Pepto Bismol Pink and the Square Footage of a Tear (The Move)

I'm quite sure I have cried more in the last 11 months than much of my cumulative life before last May.

I am not a crier. Not usually.

But that was before this journey. Before almost everything in my life turned upside down and inside out. Before the diagnosis of my depression. Before I lost my dad. Before my husband and I were unemployed. Before we said goodbye to a church family. Before we put our cat to sleep. Before Shamus had a name. 

…and before we started packing up all our belongings.

In 5 days, we will empty out a house that has been our home for nearly 19 years. We have 120 hours before we leave the residence I have lived in for almost half my living - the longest I’ve lived anywhere. In less than one week, our children will say goodbye to the only home they’ve ever known. 

And I am a weeping wreck as I box it all up.

It’s not the stuff that leaves me saddened. It’s the thought of departing from a physical space that has become a large part of who we are. A tangible place that has represented an emotional and spiritual adventure into adulthood. It’s the life that’s been lived within these walls that leaves me grieving.

The front door has swung open wide for friends and family through the years. It’s served as a gateway between us and those in our community who have needs. It’s been the visible symbol of how we have found our own hearts opened to a city that’s put down root in us. The entryway has been that sacred place of countless excited hellos and tearful goodbyes. The place where conversations extend between friends because there was one more thing to say…and then one more…and one more.

Our living/dining room is painted in “Mexican Sand” brown, and in the space of those walls Paul and I learned how to be husband and wife. We cut our grown-up, marriage teeth in their midst - away from family, starting ministry, and unabashedly idealistic. That room saw far too many furniture rearrangements; and the worn out beige carpet has cushioned first steps, massive blanket forts, and the knees of a couple facing difficult times and important decisions.

The kitchen is still decorated with apple tree wallpaper that was hanging when we first arrived. I thought it was divine providence, as I had registered for an apple clock. That’s the room that taught me how to cook more than a frozen dinner; where I roasted my first Thanksgiving turkey, prepared birthday meals for friends, chicken soup for upset stomachs, and made cookies with my kids. It’s also the room that Paul and I seemed to have the most arguments. We (not so) lovingly call them our “kitchen conversations.” 

Our bedroom on the main level started out as our guest room. We were so proud to welcome our parents. Proud to have a place prepared just for them, complete with a forest green area rug decorated with mauve roses. When we decided to move our room downstairs, we never dreamed we would sleep for another 15 years inside those walls. Those walls that have comforted us late at night, when the gun shots are heard or neighbors are fighting, and we are acutely  reminded that our neighborhood is changing. Those walls stood guard as we’ve soothed scared children or snuggled in close to take read aloud to our littles. Those walls have held the deepest, most intimate, most vulnerable moments of our marriage. 

There’s the small bedroom at the end of the hall too. That room that has gone from office to craft space to nursery to school room. That 90 square feet has kept vigil with sleep deprived parents, heard lullabies and prayers sung for babies, and has gathered the struggle of a new mom trying to nurse her infant. Those walls have felt painted pink stripes two times over because we were having a girl; and the first pink reminded me of Pepto Bismol and this child was our first and everything had to be perfect. Those same walls would be painted a light tan three years later because we were now having a boy…and Paul wasn’t painting stripes again.

There are the 13 stairs that curve up into the second floor. Carpeted stairs that have felt the tumble of children, the frustration of a tween, the excited feet of friends that have come for a sleepover. Stairs that have carried us up to our children after long days so we can tuck them in. A stairwell whose walls have been covered in countless pictures and drawings hung up in proud display.

And the two bedrooms upstairs? Those are where our kids carved out their own space. These are the field of imagination where they’ve been growing up (literally). These are the rooms that have constituted their comfort zone; where hours of play have helped them learn, where books helped pass an afternoon, and where serious talks about hurt feelings and getting older have happened. Nightly, within the safety of these rooms, our children have been nuzzled, hugged, kissed, tickled, and prayed for, sung to, and loved beyond measure. 

On the outside of these walls, lay a mixture of grass and concrete making up hours of leaf raking, bike riding, light saber duels, and birthday parties. In the front yard, with the old oak tree as a backdrop, we took Easter, Halloween, and First Day of School pictures. We stayed up late, stood in that yard and gazed at a blood moon. The back yard is filled with the echoes of child’s play and the faint scent from the lilac tree we planted there nearly a decade ago. The back porch has been a kind of sanctuary for me where I met with God time and again through the soft spring breeze, the thunderclouds rolling is, the heights of the pine trees in the distance, and the blazing sunsets splashed across the sky.

On a piece of property less than a quarter of an acre, inside a house just over 1600 square feet, I have been changed. The person that will be closing the front door for a final time in less than a week is not the same person who opened it up for the first time 18 years ago. 

An inanimate object has come alive and wrapped itself around us like the familiar embrace of a confidante. The stone and siding and shingles have helped construct a life for which I am immensely thankful For us, the sweetest, safest place on earth has been has been in FLINT of all places?

I knew we had made a house into a home over the years. I know we can do that again in another residence. What I didn’t know was how hard the goodbye would be; how deep yet another loss in this last year would affect me.

Is it possible to box up the memories made between four walls? Or bubble wrap a heart that is breaking? Will a U-Haul hold the essence of what a home becomes? How do we leave the place but take it with us? How does an empty house hold so much? What's the square footage of a tear?

That is, in part, why the tears have flowed so freely. While I take memories of this house with me, I also feel I am leaving a piece of myself behind. A part of my journey that I connect with most readily within these specific walls and rooms.

I am not usually a crier, but as our family prepares for another significant goodbye, the tears have been close to the surface.

So, I will pray that my salty tears will prepare the ground for the seeds of new beginnings. I will pray that the stirring up of a myriad of emotions will be used to till the ground of my heart. I will pray that with this difficult goodbye there is also a resurrection hello to come. Something new. Life from death. Beginnings after the endings. Joy from mourning.

Dear Dad (One Month Later)

Dear Dad, 

Today is the one month mark since you’ve been gone. I have been attempting to prepare for this day for a whole week. Dreading it is the more appropriate word. When I woke up Thursday morning, having dreamt of you and feeling rested and relaxed, the world became a crushing weight as full consciousness reminded me you weren’t here. My grief over your death is still so fresh. It dwells at the surface. From here on out, to say that you’ve been gone for more than a month feels like I've lost some nearness to you.

I am still learning how to say goodbye to you. It’s a process; a lesson to learn. I figure you could have talked me through something like this with great wisdom had you still been here.

One month. 31 days that have lingered swiftly. Drudged on rapidly. Like they last forever, but are over too quickly. Not one of those days has gone by without thoughts of you. So many thoughts of you. 

One month ago I heard your voice for the last time. Weak as it was, I heard you, Dad. You love me. I carry that certain truth with me now and it brings me comfort. But oh, how I long to hear your voice again. To hear the jangle of the phone and answer it to find you on the other end. Most of the time 400 miles separated us, and the sound of your voice was the embodiment of your presence and influence in my life. Yes, I want to hear your voice.

I wish Minnie could have spent her 60th birthday in her classroom for a family party like you had planned, not in the funeral home making arrangements. She did really well though, Dad. She misses you something fierce, but she is taking one step at a time. 

I wish you could have experienced all the love being offered at your funeral visitation. Lines of students, parents, coworkers, life group members; all present to honor you. With tears in their eyes, they would recount stories of the difference you had made. Do you hear that, Dad? All the moments you spent questioning your investment and the trajectory of your life…it all mattered. I imagine you must have realized that fact in grand measure when you entered heaven, but it was a sight to see on earth too.

I wish you could have seen Paul. He fulfilled your request to officiate your funeral. You would have been so proud of him. I certainly was.

I wish you could see the way Justin is supporting his mom in her grief. He’s helping to make sure all the details of life are understood for Minnie.

I wish you could have heard my words at the funeral. It’s what you asked of me - to speak on the topic of reunion. Had it been up to me I would have stayed in the pew silent, but only you could have persuaded your ordained daughter to give the funeral sermon from the pulpit of a Southern Baptist church. Paul and I figure you would share an ironic laugh with us about that one.

I wish you could have been sitting at the funeral service when “Pancho and Lefty” began to play in Valley View’s sanctuary. I still don’t know why you wanted that song, but in a strange way it gave me strength in a hard moment. It was just so you and it was like a gift you gave us. Thanks for that.

I wish you could have hugged your grandkids in the moments when the grief has gotten to them over this last month. Alex was there, Dad. He helped Minnie pick out your tie, he sat in the background of the funeral not wanting to draw attention, but he was present. Eliana finished the book you gave her for Christmas and was able to whisper to you what she liked best, just like you wanted. Johanna buried her head in April’s side as she shed tears. Levi said he would sell all his Legos to have you back. Moriah sat with me at midnight and missed washing dishes with you. Sweet Brandyn stood at your casket saying he loved you. And “little” Mackenzie; she took it all in stride, keeping track of all that was happening. It would have made you smile.

I wish I could have kept you up to date on all that  has been happening with our family here in Flint. So many decisions, changes, transitions. You have always been one of my biggest fans - loving, supporting, and praying for me. I really need that right now.

I think to the future and all the coming moments that I will be missing you. Like next week when Eliana will turn 12 and there won’t be a call from you. Like next month when it will be one year since we explored Washington D.C. with you. I am forever grateful for those precious moments. Like the 17th of every month. Like the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without you. Like when I won’t need to buy you a 65th birthday present in January. Or maybe I will anyway. So many moments I will miss you, and I will cry, and I will learn a little more about to say goodbye.

Dad, I guess all of these words just boil down to one simple truth…I love you. It sounds so trite and so expected, but in all the world there are no better words to sum up everything else I feel. My life is better because of you. And I miss you terribly, and have been for a month. But nothing will ever change how much I love you. 

Always and forever, 
Your little girl

The Mercy in the Struggle

It's been hard lately.
Life and ministry.
There have been some days recently, that had I known they were coming,
I would have boarded that boat to Tarshish and been long gone, like the prophet of old.

But God has a way of catching up to us.
Now matter how we might try to run
or hide
or avoid.

And struggles force you out of hiding.
Hardship pushes you out of complacency.
Trials have a way of helping you regroup and reevaluate priorities.

That's what Jonah's three-day stay in a deluxe fish resort did for him.
It was a strategic management course.
And forward movement required choices and action.
And it was mercy, albeit smelly, but mercy nonetheless.

And these days of late, full of the hard edges of life,
have been my own kind big, stinky fish belly.
It has refused me rest and refused me retreat.
It has demanded a constant sorting of thoughts and emotions.
A barage of choices and actions to be rationally-based and not emotionally-driven.
And I wouldn't have chosen this. Not one single moment.
But they have been mercy.

These days of merciful struggle have brought certain priorities into focus.
These days have crystallized important relationships.
These moments have insisted on choices.
Choices that determine what I really believe about people, the church, my calling, my God.
The rubber meets the road kinds of faith choices that will demonstrate if I practice what I preach.
Will I forgive even if my hurt is never spoken to those who have injured me?
Will I trust God to tend to my heart and the hearts of others especially when that means I do nothing?
Will I embody grace in the midst of unjust words or broken systems that let you down?
Will I choose to see another's point of view even if no one ever tries to see mine?

This is brass tacks kind of Jesus living.
It's the hard stuff of the kingdom that is easy to talk about...until it's your reputation and your hurt.
And I don't like it. Not one little bit.

And people have tried to soothe with talk of the enemy that works against our good God-future.
And people say struggles like these pave the way for better days ahead.
And I suppose those sentiments could be accurate,
but honestly, I am too submerged to see the coming daylight over the horizon.
My hurt is too fresh to look for the brighter day.
Right now, I just don't know.

And yet, I can't escape God.
He keeps pursuing me,
relentless Hound of Heaven.
Even situational darkness can't keep Him away.

I can't make sense of my circumstances right now
but God, He still does make sense to me.
His goodness. His truth. His strength. His love.

Mercy stares me down right in the middle of the mess.
And maybe one of the greatest mercies of His is that
this present storm beckons me to grasp a truer faith;
that these current winds can lead to deeper roots.
Maybe mercy takes the shape of struggle that reminds me I haven't arrived
and there's plenty about His kingdom I don't understand
and I haven't really learned to live.

And that's enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
The promise of fuller kingdom living.
Even at the cost of my pride or need for being heard.
If this struggle channels my faith to flow more freely,
and helps me enter more fully into kingdom living,
then I will walk it.

Just like Jonah, any forward movement will require choice and action.
So I choose to let these difficulties spur me to tenacious trust
so I might move toward the One who knows me best and loves me most.

I may not always like it.
I probably won't ever ask for it.
But God is who He is.
And that is always enough.

Soul Famine

I should have seen it coming.
This need to write, to emote, to express.
I've been here before.
Where creative famine dwells.
Where I am soul thirsty for the kind of life given in the process of creation.
Yes, I should have seen it coming.

My schedule has burst at the seams.
My calendar filled with responsibilities and the needs of others.
Family. Children. Church. Home Education. Sermons.
So full, but not fulfilling.
At least not for the part of me made for creating.
Sure, there is a creative process in what I do in my marriage or in parenting.
There is creative energy expended in leading others into the presence of Jesus.
Creative juices must flow to craft words to preach week in and week out.

But life's duties have a way of absorbing the joy.
The joy offered when we create simply for the sake of creating.
It is that joy, the creation simply for creation's sake, that I have missed.

And when my soul is starved of creation - 
the process that birthed me and into which I was birthed,
the process that connects me to the heart of the One who formed me from dust,
when I find my soul malnourished,
it's then that I fight hardest for peace
because I have failed to be all I was created for.
I feel small and insignificant.
You see, I was created to create.
To join in a divine process.
And I need it.
Like air.
Or water.

I need time and space and places meant for me to color a canvas
but with the paint of words.
I need time and space and places meant for me to offer my art
for no other reason than it feeds me.
No matter what another might say.
No matter if another is touched or moved.

I need time and space and places I can stare at a blank screen of white 
and delight to string words together in Helvetica font
because it moves me 
it nourishes me, 
it oxygenates me,
it inspires me.

And so, that is one of the reasons I began this blog.
To set aside a place to create.
But I have been busy.
And I have been left wanting.
Lacking.
Needing.

And with gratitude, I've returned to this place.
Not to garner accolades
but so that my soul might live again.
Deep soul breaths.
For my sake.

Whoever you are. Wherever you are. 
I pray you, too, will find time and space and places to create. 
Whatever that might look like.
For your sake.

i. hate. exercise.

parenting is like dying a thousand deaths.

every. single. day. 

so is marriage.

every. single. day. 

so is faith.

every. single. day. 

When Communion Made Me Cry

Normally I want to hug old men.

They melt my heart.

But the crotchety elderly man 
pushing a walker

during communion 

only helped me understand why

people up and leave the church

and abandon Jesus in the process.

A Difficult, Beautiful Day

Today has been a difficult, beautiful day.

There's something powerful about expectations going unmet.

...when you think you are headed down a certain path 
with a certain end in mind
and then you're 
interrupted or 
blockaded or 
usurped.

...when you've hoped for a certain something,
wished and worked, 
and in walks 
a glitch or
a hiccup or
a detour.

...when you've calculated continuity
and life inserts
a comma or 
a semi-colon or
a parenthesis.

And today was like that for me.
My expectations did not match my reality.
And I was sad.
frustrated.
confused.
angry.

And for a time, 
as our family drove around town, 
I talked out my feelings with Paul
and then I cried.

I explained the swirl of emotion
and the helplessness I felt.
I choked out words of resignation
thinking it impossible to get what I wanted.
I questioned my motives.
You know, the usual stuff you do when things don't go as planned.

And in the midst of my tears, 
I saw beauty camped out right in the middle of my mess.

Beauty in a husband, 
who listens compassionately, 
who disallows our current difficulty to be the last word.

Beauty in children,
who from behind me in the van, 
reach to touch my shoulder in comfort, 
or stretch an arm out to hold my hand,
or ask if I am okay.

Today has been a difficult day
but it's been a beautiful day too.
And beauty...well...beauty trumps it all.

When Ice Cream Hurts

We had planned to surprise them with this fun idea.
We were going to get toys picked up.
Get pjs on.
Brush teeth.
Pick out tomorrow's clothes.
Read the bible.
Sing and pray.

And then, 
out of the blue,
when they least expected it,
we were going to yell 
"Pajama Run".

We were going to tell bedtime to wait.
We were going to start off this week with a bang.
We were going to bless our kids with ice cream,
by climbing into the van,
in their jammies, 
after they'd already brushed their teeth, 
and drive to Sonic 
and let them order a treat.
Any treat they wanted.

Things didn't work out as we planned.
By the time we got past the singing and praying part, 
the kids' behavior had eliminated the planned blessing.
As much as we wanted to, we couldn't allow such a unique and rewarding opportunity to follow an hour of bad behavioral choices.

And my husband and I were sad.
We felt loss.
And I think the most difficult part was knowing the kids didn't even know what they were forfeiting.
They had no idea their decisions had relinquished a blessing.
Oh what could have been...and they didn't even know!

And I am humbled by the thought that I am exactly like my children.
I push back against God's better ways.
I rebel against His prescribed path.
I see only the life right in front of my face.
And sometimes, though I can't prove it, 
I am certain God has had an unexpected blessing waiting
and I chose badly.

I don't want to be a downer, 
but really...
how many blessings have I given up because I was 
too busy? too proud? too scared? 
too oblivious? too preoccupied?
too rebellious? too self-sufficient?

And I think, though I can't prove it, 
God must be sad in those moments.
Those unwitting eliminations of blessing.

He so wants to give to us.
More than we expect.
And sometimes, those gifts are dependent upon 
our willingness to submit first.

today

sometimes i get really mad that life doles out unspeakable tragedy. here i am living life, slowly gaining footing in my own emotional mess and then the rug is pulled out by news i wasn't prepared to receive. sometimes it makes me want to hole up and shut out the world. it seems like that would hurt less. 


sometimes i can only try to sympathize and empathize for so long and the i have to STOP. because i feel suffocated under the weight of grief, sadness, confusion. 


and then i get angry because i can turn it off. walk away. try to forget. but those living the tragedy...well...they are there. stuck. continuing to dwell in grief. forced to face it second by miserable second. moment by wearying moment. their lives never the same - changed forever.


and i want to make it better. make it easier. make it right. i want to shield the hurting. cover them in comfort. hurt for them. instead of them. yet scared to feel the depth of grief myself.


sometimes things that happen don't. make. any. stinking. sense. 


and it makes me want to rage at the world. at the universe. at myself. at God. because i want something or someone to blame. i want a place to take my hurt - and their hurt - and make it heard. and healed. but without the torturous process of grief.


today, on the near-side of this grief, i am mad at nonsensical loss. i don't want to have to admit the reality of great pain. i would rather live in denial. avoid the reality. 


but i can't. 


because somewhere far south are greatly grieving friends who must face at every millisecond the truth of their personal devastation. and the very least i can do is not turn off my own hurt. the very least i can do is allow my pain for them to send me to the very heart of the God who grieves too. whose heart is good and trustworthy. 


and so i will. i will take my hurt, my pain and give it over. i will lean hard into another's sadness. and feel. really feel for them. refusing numb compassion. i will allow it to consume my thoughts for a while. to be the one prayer i pray through gritted teeth and clenched fists and an incessant shaking head. i will let my tears fall. even when i don't understand. especially because i don't understand.


i will let God be God. and be mad about it today. because the things He allows just sometimes seem wrong. and unfair. but i will praise Him for He is God. the only One fit for the job. my view from here is, well, short-sighted. limited. finite. human. small.


i will trust Him. and hurt for my friends. and for the world full of unspeakable hurt. i will keep my heart and my head in His possession. just as my life is. short or long as it might be. and i will be thankful that i can feel. even when it means i hurt.

A Need to Know Basis

My good friend has a good friend whose dying.

pain. sickness. disease.

Sometimes I feel I'm suffocating under the weight and reality of it all. Sometimes I have to just stop listening, stop looking.  I retreat.

How do you comfort the dying?  How do you comfort one who needs to comfort the dying? 

My homepage spills the headlines of global crises.

famine. starvation. oppression.

Sometimes I feel so distant I can easily compartmentalize.  A coping mechanism for sure.  I avoid.

How does one person make a difference?  How can one person impact world issues?

Abraham Lincoln said, "I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had absolutely no other place to go".

Yeah, suffering plants my heart prostrate before the Sovereign One.  Sometimes asking why.  Sometimes just tears.  Always with aches and groans of soul.

Too many of my questions are answered with a sad shake of the head and an "I don't know".  In the face of suffering of any kind, I find I always return to what I do know to be true.

I know scarier than the words of suffering are these...

     inaction. apathy. injustice.

     blindness. racism. selfishness.

I know stronger than the lies of insignificance are the abilities to contribute one small deed at a time.

I know I have a choice...every day...every hour...every moment.

I know my choices bring healing or add to suffering - even in my little corner of the world.

I know...

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

And sometimes that is all I need to know.

i think i may be on to something...

Today has been rough for me.


Well, yesterday was too.


These are days where the fight for joy is unrelenting.  Tears are quick.  Emotions are raw.  Hope is fleeting.  I want to yell and scream.  I want to blame and point fingers.  I want to beat myself up. I want to wallow in guilt.  I want to hide - deep and dark away.


I awoke asking for strength.  Asking for help.  I feel desperate.  And school today was rough.  I was impatient and hard at times.  Why do calm and gentleness seem mutually exclusive for me?  I spend so much energy trying not to respond with a raised angry voice that gentleness is punted out the window.  (In my rational moments I understand it's still a lack of self-control just manifested differently.)  I feel crushed under this weight of responsibility - to be wife, mother, housekeeper, teacher, friend, and on.


And I sit to still.  To drink in grace.  To hear what the still small voice might have to say if I am quiet in heart.  I write my thanks.  And I wait.  I look hard for beauty in the difficult days and I write again.  Choosing to see differently.  To think newly.  


And then it sparks...the thought.  The conviction.  The answer.


In all my moments of waking grief due to my own want of soul, I realize I strive to externally control what I have lacked internally to attain.  God gives peace but only through relationship.  When I side-step my time with Him, I am starving my soul.  There is little peace.  Little order.  Inside.  Deep down in the crooks and crevices of heart.  


And so I plow ahead vainly attempting to put order onto the things around me.  My children.  My husband.  My home.  My circumstances.  I try to silence all voices - any extraneous noise is deafening.  I nit-pick - nothing is good enough.  I well up with fire - where there hasn't even been smoke.  


These are warning signs.  Red flags. Gauges for me.  I should heed these indicators next time.  When I try to get control of all around me and settle for nothing less...that's the very time I need to look long into myself.  


I need to ask, "Have I first surrendered to the keeper of my soul?  Have I first allowed God to have control in me?"  


If I have not, then I will struggle needlessly for control of things I should instead choose to shepherd, nurture, and steward.


If I have not, then I will view my abundant blessings as burdens.


If I have not, I will fail to offer back to God the thankful life for all He has given.


So today, still in the midst of the struggle, I choose to give up control that I might find the very thing I have been pursuing on my own today...peace, harmony, order, contentment, hope.


I think I might be on to something...