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.

The Kitchen Cart

One of the things I discovered during my sabbatical way back in 2009 is that there is a certain peacefulness and healing that takes place in my soul when I work with my hands. And a certain chaos in me when I don't feel like somethings looks or feels the best way that it could.

Let me introduce you to the kitchen cart.

Original Cart

Tons of dings and scratches

Towel rod and grate

When we bid on the house, we asked that we be able to keep it. At the time, I didn't look too closely at it nor really mind it's appearance. It fit with the decor of the house and was sturdy and practical. I love sturdy and practical.

But as I've slowly repainted the interior of the main floor of our home, it has increasingly felt out of place. The sliding bins stopped working well and it became a dumping ground for all the papers and "stuff" that really belonged elsewhere. It's also looking decidedly banged up. I hit the point recently where any time I came near it, I cringed. It just wasn't working anymore.

As many of my projects do come at me out of the blue, one day I realized this would be an incredibly easy fix. A little paint, maybe some creative touches and rather than spending hundreds of dollars on something that might match, I could have something cute AND the distinct pleasure of having used my nail gun. That is always a win.

So, I began to take it apart. Pulled out the rickety old towels holders. Punched out the wicker side grates.

I filled in the holes left from the rods and sanded the whole thing down

Holes filled in

Whole cart sanded and ready for magic

Of course, gave it a fresh coat of paint on the bottom.

I decided that for the top, I would go for a hazy, distressed type of look. I sanded off all the old stain which left me with a soft, yellowish pine. I treated it with some wood conditioner and then put two light coats of dark grey stain on top. Then I used some gray paint and a rag and just lightly covered all that followed by two coats of poly. I LOVE the finished product. (You can see it at the end!)

Once all the paint was done, I had to fill in the missing side grates. I had a picture in my mind but wasn't actually sure what I was looking for until I ran into it in Home Depot. Aluminum sheeting. Yes. Looked around a little more until I found just the right design and with some careful measuring and cutting with Tin Snips and then some tricky arm acrobatics to get in there with the staple gun, I had new grates!

Aluminum Sheeting

Measured piece of cardboard

Tin Snips

Staple Gun

Cut and ready for the cart

Installed

I pulled out some candles I have and an old vase I had painted a few years ago, filled up one of the slots with cookbooks that have been hiding (unused) in the back of the cabinet, repurposed a basket to hold diapers and found a cute little pop of color at Target to hold my kitchen towels.

I am thrilled with the results! What used to feel like an out-of-place, somewhat functional cart now feels bright, cheerful and useful.

LOVE the top now! 

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.