us, this has been such a hard time of sacrifice that we are in danger of losing ourselves, our health, our sanity, to this pandemic. Stress deeply affects us as women. Our hormones respond in ways that make us feel absolutely insane sometimes. 

So today, I picked the book back up while my littles swam at the pool. (and yes, I paused and issued a prayer of gratitude that at the ages of five and six, I can trust them to swim without me in the water, may God bless swim team and all the saints in heaven.) I turned to the chapter with the quiz that helps you isolate what's going on in your body. And lo and behold, my answers had changed after a year. What I had focused on over the past year was doing so well that it is time for me to move on to focus on a different area of health. Adrenal glands check, now we conquer the ovaries :) 

Am I oversharing? Quite likely. 

But I have learned as I hit my late 30's and now have moved into my 40's that we women need to talk about this stuff - hormones and sex drive and body image and reproductive health.That so much of how we grow up talking about these things and learning about them ends up steeped in shame and secrecy and that is NOT any way to be living our lives in connection to this beautiful vessel, our bodies, in which we travel through life. 

So, if you have STUFF going on with your parts. If you don't love the way you feel, if you are struggling with body image or health issues or PMDD or PCOS or menopause (can I get a witness on how MANY fans I now need on in my room at night?), I'd like to issue you a friendly challenge. 

THINK ABOUT YOU.

Seriously. Think. Do you want to feel better? Do you want to be a healthier version of the already beautiful you? Are you tired of people promising quick fixes and just want to make some lasting changes in your life that take a shot at it being a brighter day?

I may not be great at empathy or helping us figure out our emotions, but heck am I good at accountability and dreams! 

So in a moment of spontaneity, BEFORE I have made any lists or plans on what it would look like, I'm diving in.

I'm going to reboot my journey with Brighten because I know it worked for me and I know I need to concentrate on my health as I move into a new phase of helping my kids learn at home. I am not selling anything, nor am I an expert. If no one wants to join me, I'm doing it anyway, because I'm also a raging introvert and perfectly happy to do something alone. 

BUT, if this resonates with you at all, I'd love to invite and challenge you to join me. We can do it together. It's a plan written by a doctor and based on science that involves exercise, nutrition, rest, spiritual growth and joy. 

Adding community to it can certainly only help. 

Who is in? 

Seeing Him

He walks slowly through the hallway. No one can see his beautiful smile or know the depths of his heart because his eyes are cast down, hoping, praying, that today, they will leave him alone. He just wants to go to school like everyone else. To learn, to make friends, to get through the whole day, ONE DAY, without being pushed or insulted or mocked. Without someone focusing on his differences and using them against him.

But he doesn't make it. Someone whispers "stupid" in his ear as he passes in the hall. Or "wouldn't it be better if you killed yourself?" They push him in gym class, to the point of injury. They interrupt his learning in class to the point where he has to ask to move chairs. Again. But the teacher warns him that the other side of the class may not actually be greener. Kids are mean. Seventh graders, in particular.

His mother cries herself to sleep. She has tried everything. Talking to the other parents. Getting the administration's help - but they barely return her calls. Speaking to the teachers about a safety plan. She builds him up as much as she can. He has friends outside of school who love him, who support him.

But none of this makes a difference. She can't protect him. He isn't like the other kids so they see him as expendable. To be forgotten or tortured or flat out ignored.

So, every day, he comes home heavy. Exhausted by another day of just trying to keep it together.

I was this boy. I remember. When you have no friends around you. When the people in your classes can only find terrible things to say. When people don't see you for who you truly are. And make you wish that morning alarm would never go off.

I was this boy. I have not yet been this mom.

Are you her? Do you know the terrified, exhausted pain of wondering if you are going to get a call that your child has been hurt by bullies? To take him to the doctor to get a concussion treated? Do you know what it feels like to watch him or her cry? To give up? To start to believe the things people are saying to them?

You may be neither this boy or his parent.

But are you human?

Because this is happening. Every single day. Kids are being cruel and horrible. And while some parents react well and make it clear that there are consequences if their children are the bully, too many either ignorantly believe it couldn't possibly be THEIR child or else they say that kids just need to toughen up and get over it.

I think we all know that our kids are capable of a lot we wouldn't necessarily be comfortable with. THAT'S why we teach them to be kind. THAT'S why we teach them to be anti-racist. THAT'S why we teach them about disabilities and inclusivity. They aren't going to be magically empathetic and loving. One look at a facebook thread on just about anything these days will show you just how cruel we humans can be.

So, parents.

This is happening. It's happening at the school down the street. Kids are killing themselves around the country because of relentless cruelty. We have a president who has normalized bullying and name-calling, so much so that I can't even let my children watch a presidential speech.

But we shouldn't be ok with it. We cannot tell our kids to just get over it. Can they be brave? Of course. Can they keep waking up and going to school? SURE. But I refuse to believe that this is who we are. Cruel adults telling kids to grow up and handle it on their own have no place in our society.

Discipline the heck out of your kids who do unkind things. Use those moments to teach them what it means to choose love and to speak up. Show them heroes who have done good, brave, kind things, who have fought for the rights of those who are in the margins. Teach them to see the kid sitting alone. To look around and notice those who are hurting. To sit with them, extend friendship, embrace awkwardness if it's a part of reaching out.

But whatever you do, do something. Don't wait for it to be your child who comes home in tears. Don't wait until you are the one crying yourself to sleep in helpless, terrified frustration.

Our kids lives depend on it.

How You Do It

Time wound down towards the end of my therapy session. I hadn't had to cancel this one for an emergency, which was rare and lovely. As I began to pack up my things, he looked at me, took a deep breath and said "I'm going to refund your money for this session. I just can't charge you for it. I don't know how you do it."

I don't know how you do it.

Those seven words.

How often have I heard them over the years? Daily? Weekly? Hourly? I guess it has depended upon the season, the level of relentless impossible parenting we are experiencing.

The past two months have been the hourly type of stretch. I have heard those words from doctors, therapists, friends, parents.

I have said them to myself, then taken a deep breath and kept going. Because here is the honest truth.

The quick answer is that you don't. You don't really. There's no choice to do it or not. You just wake up and, to be honest and raw, get the shit kicked out of you for about 12 hours straight, try to reset as best as possible in the evening while worrying about all the things you couldn't accomplish that day, sleep too briefly and start over again.

The only other options are committing a felony or leaving. I'm not exaggerating. That's what it's like.

Normally, when people say those seven words, I just shrug and say "you would do it if it were your life." Which is the trut- most people would. While there are things we can pick and choose, decisions we can make to steer our life in a certain direction, there is also plenty that is out of our control. Some people want to get married and never do. Some people want a child and can't conceive. Some people envision family life the way it's portrayed in the movies and end up with a chronically ill child. Some people have dreams for a career and life and get stuck in a cycle of poverty because of medical bills or job situations or natural disasters.

The illusion of our choices being completely our own - well, it's just that. An illusion. Our only real choice in life is how we react to what is happening and what choice we make in the aftermath. That is literally all I have control over. And, sometimes, I don't even have that. Sometimes I am just too tired, too done, too overwhelmed to choose a healthy reaction. We all have those moments.

I don't write this to ask for sympathy or pity. The thing is that we all have something, at some time or another, that someone else cannot imagine handling. Loss, grief, addiction, illness, divorce...we could all list a time when we knew it was too much for any one person to handle, but in that moment, we did. A friend of mine recently shared the story of the stillbirth of her son and I could not imagine having gone through what she went through and having come through the other side. She did, though. Unscathed? Of course not. But she did it.

I write this because we all "do it." We look at others and think they have it all and then find out they have "done it." The bible says that in this world we will have trouble but that we should "take heart" because Jesus has overcome the world. At its core foundation, the "doing it" is an act of audacious hope. That life might get better, that we are not alone in the hardest moments. That Jesus knows what it feels like and hasn't left us out to dry or told us we have to dry our tears or suck it up.

Do I know if anything will change?

Nope.

Do I go to bed dreading the morning a lot of the time? Wishing that I could sleep for 24 hours and see if I might feel better?

Of course.

But we wake up. We do it. We work. We play. We remind ourselves of the truth. We love, even in the most unbelievably exhausting circumstances.

And we choose how to react to it all, when we can. We can choose honesty and rawness and even find gratitude in the days that seem to hold nothing for which to be thankful. And in that choosing, in the doing it, in the perspective, even when we cannot see what's happening, God is at work. Molding our story to encourage someone else. Slowly healing the places in ourselves and our families that we cannot or will not see.

When I head back to my next therapy session in a week, I'm going to hand him this blog and tell him to keep his money. The refund only made me wonder how I possibly COULD keep doing it. And the reality is that I can't. Not alone, not really. That's why I am in therapy. That's why I have friends and family I ask for help. That's why I wake up in the morning before I have to parent, sip my coffee and find perspective for the day in prayer and writing and scripture and song.

That's how you do it, friends. One minute, one step, one choice at a time of how to respond to life, even in its most vicious and relentless moments.

We were never promised ease.

We were just promised we aren't alone in the doing.

It's My Party

It was almost a year ago that I found myself in the lowest place I have ever been. Fighting for hope, suffering from PTSD and PMDD. Angry, sad, tired, hopeless...all the time.

And since almost a year ago was the year I turned 40, I let it that milestone pass me by.

No big celebrations, no parties...I even told my husband the best gift anyone could give me last year was NOT to pick up the phone and call me because I didn't have the energy to talk to people and pretend I was happy it was my big day.

It felt pointless.

And now, with only a few weeks left until I turn 41, I don't look back and regret that decision. I wasn't in a good place to celebrate. It would have felt disingenuous. I didn't know how to celebrate myself because I wasn't sure I liked who I was at that point.

Since then, life hasn't necessarily gotten any easier. Currently, we are in the midst of a big health crisis with one of my kids that has him out of school and me unable to work much. It's been exhausting and hard and confusing and we still aren't close to answers.

I can't imagine if this had happened last November.

BUT, the fact that I have a job, the fact that I can look back on this year and see the huge risk I took in going back to school, in completely changing careers, makes me feel hopeful. And proud. And joyful. The new life I chose this past year is helping me tackle this newest challenge. Not perfectly, of course, but my foundation this year is so much sturdier.

Dang it, I accomplished something this year, against all odds. When I announced I was going to become an EMT, a number of people in my life were like "But how? When? And...why?"

They weren't wrong or unsupportive to ask it because they knew the complexities of our daily challenges.

And the thing is, I didn't know how we would possibly make it happen. What I did know is that it was exactly what I needed to do to choose new life, to boldly declare something would change, that something good and new would happen.

I had to dare to dream when it felt like there was nothing practical or possible about making the dream happen. Which meant that I had to risk failure. And for me, failure never seems like a reasonable option. In fact, it seems completely out of the question.

But I had to risk it to be able to get better.

And here's the thing. I didn't get perfect grades like I did so much in the past. I had to be satisfied with doing "fine". Not amazing, not poor, but fine.

I passed my class, I passed my registry and I nailed down a job. It wasn't easy, it wasn't quick and it took a tremendous amount of sacrifice by my family.

But when I am on that truck, I truly feel that I am exactly where I need to be. I feel like there is this moment of clarity...that the injustice and pain of the world that so consumes me enables me to focus in on this one person's crisis and I can be their person, just in that moment. I can offer grace. I can look in their eyes. I can treat them with dignity. I can hope for them when they are hopeless.

And that has been life-giving in ways I honestly couldn't have imagined a year ago. Helping deliver a baby in the back of an ambulance, standing quietly with someone who has just lost their someone, sweating as you work to think critically and bring someone back from the dead, maneuvering the streets with an emergency strapped down in the back...all these things are chaotic and beautiful and terrifying but they are life.

So as I stare at 41 coming so soon, I want to celebrate it. Not to replace turning 40. But to declare that turning 40 ended up being a really good thing. That as much as some things have been impossible this year, as much as we are in the thick of a really hard fight right now, God is with me. I have an amazing squad of humans who have cheered me on and made me laugh and loved my kids and brought us meals this last week of crisis. I have a husband who, quite honestly, could have done much better than me but sticks by me. I have an evolving faith that is growing deeper in its understanding of grace and love and sacrifice. I have so much to be grateful for.

I don't know exactly when or how, but if you are local and you want a chance to laugh and dream and, quite likely, dance, you are invited. To a 41st birthday celebration. No gifts necessary, just your presence, your hope, your humanity in whatever messy form it might be in right now.

I don't know what it will look like, but I'm confident that Jesus is ready to party with us.

Pressure

There's something I need to confess. Two things really.

First, this has been weighing heavily on me for awhile but it's time to publicly admit that I bought a running fanny pack and it's everything I thought it could be and more. I can only assume that at some point I will throw full caution to the wind and embrace it for all personal carrying needs. And that my 12 year-old will officially hide when he sees me in public.

Second, this kindergarten thing has got me feeling crazy, but not in the way I think many other mamas are feeling. I don't have any sappy or weepy needs to curl into a ball. I didn't stare out the window all morning or look at baby pictures or stalk the school playground to check in on him. 

I went on a long, exhausting, exhilarating run, the kind of run that clears your head and brings things into perfect clarity. 

About 10 minutes into it, I realized that I have been a perfect mess for the last week and I realized why: these past two years since my son started to have really significant trouble in school, since we had to pull him before he got expelled from preschool, the specialists, the therapists, the prayers, the tears, the rage, all this has led up to the moment of truth. 

Can he and will he be able to handle...scratch that, THRIVE, in Kindergarten? 

No parent wants his or her child to just get by. To be tolerated and then talked about behind closed doors of teacher meetings. No parent wants that child to be labeled or to have low expectations put on him. I have seen the people who expect the best from him and I have seen those who have diagnosed him on their own (without credentials to do so) and basically made us feel like failures as parents. I've met doctors who believe me and others who question my honesty. Those who want to medicate and those who want to heal- and yes, I've learned there is a HUGE difference. 

There is only so much that I can control about what happens to him. We had spent weeks leading up to this day: we had prepped him for goodbye, prepped him for getting on the bus, tried to get him to go to an event for rising kindergarteners to practice getting on the bus to no avail and he had finally, excitedly, woke up ready to do it. He was out waiting for it 20 minutes before it should have come wearing his adorable little kindergarten label and a huge smile.

It never came. 

When that bus didn't show up and my happy, excited, passionate child started to let disappointment and nerves creep in, I got angry. We had to change course. After ALL the prep and conversations, the bus wouldn't be taking him in after all. And for kids like my son, that one thing can literally be THE thing that undoes the day. That tanks the mood. That starts the tears or anxiety or defiance.  

My husband explained the change in situation to my sad boy and he willingly, miraculously got in the car. I watched them drive off to school with my heart in my throat. Not because "my little boy was heading off to kindergarten and wasn't he just a baby yesterday" but because of all the what-ifs. All the ways I still don't know if he is ready, if his teacher will be able to handle his challenges and get the best out of him. If he will rise to it the way I know he can. 

I watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. I paced. I snacked. I ran until I couldn't breathe. 

In truth, I put a ton of pressure on myself for his success today. 

Have I done everything I know to do? I think so. 
Is it probably everything that can be done? Nope.
Have I failed him along the way? Absolutely. 
Have I likely been unwittingly rude or snappy with a medical professional? You bet your patootie. 
Has the system been frustrating to navigate? Of course it has.
Do I have any control over how this day goes? Not at all.

And there's the rub. I have done my part. 

He made it to day one. We all did, with scars to show. 

And right now, as I know he is heading into his last hour and a half at school, I can't help but wonder how long this feeling will last. When will I be able to breathe? To rejoice in having at least made it to day one? Will there be a moment the scars start to fade a little? Or will there be a fresh battle to fight yet again? 

I can't answer these questions and I also can't spend all day asking them. Putting that much pressure on oneself is utterly exhausting, but I often don't know how to do life any differently. I really am trying, despite what it looks like. 

I am hoping he will walk off that bus this afternoon with his gorgeous grin and chatter away about all the good that happened today. 

And I'm hoping by the time he does, I'm ready to greet him with a smile of joy and hope and help him get ready for day two.  

Why not?

I've honestly never given anything less thought.

One minute, I was dropping my youngest off to play with his grandparents, the next moment I was sipping coffee and knowing that something absolutely had to change.

In December, I wrote about being at the edge of myself. That years of extremely challenging parenting paired with a diagnosis of PMDD had left me a shell of myself. Sad. Exhausted. Purposeless. Isolated.

This morning was during that period of feeling lost. And as I sipped my coffee, I stared at a wall. I didn't read, I didn't pray or write. I didn't scroll mindlessly on social media pretending it fulfills a deep ache. I just stared...and then asked God "what next?"

I wish I could put the next few minutes into words...but I don't really know what happened. One minute I was on the verge of tears, of giving up and the next minute, I had pressed "submit" on an application to a college course to become an EMT.

Before I had really thought about it. Before I had called my husband. Before I had looked carefully at our life to see if it was possible.

I pressed submit.

Because, friends, it was SO clear that I needed to press submit.

A lot of people have asked me what led to me becoming an EMT at the age of 40.

And to be honest? I don't really know.

Something made me search EMT programs in that moment after I asked God that question. Something made me keep reading.
Something sparked a deep interest, the tiniest flicker of a brand new dream.

I knew literally nothing about emergency medicine.

But, I pressed submit.

I didn't call anyone, ask if I should go for it.

I pressed submit.

I am not generally rash or impulsive.

I pressed submit.

And when I did, something lifted. Some horrible, heavy weight of sadness shifted just the slightest bit.

And because I have arguably the most genuine and generous husband on the earth, he greeted my impulsive decision with nothing less than clear delight and determined support. We would make it work no matter what.

Seriously, he is the best one out there. No contest.

Within a day, I had been accepted to the college. Within another few days, I had been accepted to the actual program. I was transferring transcripts and signing up for a medical physical and scouring amazon for textbook deals and ordering a stethoscope and cargo pants. (Which I have to admit, I truly love and wish were still fashionable like they were when I was in high school.)

I was diving into hope.

Friends, that was just six months ago. Six months that ended up being filled with hard work and new friendships and a new, budding dream of loving people well on what could be the scariest day of their lives.

I truly loved it. Loved using my brain again. Loved learning something totally new and different. Loved it. Something I literally didn't think through for more than a few minutes.

So here I am, certified in-state and nationally, a smile on my face, with two interviews lined up next week for local ambulance corps.

Why did I become an EMT?

Well, all I can honestly say is "why not?"

Moment of Grace

I was about twenty feet behind them, a string of boys on their bikes, following each other down the trail, my husband in the lead as I brought up the rear running as fast as my body would allow. Twelve, five and three...peddling away, smiles on their faces. No more training wheels. Moving faster than I could possibly keep up. 

The sun was dappling through the trees in that peaceful way it does in the hours before sunset. Irises in bloom, summer perennials peeking up, starting to bud, knockout roses dazzling in deep pink.

Over it all, a light breeze, a calm.

Something I could feel that went deeper than just the gorgeous weather and the moment in which no one in my house was arguing or struggling or crying or needing.

A moment of grace.

It's that feeling when the world comes deeply, but peacefully and hopefully and joyfully, into focus.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes my breath away. It's as if God is shouting "wait, listen, look, remember this moment."

Remember it, because not all moments can be like this. Remember it, because so many moments are simply the ordinary. The mundane. Not necessarily ugly or lacking in beauty, but they pass us by because of that very ordinariness. They just ARE. Cooking dinner, watching that soccer game, dropping another kid at school, waving to the neighbors, mowing the lawn, riding our bikes together.

We just go through most of our days and it's fine.

But every once in awhile, we get that gift. That special warmth in a moment, that strange but clear urging to stop and drink in what's around us and be grateful. Those moments don't always come when something is going well and they don't necessarily stay away when things are challenging.

But, oh how I love them.

I am a doer. Not someone who easily stops and ponders. Not someone who spends hours gazing or dreaming. I appreciate people who do that well. But I am not one of them. Even when I try to sit in my backyard and admire the garden, I inevitably stand up and start weeding, because, well, it needs to be done. And the doing is part of the joy for me.

But I feel like for those of us like me, we need these moments to stop us dead in our tracks. To remind us that there can be purpose to slowing down. Reason in stopping. Joy in simply being.

And in that moment, even though I was sprinting and breathing hard and looking at the back end of my string of boys who were hurtling with full abandon down a bike trail, I felt like I was still. 

My soul stopped it's churning, for about 20 seconds.

And I just drank in the deep beauty and privilege of a healthy family and a beautiful neighborhood and a generous husband and a glorious spring and a blooming garden and meals on the table and a newly accomplished goal.

And oh, friends, I am so grateful. I never expect those moments and they come so infrequently.

I am amazed at their staying power, at the ability God has to use them to shore up and encourage and remind us of the possibilities and joys we can wake up to every single day, no matter what challenges lie ahead.

God, in all his grace and wisdom, knew I needed that. And I am so glad He did.

The Truth About Miracles

There is a certain absence these days.

It's one of those things that you don't notice at first.

It's something that was so very present for so very long, that you can't actually imagine it not being a part of who you are.

It's this feeling...the feeling that used to take over my body as I was driving to preschool pickup. It was a cross between dread and hopefulness and stress and utter exhaustion.

If we had even made it all the way to pickup, I knew it couldn't have been a truly awful day, because those were the days I got a phone call. A request for early pickup. A warning.

But it could still have been a day that required a report.

With my first son, I didn't really know there was such a thing as a bad report from school. I think there was one time ever in his whole preschool experience where his teacher mentioned he might have done something that wasn't in perfect keeping with the rules.

But he is a firstborn, perfectionistic, rule-follower who has always been harder on himself than we could ever be. We had no idea how rare that is.

But those who get the daily reports know - they can have an affect on everything.

And when we hit February last year and hit a new low of having to make the decision to pull one of our sons from school to try to avoid an expulsion and to try to get him functionally back on track, it was at the end of months of tough reports. And phone calls. And early pickups. Of tightening chests and dread and holding my breath when I would walk in and try to glance unconcernedly at the teacher's face to try to ascertain what she was about to tell me so I could brace myself and keep the tears from falling.

BUT.

After four months home, after behavioral therapy and OT and a therapist who helped him acclimate to a camp by showing up every morning for his toughest time of day, we started to see change.

And then came a successful swim season. Full of smiles and races and newly earned independence and pride. Of ribbons on his wall and following around teenage heroes. Of joy.

But that was the summer. Anyone can have a good summer.

The school year started and I held my breath.

I didn't even know I was doing it.

Each day I would  drive to pick him up. And my heart would start to pound. My stomach would clench.

What kind of day did he have? Was school going to continue to be an option? Would we be home, again, doing hours of therapy a week and panicking about what options might be open to him for kindergarten?

I think I've mentioned before the constant ticker tape that happens in the head of someone parenting a child with special challenges: Have I done enough? Is this the best med? Do we need a new kind of therapy? Is this teacher going to "get" him and stand by him? What about OT? Or CBT? Or ABA? Or diet changes? The list goes on. It's always there, scrolling through in a way that has never been true for my thoughts towards my other two kids.

And it's utterly exhausting.

But today.

Today I was driving to pick him up. I had just finished a test for my class and NAILED IT and I was feeling good. And as I approached the school, it hit me. My body felt calm. Normal. Like I was just another mom heading to pick up a fully functioning child. I didn't assume the day had been hard. I didn't wonder all morning if the phone was going to ring. I took my test, threw in a load of laundry, packed up his lunch and hopped in the car.

And when I walked in, he looked up and smiled and ran and gave me a hug. And his teacher, a substitute he hadn't planned on, came over and told me he had had a wonderful day.

Guys.

That was his fifth good report this week.

Five out of five.

To some people, that's normal life.

To us, to him, that's a miracle. And it's a miracle that we have worked hard for.

You see, that's the truth about miracles. They take time and investment. They take hope and joy and failure. They take giving up and trying again. They take prayers and tears and hours upon hours of research and risk-taking. They take more than just a mom or a dad caring, they take friends and neighbors and church and teachers and swim coaches and family.

They take believing that someone has been made to be in the image of God and claiming it to be truth against all odds, against all evidence, against all experience and then gut-wrenchingly loving that truth into being.

And you know what the coolest thing is about this?

It's not just that I can be a full time student. It's not just that our house is a little calmer (and let's be honest, it's never going to be CALM, and that's ok). It's not just that my mental health is improving or that his brothers are seeing good in him or that we are all smiling more.

It's that he is proud of himself. He is happy. He is making choices that show us we can trust him and he LOVES that feeling. He is writing his name and making people drawings and notes. He is apologizing for tough days and asking God to help him grow.

Have we arrived at some perfect place that will always be good? Doubtful. Kids change. People change. There will be new challenges. He starts kindergarten this fall - the chances of that being a perfectly smooth transition are slim. But the fact that he can start kindergarten is huge. And don't even get me started on what I KNOW will be true when puberty hits for him.

But, friends, today I rejoice. I am ever so grateful for all who have come beside us as we have charted such unknown and challenging waters.

And I know some of you reading this are deep in the hard days. The days we had last winter and spring. Of hours of meltdowns and tantrums or unknowns with medical issues. Of despair and exhaustion and hopelessness.

I DO know what that feels like. Please reach out. Even to vent. Truly. I can't solve it. But I can walk it beside you.

I know our life won't stay this way forever...but I also know it feels good to be grateful and hopeful TODAY.

To rejoice in the sweet miracles we are seeing right now. 

Not Another Resolution

I haven't really been one for New Year's Resolutions in awhile. Possibly, that's because I tend to be a doer- so setting up a list of things to do doesn't actually seem that daunting. Or perhaps it's because I have learned that when you have young children, it's really best to just take things one day at a time. And because I am that aforementioned doer, I set myself up for disappointment if I set some big goals or changes that I can't meet because of, well, how life might unexpectedly shake out with those tiny humans.

But some time during the last five years, the five years, incidentally, that I have stayed home with my kids, I have morphed into a doer without purpose. It's one thing to make a list, check it, complete it and wake up the next day to do it again. It's fine, it keeps things moving, helps a family function. But it's quite another to wake up on purpose- to look forward to what the day brings, for one's first thought to go deeper than looking forward to when she can next lay back down.

Friends, that's pretty much where I am, here at the end of 2018.

Exhausted. When my alarm goes off in the morning, my first thought is not what is coming that day, it's almost always of how soon I can get back in my bed.

One step, the next step...and all day long just dreaming of the moment I can lay down again. Be alone. Make the worry go away, stop being anxious and wondering what I've missed in my quest to help my son, to pray that maybe this will be the night after which I wake up rested and hopeful and ready. For something. Anything.

This is about to get raw. But it needs to be said.

Staying home with my children for the past five years has been the absolute hardest thing I have ever done. It has brought me to the very edge of myself. I have developed PTSD from parenting a special needs child (gasp) but you CANNOT say that out loud in polite company. And on top of my PMDD, my friends, that pretty much means I am always one step away from falling apart.

Two weeks ago, it caught up with me. I woke up one day and I thought, "I can't do this. I don't know who I have become. What has happened to me?"

To be honest, it was probably the scariest moment of my life.

But because I have an awesome husband and some amazing friends who stepped in when I couldn't stop crying, I managed to get to the doctor for a checkup. That day. And to the counselor for a session. That day. And came home with a new "routine" and some medicine for my PMDD and the teensiest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change with some really hard work and the ability to ask for help.

For two weeks now, we have tried our best to stick to my prescription. I was told to get a two hour break from parenting every single day. To get at least 30 minutes of exercise every day. To practice mindfulness and prayer when I start to panic. To breathe deeply multiple times a day. Never to skip my medicine.

I might have scoffed at this a month ago. Thought it wasn't possible with our chaotic life and our "divide and conquer" style parenting.

But when you are as low as you ever remember getting, even lower than the miscarriage and the ensuing years of infertility and the adoptions that fell through, you are willing to do whatever someone tells you to do. Or at least, I am. That rule-following thing. It was honestly nice to be looked straight in the eye and told in no uncertain terms that something had to change and that it was OK that I needed it to change. That there is no actual way to carry the burden of this parenting challenge alone day after day. And that it was acceptable that being a stay at home parent just wasn't really enough right now.

There. I said it out loud.

Being a stay at home parent isn't enough for me.

I need more. And I've always known I needed more. When I chose to stay home five years ago, I imagined it to be temporary. But no one plans on a kid with special needs. No one plans on pulling him from school or spending hours of your life researching treatments and options and fighting with insurance companies. You just do it.

But somewhere along the way, I lost my purpose. My joy. My hope.

And friends, I really miss those things.

So, as 2019 approaches, I am not filling it up with resolutions. I am not making a huge to-do list.

I am focusing on one phrase: "new life."

A sweet friend of mine gave me a bracelet this summer after her trip to Hawaii. It's gorgeous. And the symbol on it means "new life." When she gave it to me, I knew it meant something, but I wasn't there yet. I couldn't see through the bog yet.

But as I have slowly emerged over the past two weeks that have been full of exercise, parenting breaks, enjoying my new calming corner, lots of deep breaths and long runs and an unexpectedly joyful Christmas, I feel like it's time.

With my new classes starting in less than two weeks, with some new boundaries in place, I am going to focus in on that.

New life.

It's something promised to us by God. It's something offered, no questions asked. Second chances. New beginnings. No matter how low we have sunk, how far we have strayed, how much we have despaired. We can always claim this hope.

Anyone else with me?

Cue the Balloons

I don't know if it's one person's job or whether it's some kind of magical, automated thing, but you know that moment after a huge victory? When people are cheering and balloons drop from the sky as if from heaven and everyone is smiling and laughing and existing in a sea of delighted chaos?

How fun would it be to be the person who makes that happen?

Who waits for the cue and releases celebration into the world.

Today was my middle son's last day of camp. It started 3 days into summer and ended 3 days before the new school year.

Camp, my friends, was a risk. Last year came with a lot of curveballs. A lot of failures. New diagnoses. New therapists. New medicines and supplements. LOTS of new grey hairs. And heading into the summer, my son hadn't had a lot of successes to tuck into his belt. It had been a very hard spring.

His therapist, however, had insisted he was ready for camp. That he could DO this. And not just do or survive it, but love it.

And friends?

Today, I am seizing that job that sounds oh-so-fun and releasing a storm of metaphorical balloons into our lives.

Today, he celebrated the last day of camp with a party. He brought in his own safe cake and special chips and lime juice so he could partake of the kona ice truck fun. He smiled. He laughed. He said goodbye at the door to his dad without screaming or panicking.

And when I picked him up three hours later, he ran into my arms and told me all about the party. He hugged his teacher goodbye and thanked her. And she told me he had been a delight. A DELIGHT. In fact, we had not one phone call home the whole summer. Not only did he survive, he thrived.

I handed him a little gift to celebrate - a pack of water balloons - and we talked the whole way home about how much fun he had had. About the friends he had made. And the beautiful women who had taught him and laughed with him and sang and danced with him. Who had helped him have success after success.

And later on, he filled every one of those balloons and had his own little party.

And it wasn't just camp. As a sweet little four year old, he joined the swim team again this season and worked up to racing. He earned ribbons. His amazing coaches pushed him and loved on him. He had the large majority of the team and not a few parents waiting at the end of the lane in his very first 25 meter freestyle race cheering their heads off to make sure he made it. He felt like he was a part of something bigger and it made him so very happy. We even made him a swim team corkboard just like his big brother and he is so very proud of it and can't wait to fill it with more next season. He loves for me to read him his little awards that his coaches wrote for him and we laugh together about how true they are.

Cue the balloons.

We fight hard for victories around here. They don't always come often and they don't ever come easy. But my beautiful boy who had one of the hardest years of his life had his best summer yet.

I am so stinking proud of him.

He has worked his little patootie off with his therapists. And he is ready and excited for school next week. Turns out his amazing teacher this summer will be his teacher this fall so his transition (and MAN are transitions rough for him) is almost nonexistent this Tuesday. Look at God, friends.

We don't know how this fall will go. We have a lot of hope that his successes will continue. We know there will be good days and really hard ones.

But today, as his mama, I get to be the one who releases the celebration. And what a joy it is!

In the Immortal Words of Chumbawumba

There are a lot of songs that instantly remind me of late high school and early college. They come on the radio and I find myself with an instant urge to put on hiking boots, loose jeans, a plaid shirt and a tight belt. (Oh wait, I actually still dress like that 20+ years later.)

Anyway.

The words to one of those songs came into my head yesterday as I was pondering this beautiful moment of which I had been a part. Every six months my son is involved in a drum recital. And every six months he dreads said drum recital. He is not a big fan, to say the least, of being the center of attention or of performing in front of people. (Something already tells me this will be a non-issue with my middle child but I digress...)

Yesterday, we roll up to the recital, my son pale and quiet. I have done the mom thing. Given the pep talks. Prayed for him. Reminded him that messing up in a recital is OK. That recitals at this age aren't about perfection. Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, mom, I know, mom.

"But what if I FAIL? I can't fail!"

And my own inner voice was coming out of my 11 year-old. Because that is the constant, marauding question that underlies everything I do. What if I fail? What if this isn't perfect? What if it's not good enough? What if I cannot literally solve every single problem that comes my way with deep finesse and joy and wisdom and all the things I cannot possibly have at once? WHAT IF? You can see that my mind goes down a pretty chaotic rabbit trail, there. It's not pretty friends.

And I know my boy. I know his inner voice says a lot of the same junk to him. About perfection and grace and failure.

And so every time I have to say the words "it's ok if you fail" I feel like a big, fat, hypocritical failure for telling my son something I cannot myself believe. You can see how much progress I am making here.

So, here we are, two people who are emotionally confused by the thought of failing even the teensiest bit, attempting to enjoy the hour and a half that will go by while we watch other children perform. Because, of course, he was slated to go last. 13 other kids would be performing first. Anticipation is good, right?

So, he took his place with his fellow drummers and I took my place with my fellow nervous parents and waited.

And the second boy, a boy whose family we happen to know, got up to perform for his very first time.

He looked terrified.

And sick to his stomach.

And he got about halfway through his song and froze. And then panicked. And then left the stage in tears.

And there were three things that could have happened right then.

(1) The room could have remained totally silent and awkward and moved with unspoken agreement on to the next drummer.
(2) We all could have stared at his parents and judged them for their son's failure. (Maybe we would not have done it verbally since, let's be honest, we're in the south, kingdom of passive aggressive confrontation, but we would have thought it.)
(3) Someone could have addressed it and risked saying the wrong thing (or the right thing) in a tough moment.

And friends, what happened next is stuck in my head.

As that boy was walking out with his head sunk in shame and embarrassment, one woman called out his name in encouragement and we all started clapping and cheering. That drum teacher got up onstage and reminded every single one of us that failure happens. That this boy had got up and he had tried. And that it's not easy after only a few months of lessons to get up in front of a bunch of people you don't know on a set with which you are unfamiliar and just play a song to perfection. The teacher chose option three and, I believe, changed the trajectory of the conversation.

We nodded, we agreed. The next two kids got up and did their thing. And if anyone is like me, we were wondering if that sweet boy was ok. If he would recover. Most importantly, how would this moment sit in his head and heart for the rest of his life?

He walked back in his with dad after a little bit and sat back down to watch the other kids.

After a few more performances their teacher got back up, looked him in the eye and said "Do you want a second chance?"

And friends, oh my word.

That courageous boy didn't even hesitate. He said yes, stood up and walked right back up on that stage. In front of people who had seen him fail. Who had seen him cry. Who had watched him leave in embarrassment.

Then, there was this moment of utter silence as we waited and the music started. And this kid, he just drummed his heart out. He played that thing into the ground.

The place erupted in cheers.

And, I'm gonna get southern here for a moment because I know no other way to put it, but I like to cried my eyes out, friends.

His teacher made him stand up and looked every kid in that place in the eye. And drove home a lesson I won't soon forget.

He said to them:

(1) We are all going to fail but we have to get back up again. (Enter Tubthumping by Chumbawumba into loop in my brain because of this wording. Thank you, 90's.)

(2) We can't let that failure keep us so low that we can't try again.

Guys, I don't know if I would have gotten back on that stage. Just after it was done and I had congratulated him and hugged my own kid and took all the required pictures, I asked my son about it. And he said the same thing. "Mom, I don't know if I could have tried again like he did." I asked him if watching the courage this boy had had and the way their teacher had responded had helped him to play his piece with less fear.

And it had, of course it had. He had seen in that moment that failure wasn't the end of his friend's story. That that kid had been embarrassed and ashamed. But those paralyzing emotions hadn't dictated his next moves. I don't know what he and his dad talked about out in the hall. I don't know if they prayed or cried or if he gave him a pep talk or just hugged him. You better believe I'm going to ask the next chance I have. But they walked back in together when it would have been easier to disappear. And that drum teacher in his wisdom offered him what we most often do actually get - a second chance. He took it, unwaveringly. Maybe because he knew it didn't matter since he'd already messed up or maybe he just zoned in to what he was doing or maybe he screwed up the most courage he ever has had to have in his life and just held his breath, but he made a room full of grown people cry because he played his heart out.

And THAT is the story he's going to remember some day. The whole thing. The failing and what it felt like. The conquering and what it felt like. Friends, the conquering didn't negate or erase the failure. That's still a part of the story.

But the failure gave that victory a much deeper hold.

The beautiful thing is that it won't just be his story. His whole family was there. I was there, my son was there. 13 other kids were able to see what it looks like to do something that looks unrecoverable and then to take the biggest risk of your life and do it again. They got to see a teacher choose deep encouragement and truth over disappointment and shame. They got to see adults cheer for a kid and weep over his victory.

That is a lesson, I hope, that will hold.

The next time that pesky inner voice starts screaming at me or my son, we're going to remember this boy. We're going to remember that failure isn't the end of the story. That it can, in fact, be a beautiful piece of the story. And we're going to sing a few words of Chumbawumba because they sang the dang truth: "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down." Seriously, it's on repeat in my head in only a semi-helpful way at this point.  

So to our friend and his family, let me just say this final thing: We love you guys. What you did yesterday was nothing short of miraculous. We are grateful for a lesson that might stick better than so many that have come before. And we are grateful for the beautiful courage of a boy who got back up and tried again.

Five

The first time I heard the term "spirited" to describe my son was at his 1 year-old check-up. The pediatrician looked me in the eye and said "Listen...this is a good thing. Some day he will be a leader, he will do amazing things. But the toddler years? They are going to be impossible."

SHE. WASN'T. LYING.

If you know anything about our story, you know we have been through some ups and downs over the past number of years. That we have been on this endless search for answers to how to best love and help our child who lives life bigger than most people around him can handle. Who feels hard and expresses it. Who is loud and chaotic and huge and never, ever for one minute of being awake stops moving or talking or emoting. Who has a list of food issues that prevents us from really ever going anywhere social. Who needs a certain intense amount of tactile and auditory input to function well but if he gets too much flies over the edge on a dime. It's been exhausting to learn and fail and learn and fail and learn and fail again.

But one other thing she said to us and that has been repeated by a number of professionals over the years is that things might change at the age of five. That maybe some of the allergies and sensitivities will lessen or go away. That some of the chaotic struggle that defines a large portion of our interactions will become milder. That we will have, in a sense, come through. That things will be on the upswing. Not easy or solved, but manageable. (Until the teen years, of course. No one ever promises you anything positive about the teen years.)

And so for 3 and a half years I have had that number in my head. FIVE. We can make it to five. Even on those worst of days...when there have been hours of meltdowns and tantrums, when we have had to pull him from school and church is impossible and our other kids are being affected and we are feeling like failures...and we wonder if the next public meltdown will result in some well-meaning person calling CPS on us...FIVE.

We can get there.

And then over a period of a few days, we get some new diagnoses.

And suddenly, five doesn't mean anything. In fact, there is no new number. There is just reality.

The reality that this will likely always be hard. There might always be therapy. People will suggest meds and judge you for doing them while others judge you for not doing them. IEPs and 504s will now be a part of your life. School will not come easy. And the fighting and learning you have been doing for almost 4 years will continue. Possibly right up until he moves out as an adult. And, because you are a parent, even at that point, you will worry. How will these things affect college? Or his career? Or his relationships? (And today I cannot even get into the side of this that is further complicated by his beautiful black skin and how he will never be given second chances at anything in a world that will start to, any day now, fear him. That's a WHOLE other blog post that my heart can't do today.)

When "spirit" turns to something more and you have been holding on to the promise and hope of relief, it feels like a sucker punch, friends.

Many of my blogs end with some hopeful plan I have devised. Some way I have realized or seen God in the midst of things. But right now, friends? Right now, I really don't have much more to say. We got the diagnoses and then family visited and then my husband traveled and this is the first moment, almost two weeks later, that I have even had to wonder what I am thinking or feeling. To ask what's next. To figure out from where the fight is going to come when I feel so worn down.

As he melted down this morning and I slumped against a wall in exhaustion before 8 am had even hit, I remembered a bracelet that my dear friend gave to me a few months back. It says "We can do hard things." I ran to my room and put it on and read the words and shot her a quick text with those words and asked her to pray. I repeated "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" over and over and over until I believed it.

And I realized that I had to sit down and write today - to say the words out loud that I can do this, even though I don't know how and don't have a plan. I had to let go of "FIVE" and mourn its loss, even though there isn't anything with which to replace it.

I suspect in the coming days, God will point me to something. He will use a friend to speak life. I might permanently glue that bracelet to my arm, for goodness' sake.

But today, I come in honesty and say that I am sad and tired and hurting. I want so much for my son to have a good life, a life that is full of love and laughter and joy and hope.

And I don't, at least today, how how to give it to him.

When the Church Is

I find myself glancing up at the tiny screen to the left of the stage less and less often these days. It's been at least a month since someone has had to call us away from the service. Since our son's number has flashed. Since someone has tapped us discreetly on the shoulders or found us in a Sunday school class, an apologetic but nonetheless clear look on his or her face.

We need you to come. We need you to pick him up. The teacher can't handle him.

You understand, right?

And we do. We know. We understand the challenges. We know that what feels like a no-brainer to many families - dropping your four year-old child off at Sunday School - feels like a tremendously risky act to some people. We know what it feels like to be called again. To pick up again. To have to work ourselves up to the point of being willing to try it - again. And we know what it feels like to have to pick your kid up after only 3 minutes in the special needs class because even that isn't working.

Talk about feeling like you are out of options.

But a month ago, our family pastor ran into me when I was alone at church on a Wednesday to co-lead the small group we attend. She caught me on one of THOSE days and innocently inquired as to why she hadn't seen our son recently.

Well.

Because it isn't working. We can't really trust that it will go well. We're taking turns staying home with him because at least our other sons can get there and one of us can go and not live on eggshells that we will be called out of service again. And yes, it is exhausting. And no, it's not sustainable. But it is what it is. And that's what we're doing.

And she looked me in the eye and said "No. It doesn't have to be. We love your son. And we love you. He is my baby. They all are. We are going to do something."

I held back tears and thanked her but moved on with the night. It's easy for a church to promise something. Really, it's easy for any of us to promise something and not follow through. The church has so much to be going on with. And we are only one child, one family struggling among so many.

But friends, listen up. So many of us have wounds. CHURCH wounds. I have them. They sit on my shoulder whispering lies to me all the time. They cause me to shield and to run and to hold back. To offer cynicism rather than teachability. To sit rather than kneel. To fold my arms rather than lift them in surrender. Those wounds want me to leave. To hate the church and the people. To assume the worst. To believe I can find what I need by myself. To be my own church.

Those wounds are real and they are powerful. The wrongs done to many of us in the church - they can be some of the hardest to heal because it makes no sense that we would have received them IN CHURCH. I don't know if I'll ever fully process the ridiculous things said to me in the church during our long struggle with infertility. I don't know if I'll ever forget what it felt like to be told I was lying by an elder of a church because the pastor falsely accused me of something and I chose to defend myself. Church wounds are betrayals because they never line up with who God has called us to be as a family to one another.

And with each new church we find because of how often we have moved, I have to steel myself to take risks. To show up. To hope. To ignore the whispering.

But this time? This is a time where the church has been the church. Has been a family.

Twelve hours after I ran into her, I had an email in my inbox with a plan. GUYS. You know how much this lady loves a plan. And the plan included a plea- for us to let them help us. GUYS. You know how good I am at letting people help.

But I chose to say yes. I said yes for the sake of our whole family. I said yes to shush the whispering demon on my shoulder telling us they didn't really care. We needed to be able to go to church together, friends. We needed that to not be another "divide and conquer" moment for us. We needed it to be a win.

And so we said yes. We showed up that next Sunday. We prepped him and prayed and did everything we could to prepare him for that plan.

And guess what?

It was hard. He wasn't into it that first week. I could hear him losing his ever-loving mind as I walked away from drop-off and had to fight tears of exhaustion for the entire service.

But I knew that they weren't moved. That they weren't judging us. That they had prepared for a tough transition. And so I went to service. And glanced roughly every 7.5 seconds to see if his number was flashing.

It never flashed.

The next week I probably made it a few minutes between each glance.

Then maybe 15 the next time.

And this past week? I'm not sure. But I know I breathed. Maybe for the first time in a long time. Because when I dropped him, he wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but he wasn't upset. And he wasn't waiting by the gate when I came to pick him up. He was smiling and laughing and enjoying the beautiful humans who had spent an hour and a half with him. Who had loved him so well so we could be a family on a Sunday morning.

Friends. The church gets a lot of flack these days. And much of it is deserved. We have not always done right, done good, chosen grace the way we should as those who are stewards of God's community here on earth. We don't always act like family. But this moment, this victory, is huge for us. Huge for me. It's not just a moment to be grateful that my son is loved but it's also a moment to remember that God can heal wounds. Even church wounds. This moment rebuilt some trust for me and that's no small thing.

So right now, I want to place an ebenezer here and say that my church was the church. They loved us in this - loved us like family. They aren't asking for public recognition in response. I'm not filming some artsy video to put on Upworthy.

But I AM saying thanks. Publicly. Not all churches would look at one sweet boy and one struggling family and say "we can change something so you can stay."

Thank you, dear church and beloved pastor. From a tired mama and a boy who is now, finally, looking forward to church again. Thank you.

The Belonging

A few nights ago I sat in a friend's living room, looking around at the beautiful faces of women with whom I have been meeting for over a year now. A common desire to understand more about God's heart for racial justice brought us together initially - and as more people have tested the waters and joined, our group has grown.

But as I looked around, I wasn't thinking about how much we have learned and how we have shared deep stories of woundedness or anger or missed opportunities or ignorance, although I am deeply thankful for the experience we've shared.

I was thinking that these are my people.

And I was also thinking that I am not so good at having people.

I am the kind of student who groaned when a teacher announced a group project. Who worried that when moving to college I would feel smothered by having to share a dorm room. (I didn't, by the way, because I ended up with a lifelong friend who was beyond awesome herself and who let me be me.) I feel touched out by tiny humans by right around 10 am every morning. "Touch" is my very last love language and the idea of someone hugging me or even, really, talking to me when I am upset is actually terrifying.

I am fiercely independent, the kind of person who wrote a song in high school that outlined who much I did NOT want to grow up and get married or have children. (It's true. My best friends at the time chose to perform it 10 years later at my wedding rehearsal dinner. Thanks, guys.)

For much of my life, I thought of it as a strength. But the older I get, I begin to wonder.

Yes, there is so much good that comes from it. Self-reliance, determinedness...those are good things when applied rightly. But when applied defensively they can shut a whole lot of good out. They can shut out a type of belonging and place someone perpetually on the outside. Sometimes it almost feels like I am watching my life as a spectator. Not feeling fully connected to anyone in the story, but committed nonetheless, to being there.

Brene Brown, in her book "Braving the Wilderness" says this:

"The special courage it takes to experience true belonging is not just about braving the wilderness, it's about becoming the wilderness. It's about breaking down the walls, abandoning our ideological bunkers, and living from our wild heart rather than our weary hurt...True belonging is not passive. It's not the belonging that comes with just joining a group. It's not fitting in or pretending or selling out because it's safer. It's a practice that requires us to be vulnerable, get uncomfortable, and learn how to be present with people without sacrificing who we are. We want true belonging, but it takes tremendous courage to knowingly walk into hard moments."

Look, I'm going to be appallingly honest for a moment. The four years that I have spent as a stay-at-home parent have been the loneliest of my life. The amount of emotional and physical energy it has taken me to do what I have done has caused me to choose to sacrifice the opportunity to truly belong anywhere else.

And I have made bad choices along the way. I have filled up on Facebook at the lowest points, rather than found a real face to be with. I have believed again and again that all I can do is what I can do right now for my kids and if there is nothing left of me by 7 pm, then so be it. I have clicked "interested" or "maybe" on a thousand different social opportunities and showed up at a tenth of them. I have bought into a culture that makes it easy to go back on my word because my word never meant much in the first place. Maybe or interested is a lazy way of saying "I think I should do that but I don't truly want to commit so I will pretend to commit for a few minutes and then easily back out at the last minute." 

But that way of life is never going to be right or good or, to be honest, holy. It's only going to provide momentum to stay in an endless spiral of exhaustion, isolation and loneliness. It's never going to be enough. I will never fully belong to myself or to anyone else that way. 

As lent has started, I've been asking myself and God what it is I could sacrifice right now. Lent was a fairly new concept to me a few years back. I grew up in a church that didn't adhere much to the liturgical calendar and I had no concept of how to observe this time of year. Most of the years I have attempted to observe lent, I would choose something that was hard to give up, but not necessarily ask God to meet me in that empty space. It was more of a test of my independence, of course.

Did I have the will power to part with something and succeed? I always did, of course.

And, you know, missed the point. 

So this year I was hesitant about "doing without". I feel like I have been stripped down to the bare bones of who I am anyway, so what more can I part with? 

Ironically, I had been on the waiting list for Ms. Brown's book for months and received the notification that it was all mine the morning that Lent began.

And as I began reading it and feeling punched over and over again at the very core of my gut, I just knew.

Lent has to do with my people.

The women I met with last week aren't my people just because we all believe the exact same things. Or have the same stories. They are my people because I've chosen to be radically myself in their presence, mess and all, as we hash through some really tough stuff. And they've let me be.

But I so rarely choose to live at that level of relational risk.

Listen, I'm not saying I have never had people before. There are some humans through the years with whom I could be my total self and still can to this day. Really, really good friends who stuck with me even when I made it very hard to do so. And I am so stinking grateful for every one of them, may God have mercy on their souls.

But mostly I have held myself back. Content to participate or know without the risk of being fully known. Afraid to really need anyone - keeping most friends far enough away that any betrayal or disappointment or even loss of them wouldn't actually affect me.

Ouch.

I have a feeling that when Jesus said he came to bring life abundant, some of that had to do with fully embracing the gifts of those loving humans in my life. And when you find it hard to even fully accept God's radical love for you so much of the time, you certainly aren't going to trust people.

Fear. Fear is so powerful, my friends. And that's really what it comes down to.

Brene's first step to belonging is to "move in." There is so much rage and separating and vilifying in our society these days. People say things they would never say to someone if they were actually face to face through social media. We've lost touch with the art of disagreeing. With civility. With productive debate. With researching to find the actual truth.

And I see the effect it has on me. The propensity towards pigeonholing, towards assumptions, towards anger. To believe I am right and others wrong all the time.

We all do it.

And it's killing us, friends. It. Is. Killing. Us.

So for Lent, I'm "moving in" and clicking off. I will check in my with groups online and organize events and post blogs - but when tempted to click to fill that void of belonging, when tempted to scroll to cure loneliness (if only for a moment), I'm going to choose one of the following instead:

(1) Write a letter to a friend. An actual pen to paper, lick a stamp and leave it on my table for a week because I hate going to the post office letter. 

(2) Call someone on the phone. And fight really hard while it is ringing against my hope that they won't pick up. (Seriously, I need help.)

(3) Initiate a crazy game of chase with my kids that ends in a tackling, tickling mess of limbs and chaos because even though I hate being touched, my kids love it.

(4) Pick up a real book that challenges me to love better. To move in. To listen. 

(5) Write. A blog. A book. A quick text of encouragement. But write. Dream.

(6) Bake something for a neighbor. (Friends, this will be no easy thing cause this lady will need to learn to bake to actually do this one.)

(7) Text a prayer or word of encouragement to one of my pastors.

(8) Dance. (Ok, this may seem unrelated to what I am trying to do but those who know KNOW. This is 100% a support to doing away with fear. Anyone want to make me a new playlist?) 

(9) Organize an actual outing and invite humans to come with me. (Keep watch for this friends - maybe we can hang out IN PERSON!!!)

(10) Make coffee and find a neighbor with whom to share it.

Bottom line, and in the immortal words of Phoebe, I am going to be with the "3-dimensional people." I am going to "move in." I'm going to fight the loneliness by fighting the fear. I am going to resist the parts of me that shut down, that hide, that run away and pray like crazy that Jesus will help when I fall and fail.

And I will fall and fail. It's inevitable.

But I'm going to be with my people and find more people who need people. I'm going to keep fighting for the things I am passionate about, but I'm going to do it in person. I am going to keep radically finding ways to unashamedly be me and call others to do the same. Because I believe we can always get better, do better, know better, be better. We're never finished.

I'm going to fight fear with faith and risk. And win.

Shoots

I stop him just before he charges into the garden. Just before his little shoe tramples what looks to be a hint of green. I bend down closer to look, figuring it might be just a blade of grass as my preschooler careens off in a new direction, content as long as he is allowed to run.

And there it is. A shoot. The first sign of spring. On January 21st. Some days I really do love Virginia.

We have actually had a winter this year. A cold and snowy one, though not a long one. And because I love my garden, I welcome the winter. I welcome the months of moisture and quiet that prepare my plants to rise again from the soil...stronger, prettier, fuller, more vibrant. Maybe even large enough to divide and transplant, giving life to another part of the yard or a neighbor's garden.

And this little shoot is proof of what has been going on under the surface. The bulb that leads to this daffodil has been soaking in water and nutrients for months. You couldn't see any of it happening, but the shoot is proof. Life goes on. One season ends and another begins in faithful cycles.

Last week we had a lot of snow days. The few mornings that I usually get to myself when all three boys are in school didn't happen. I felt completely full of what I could handle. Exhausted, really, but functioning. Cheerful, even, at times.

A month ago if that had happened, I would have retreated into full, collapsing survival mode. We would have hunkered down and never left the house. I would have said words of defeat over and over to myself. There would have been nothing in me that would risk a public fail.

But last Friday, something happened. What has been hard and dry and worn out and fearful produced a tiny shoot of green. I felt ready for something. I felt hopeful.

I piled my 2 and 4 year-olds into the van and drove over to the Y.

That alone, is a bit of a miracle. I haven't had the energy in months to head over there and we'd been stuck inside for days due to the snow and their particular disdain for all that is cold. (The oldest would happily live in Northern Canada and has to be practically bribed to come indoors in the winter but the middle child believes cold is a personal affront to his happiness.)

After my workout, though, after they had played happily and without incident (thank you, Jesus!) in the Child Watch, we went to the pool.

THE POOL.

Confession: I have never once been willing to take both of them to any pool by myself. Not one time.

When you have one nugget in the throes of the terrible twos and the other one who lives his life in the land of the imminent, show-stopping meltdown, you get used to public humiliation. You still venture out to Target because sometimes being a public spectacle is still preferable to losing your ever-loving mind stuck at home. But mostly you stay home. Or in the backyard. I fully believe every person in our neighborhood recognizes us because we are always outside. Making lots of noise.

But the pool?

The pool takes a lot of energy. Yes, physical energy, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the kind of oomph you need to pull your mind and heart around being in a public space where one or both your kids could go off the rails, where you could have to wrestle a wet screaming child and lose, where it's very possible that one could run away while the other refuses to get out of the water. And where you know there's the very real possibility that you'll have to rely on the kindness of strangers to keep someone from drowning.

I haven't had that oomph in awhile. I haven't wanted to risk the emotional chaos of failure.

But we went. And they played and smiled and laughed and jumped in a hundred times and made the older women who were doing their water aerobics smile. They spread joy.

JOY.

And yes, it could have gone badly and I would still have had to process that. It didn't this time, for which I am grateful. I needed that win.

Because here's the thing. I've been learning something new about myself.

This fall was incredibly challenging - and it didn't come after any kind of easy season. We were going through some really hard stuff with our middle child. Things that were beyond our control. Nothing I did was making it better. Not my advocacy. Not my research. Not calling a billion different people. Not lost sleep. Nothing.

I was powerless.

And what I am coming to see is that powerlessness is my own version of personal hell. I am a doer. I make lists, I check them off, I get things done. Everything I've ever tried to do or really wanted to do, I've pretty much done. I am an ISTJ on the Meyers-Briggs and a 1 on the Enneagram. I DO. I FINISH.

But I couldn't do anything to make it better and had to watch my son suffer.

That led to me feeling like a big, raging failure in my life. It didn't matter that someone might tell me I am a good mom and doing my best. To me, it wasn't my best because nothing was changing. And the inability to accomplish anything took me down, friends. I felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. Useless. Sad. Depressed. Confused. Alone. Angry.

Somehow, somewhere and with the encouragement of some dear friends, I dug deep and realized I needed counseling.  Needed help. I wanted my boys to see their mom smiling again.

It's funny what happens in counseling. Someone asks you a question. You answer. They tell you what they hear you saying. You clarify. They clarify. And things begin to emerge. (Well, at least after that first session during which you just sob uncontrollably because apparently when you feel all the aforementioned things but don't let it out, your brain and heart explode when someone says "tell me about it.")

And just being able to see something about yourself, to learn why you feel so out of control, to say it out loud. Well, that's a huge part of the healing.

And then to finally, after months of effort that you've made, to see things start to happen for your son. To see what comes of the prayers and the phone calls and the appointments and the asking of questions.

That's the shoot, friends. This little spot of green that says something is happening. Something is changing. God is at work. Your work alongside him is not in vain.

The shoot is not a daffodil yet. There is still much to be done. There needs to be more water and sunshine and fertilizer and time. For me, there needs to be more counseling, more prayer, more risk-taking, more phone calls, more letting friends in on the process.

But slowly, sometimes uncertainly, the oomph is coming back, will come back. And knowing what takes me down frees me up to fight it. To look the feeling of failure in the face and say "Not today, Satan." Just because I feel powerless doesn't mean I am a failure and that is the darn truth.

Friends, all we can really do is the work in front of us. The next phone call, the next meeting, the next mountain of paperwork, the next prayer, the next counseling session, the next moment with friends or family who are loving us through it - even when we don't see that shoot yet, we water, we till, we fertilize and we pray for sunshine.

We stay in the fight and wait for the shoot.

That Deeper Story

You don't always know it when you look at them.

They smile. They pick their kids up and cover them in hugs and kisses. They read them books before bed and help them build towers and tell them to dream dreams.

Most likely, they are exhausted.

If not from today, from yesterday or last week or from years and years and years.

From the 20th phone call this week with a teacher or a therapist or a doctor or someone from the insurance company.

From the long lists posted on their pin boards or kitchen cabinets or fridge. The lists of forbidden foods, of rigid schedules, of sensory diets and supplements. The food logs, the oils, the salts, the reminders to pull out the theri-putty or weighted blankets and to never, ever forget to go over tomorrow's schedule before bed.

From "divide and conquer" parenting that protects siblings from the chaos but can wreak havoc on a marriage.

They might look unflappable or they might have eyes welling up in tears.

And you might not know why. You might look at their children and not know there is anything different.

Or you might look and judge- why is that child screaming, don't his parents know how to discipline? Can't she act her age - spoiled brat. You don't always see the child, you don't always remember to believe there could be a deeper story. Everyone has one, though.

Don't you?

But what if you met that child's eyes and smiled. What if you squeezed that mama's hand or offered real words of encouragement to that exhausted dad?

No, not the empty kind. Not "you are a good mom" or "hey, it gets better."

Sometimes being called a good mom comes up empty. Who decides that definition, anyway? And to be honest? Who really knows if something will get better, easier, less intense?

No, say something real, for goodness sake.

"That seems so hard. I would love to help. What do you need right now?"

"Hey, I'm bringing dinner tomorrow night. What's that allergy list again?"

"It's ok to feel like this is impossible. I love you and you're not alone."

They might not have much energy to be a great friend right now or to even return phone calls. (In fact, sometimes the sound of those phone calls makes them cringe. Is the school calling? What now?)

They might be just hanging on by the skin of their teeth, fighting each day to give their kids the best of what they have left.

But fight they will. They are warriors. They see the deeper stories of their children and they won't give up. 

And their kids? Their kids are amazing.

They might not always look or act like yours do. But they are beautiful. Passionate. There are things that move them, that light them up. Sometimes their smile can totally change a room. Sometimes their screams can stop you in your tracks. But they are precious. Loved. Worth fighting for.

Next time you see one of them, take pause before you judge. Before you dismiss or assume. Before you cast words of shame upon them or their parents.

There's a story, there. And it's worth sticking around for. I promise.