Half an Hour

Have you heard of "Me" time? I remember when I first heard about it. 

Those were the days, man. The days I was exhausted. I was new to the world of two kids, with a newborn and a three-year-old. And it's like this: 

The newborn phase and the preschooler phase are precious. Seriously. Newborns and preschoolers are like peanut butter and pizza. Really great stuff. Just maybe not so much at the same time, if you know what I mean.  

Princess, 5 months, and Little Man, who'd just turned 4

It was precious. It was tough. 

So "Me" time? It resonated. It rang like Quasimodo's bell tower, and I was all, "Girl power!" or whatever.

Through the years, I've daydreamed about taking a vacation by myself. I've had visions of shopping for clothes without hunting for kids in the racks. Of eating at restaurants that didn't serve chicken strips. Of leaving half a candy bar out in the open, and finding it intact when I came back. (Those are the things you daydream about, too, right?)

Then I went to Lynchburg for a class. I stayed at a fancy hotel, took bubble baths in silence, watched as much TLC as I could stand, and kept the refrigerator stocked with whatever I wanted. It was like college, only with a jacuzzi. I had plenty of time to myself.

But can I tell you a secret? Mostly, I didn't feel relaxed. Mostly, what I felt was. . . a little bored. And (this part's trite but true) I missed my family.

Fast forward two years, and I was in Lynchburg again for more classes -- two weeks in a row this time. Instead of a fancy hotel, I stayed at a little cabin called Chestnut Cottage. The hosts were warm, the cabin was cozy, and it even snowed while I was there. But there I was, a snowy cabin all to myself, good coffee and Veronica Mars on tap - and I wanted to go home.

So what's the deal? 

I guess in the end, the deal is the whole "time" thing - specifically, how much time. I don't need a week or two without the responsibilities of home and family. What I need is time to regroup, time to think, and time to process. I need time when nobody's asking me any questions and nobody's needing me for anything. 

And I can do that, even at home. In fact, I'm doing it now. 

The Preacher came home an hour ago and invited me to lunch on campus with him. The introvert in me has trouble with spontaneous outings, and I said maybe next time. (He gets me.) So he invited the kids. (See how he gets me?) And I've had half an hour of silence and peace to do whatever.

They'll be back soon. It won't be a week of quiet.

But half an hour to drink hot coffee and read and write in peace is just what I needed today. That whole "resonating" thing is happening right here in my living room. 

And you know, a vacation used to take a week,
but this "Me" time - 
half an hour of peace and silence and putting a kibosh on a stressful week with the running and the worry - 
is enough. It's enough for me, at least. 

(Thanks, Preacher.)

In Retreat, 
Becki* 

Throwing Clay

Y'know how they say, "You win some, you lose some?" Well, today was a lose-some kind of day, guys.  

Twice I had to pull into traffic at the last minute because my lane suddenly closed. Twice. With no warning. (Seriously!) If you've ever driven through Lexington, you know what a nightmare that was. 

Not really Lexington - Photo credit

On top of that, I'm exhausted. For the last week I've been up too late trying to rein in my scatterbrain and write something coherent. But no matter what I do with this clay, it never shapes up exactly the way I'd planned. (That's perfectionism talking; Lent's trying to kill it.)

And writing isn't as easy as I remember. If it were, this wouldn't be much of a 40-day thing to do, right? Lent isn't about easy. It's about stretching ourselves and doing something hard. All you good people fasting meat or chocolate or sugar for 40 days are feeling the pinch, too. Especially now:

Sorry, guys. Photo credit

But we push ourselves because good habits don't form overnight. (Bad ones, though. . . mercy.) 
Good habits take work, and lots of it. 

For Lent, my work is writing. But it's not about attracting readers. (No offense! Please don't go.)
It's not about being an inspiration, thank God. (You know how I feel about that.) And it's not about taking the place of your devotionals, Hallmark movies, or prayer life.

This is about naming what's good in my days. And oh, do I ever need that because this season (every season) has its struggles. But then it has its gifts, too, and I know they won't last forever, and I'm desperate to notice them now. 

I'm so busy focusing on what's wrong that if I'm not careful, I don't see see what's right. I do this to myself, to my kids, to my whole life, and nobody gets any grace because we're all just a project in the works. And in the meantime, all these gifts surround me and all these moments are running out, and one day I'll look back and say, "Where did the time go? Where are my babies?" 

I can't stop time, and I won't stop their growing, but I can stop myself. I can notice the things I'll miss when they're gone, and I can live the moments I'll wish I had back. And I will have them back, because they'll be memories of the times I paid attention.

I just don't want to miss out because I'm too tired and busy and worried to pay attention.

I don't want to miss this time with the Preacher, or my opportunities at work, or the warmth of our townhouse with geothermal heat. 

I don't want to miss my life, guys. 

And if this is what it takes to remember that, then. . . well, then I'll spend my evenings reworking this clay until it's good. Not perfect, but good. 

(Or at least good enough.)

Getting messy hands, 
Becki*  

Little Courage

Dear Princess:

Today was our first visit to a new dentist. When the hygienist came to get you, I asked her if I should come, too. (Your brother was still in the waiting room.) She said I could, but laughed: "Looks like she's ok on her own." And I just watched your back as you marched away. You had no idea where you were going, but you were determined to get there yourself. 

When the appointment was over, the hygienist said your teeth looked perfect, and she gushed about what a good patient you were. But I wasn't surprised; you're all business at the doctor.

Over the years, I've seen you get two shots at a time and barely flinch. I've watched as your eyes turned steel gray, and you set your jaw and refused to cry. I don't know where you got that strength from, but I do know you were born with it.

And somehow you've managed to be steel, but not to be hard. You've sniffled over St. Jude's ads, and you've wept over that terrible SPCA commercial (the one I try to ignore). Last year, I held you when you cried, realizing your own kitten was dying. And I tried to answer your questions, but the truth is, baby -- having an answer doesn't heal our pain. 

But then, having pain doesn't mean we won't ever find joy again, does it? (Hello, Lent.) 

Here you are, five years old and already learning that. We talk about things that don't last forever and things that do, and you get it in the matter-of-fact way you get multiplication. You believe it's true because I say it is. And because this phase won't last forever, I need to say this now:

I know you're brave. You're brave and strong in ways that I certainly am not. I fight with worry, and I fear I don't know how to raise a brave girl. I fear you'll pick up my worry and weakness instead. 

So you make me want to be brave, just in case. 

The truth is, I'm more stubborn than brave most days. But you're both. The day you were born, you released a cry I thought was impossible for newborns. (I guess you weren't ready to leave your warm home yet.) For months after that, you scowled at the world -- all those presumptuous strangers who want baby girls to grin at them. 

And I worried you'd always greet the world with a glare. But in time you smiled at someone at church, and you proved my worry wrong again.

Today, you smile and show those little white teeth, and you're curious and precocious and very independent. In some ways, you're who you've always been. But then you're growing into who you are, too, like an oak bursting from an acorn. 

When you asked to be baptized a few months ago, I worried for a moment that you were too little. But you were determined, and you climbed onto the platform and spoke your part clearly, and my fear evaporated. You gave me strength somehow, and I realized maybe I can raise a brave daughter, after all. 

I can do it because you'll show me how. 

Thankful for you, 
Mommy

The Coat

Tonight, we attended a Service of Resurrection. If you think you've never attended one, I'll bet you have; people usually call it a funeral. 

Photo credit

Now, before we get too far here, I need to confess something. Are you ready to give me grace? Here it is: I hardly ever wear skirts or dresses anymore, even to church. I blame this development on one thing: all the years I dressed like an octogenarian before I was even 20. For the time being, I guess I've just grown out of leggings and tights (but not literally!).

So tonight, I spent forever trying to figure out what to wear to the funeral. The service was for an 18-year-old girl from our church, a senior killed in a car accident two weeks ago. So many people were expected at the ceremony that they held it in the high school gym. And it was a packed house. 

In my closet, I scrounged through the odd selection of items I've collected since I stopped working: clothes I wore to work five years ago, clothes I've grown out of, clothes I've shrunk out of, and (the vast majority) clothes that are NOT appropriate outside the front door (or possibly even inside). Holes, stains, spots. . . use your imagination. After a prolonged search, I ended up choosing a black dress I found hiding in the back of the closet. When Chloe saw me in it, she said, "Wow, Mommy. You look fancy!" And I guess compared to the usual Sunday morning jeans, I did.

But the truth is, I was bone cold and a little out of place all evening. As it turns out, wearing a little black dress isn't a good idea in February, and it was six degrees outside. My blood froze, and I wore my black wool coat like a second skin. It stayed there all night. Dress-schmess.

Of course, funerals are about remembering the person who's passed and not really about wardrobe. (This isn't going to stay shallow, guys.) But the other side of the coin is that unfortunately, I never got to know the girl whose life we celebrated tonight. I was at the funeral for the grieving kids, the ones whose Sunday school class we teach. I just wanted to be available. But the fact is we're still getting to know each other, and it's a little early for the whole pour-your-heart-out thing. 

In short, I was an awkward, wool-wrapped ice cube tonight. All those attempts at preparation, and I still ended up snuggled in my coat.

At the end of the service, Pastor asked us to prepare our hearts for what was coming next. As we sat in silence, I could hear people sniffling, and I'd just started to wonder how to prepare when he closed with this: 

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant ___. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.

We heard those words prayed over this child's life, and I swear you could hear hearts snapping like branches. I didn't even know her, but my heart cracked a little, too. It was the word "prepare" that got me. "Prepare your hearts for this moment," he'd said, and we'd bowed our heads like children. But how could we prepare? 

Photo credit

The very thought of being prepared for a moment like that -- for letting go -- is unthinkable. I don't know how you do that. I still have dreams where I'm talking to my Nenaw, and I'm crying before I'm even fully awake. I don't know how to prepare for those moments. 

What I do know is that I held my rambunctious Princess tighter after those words. I tried to put myself in the shoes of that grieving mama -- same as all the other mamas did -- and I hugged my blonde little girl. I worried her hair until she brushed me off, clutched her hand on the way to take communion. And I realized I will in no way ever be prepared for the moment Pastor described. 

But then maybe that's the thing. We can't prepare. We can love Jesus and worship and pray and fast - but we'll still be those ancient disciples who kept staring at the clouds, waiting for Jesus to turn right around and come back.

As I watched that mama tonight, grieving with her own head bowed, I knew this: We will not ever be ready. No heart is ready for letting go. But even when we're not, when our limbs are ice and our blood is cold and the frost has sunk into our bones, we can be covered. We'll come to Jesus in our shabby digs, feeling winter in our summer clothes, and He will not be surprised. He'll cover us with His wool coat, and He'll become our second skin, and He will thaw our icy hearts so we can heal. 

He is, you see, prepared. 

And that's more than enough.

Thawing out, 
Becki

Convicted

To tell you the truth, I'm not much of a blog reader anymore. (Yes, I know what "ironic" means. And I'm ok with that.)

When I decided to stay home with my kids, I started reading mom blogs like tweens study Seventeen. Sure, I wanted to prepare myself for this full-time mom gig, but mainly I wanted to know I wasn't alone. I needed reassurance that I was doing the "right thing," and I searched for writers who said I was. 

Baby Princess

Bloggers are experts, right? They know when I'm right. 

But it didn't take long for that to change. Soon I came across successful, eloquent Christian writers who were different than the "do-what-you-want" bloggers I'd been reading. The other ladies said staying home with the kids was a good thing to do. But these new writers argued it was the only thing a Christian mom should ever do. 

Naturally, I was shocked. I said, "Whaaa?!" and then my stubbornness kicked in. I kept reading their blogs just to argue how wrong they were (with the Preacher, of course). This kept up until I realized what they were doing, and I stopped cold:

They weren't just drawing readers who agreed with them (who happened to be in no short supply). They were also baiting people like me. How? By creating controversy.  

Later, some of those bloggers wrote books for huge publishing companies --  really famous books, mind you, on bestseller lists and whatnot. And can you guess what happened? You're right, smarty pants: They stepped away from that controversial platform. It was never heard from again. But. . . where did their convictions go? 

Photo cred

I don't know about that. But I do know that just like in middle school, some people know how to draw a crowd: Pick a fight. Go out to your little sandbox, scratch a line down the middle, and dare people to cross it. Pretend to pity those who don't agree with you. And make those who do, feel like kings. (Or queens, as it were.)

Forget that it's obnoxious -- not to mention wrong --  to pretend your position makes you superior. You've created a following, and that's what matters. Right? 

The thing is, I didn't stop reading those bloggers mainly because I disagreed with their convictions. I'm ok with differences, and I love my all my friends, even the ones who disagree with me. And yes, even the ones who are wrong. (Ha! Did you catch what I did there?) 

No, it wasn't that I'm against different convictions. I'm just against convictions that do the wrong thing for us all. 

If my convictions
insinuate I've got more points with God than you,
make me feel better about myself in comparison to you,
give me excuses for avoiding "people like you," and 
become a point of pride instead of a miracle of grace. . .
then I'm doing them wrong.

And that's why I don't read those blogs anymore. If that's the way they attract a crowd, I'm out. I'm not getting in that sandbox, guys. (It's probably the yucky kind with no lid, anyway.) 

In the end, convictions aren't about comparison, superiority, or points at all. I can do that mess all on my own! They're about about humbling myself, releasing perfectionism, and letting grace bear the fruit stubbornness never could. 

A lot like writing for Lent, I guess. 
(Maybe I should just fast next year.)

Playing on the swings instead,
Becki*

Not Sorry

Tomorrow is Sunday. Well, today's probably Sunday for you. (You're living in the future. Isn't that neat?) 

After nearly a week of being snowed in, we're headed to church in the morning. Sunday's a day of rest and everything, but it's more like a half day after a morning of wrangling and hustling and scrubbing two kids. But we're headed out nonetheless. Into this: 

Photo cred

Ok, just kidding. This is Kentucky, guys. We got about a foot of snow last Monday, and our sweet meteorologist kept saying, "I'm not trying to scare you. Please don't panic." And we got plenty of snow, and I was thrilled! 

But this is the South. We literally have one snow plow in our little town, so you can imagine how stuck we were. I'm thinking maybe next time I'll do a shorter snow dance. Or maybe only wear my pajama pants backwards. Or maybe not. 

I do love snow.

Anyway, our roads are really more like this: 

Photo cred

And I'm only hyperventilating a little bit over the idea of crashing into the ground and breaking myself again. (I don't miss the pain meds, for real. You know how people are either totally normal or spaced out, half-asleep zombies when they take those things? Guess which one I am.)

Anyway, I definitely need that whole peace thing tomorrow. And I hope it's an easy walk to the church doors. Those dang ramps. . . *grumble*

If you happen to be snowed in tomorrow, enjoy your Sabbath at home in pajamas. I'm not currently forced by winter to be a hermit (*sniff*), so mine will be at church in boots and jeans. After all, jeans are more restful than skirts but not as inappropriate as pajama pants. 

And that's the moral of the story.

Sorry about that, 
Becki

Permanent Record

A couple years ago, one of my favorite food bloggers suddenly stopped writing. I showed up to her game a little late and started reading from the beginning; that's how favorite she was. As I got to her more recent posts, she shared a pregnancy announcement and later, photos of her growing baby bump.

After her giddy, exhausted 40-week picture, her posts dropped off. I thought maybe she'd had a newborn phase like mine: brain-dead, zombie-like, and blissfully detached. But I'm a freak who has to know everything about anything that interests me, so I Googled her. And oh, my heart. Her cravings. Her long pregnancy. Her first delivery. 

Her stillborn daughter.

And of course, her empty blog. 

I couldn't understand her experience. We never fully know someone else's pain. 

But I did understand why she'd stopped:
Nothing smothers creativity like grief. 

I know that because I've been through suffocating grief. I've been surprised by false friends, so I've learned to be more discerning. But I secretly fear it's made me cynical, and I know I'm hard to reach. I used to say I'm an introvert and not a snob, but now I'm starting to wonder. But that's not really the point.

The point is I've been afraid of this, afraid of writing because it slices me open and I can't seem to stop the bleeding. And it makes me admit, finally, that my life is not an inspirational novel. I don't always get it right, and half the time I don't know what in the world I'm doing. 

(How's that for an inspirational Lent thought?) 

But then it's not all bad. Trust me; that's the voice of experience talking.

Some people think faith or leadership or parenthood means we have to have it all together. So we retouch our lives and hope no one sees we're skin and bone like regular folks. This, we think, is the image of God transforming our lives into walking sermons. 

But the truth is this: The perfect Christian is a sight to behold, but impossible to reach. And what is relationship without touch? (Immanuel teaches this simple lesson.)

And I wonder how Scripture would read if God edited our heroes the way we edit ourselves. 
David without Bathsheba, or Solomon, or Absalom. 
Moses, never a shepherd. 
Jonah, marching straight to Ninevah, Esther without self-doubt. 
Not to mention Paul and Peter and Abraham and Joseph. Their stories, unretouched, aren't that tidy. They don't meet our standards for neatness. How strange that they seem to meet God's. 

And it makes me wonder: If our lives read like inspirational novels, is it because we've erased the rest of our story? 

I do hope not; turns out it's all important.

Writing with Sharpie, 
Becki