New Blog Address!

In an effort to simply my life and, for lack of a better term, brand I have changed my blog url.

All these posts can still be found here, but all new content (and all the old) will be found at the address bellow. I hope to see you there.

Come follow me at JoyLeanne.

Broken but Useful

This was going to be an Instagram post, but it got to long and I realized just how much this topic has been sitting on my heart lately.

It's been over five years since my  now sister-in-law then brother's girlfriend brought me this adorable mug. I asked her stop and pick something up a Walmart for me one day and she showed up with my thread, chocolate, and this mug.

Years later it broke but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
So I found another purpose for it.
Broken but useful.
Its brokenness changed it's purpose, but not its ability to be used.
There is a lesson in this.
For me.
For all of us.

Our church has been doing a series on 1 Corinthians the past few months and the past two weeks have had a overriding theme.

Broken but useful.

And my heart aches at this. I understand broken. I understand it all too well. Useful gets complicated for me.

When I first came face to face with depression I lived in a culture that judged harshly. I was criticized and ridiculed for my honesty. And I fought back. I spoke up and shared openly about my brokenness and how God was working in my life in an effort to change the environment around me.

And then the years slipped by and I gradually grew silent. I became weary of the glances and the comments and learned to only reveal the "acceptable" parts of my brokenness.

I became cautious in what I shared. I became guarded in what I wrote. I held back part of myself for fear that I would be deemed incapable or unqualified to serve.

I began to believe the lie that the brokenness made me unusable. And in believing it made it true.

The more I hid my brokenness the less useful I felt. The less useful I felt the more tried to hid my cracks. It's a vicious cycle.

God uses our brokenness to bring glory to Himself.
He uses our brokenness to reach the broken people around us.
Our brokenness is what makes us useful.
When I hide my broken places I miss out on being used.
Our brokenness my change HOW God uses us, but never, every His ability to use us.
Broken but useful...but only if I am honest.

Writing Brave

I wasn't going to write today.

There are a million reasons not to.
I started purging the kids clothes yesterday and after hours of work the house now looks like a Children's Place exploded in the living room.
I'm in the middle of prep for a huge local craft show I participate in twice a year.
My toddler is running screaming up and down the hall way (my husband is watching her so it's not that she NEEDS me).
I am exhausted and a nap sounds REALLY good right now.
I've dealt with a number of disappointments this week and I am feeling a little defeated.

But God has given me a word for this year when it comes to my writing.

“Brave”

And today writing feels like the brave thing to do.

It's easy to write when there are dead lines and guaranteed audiences.
It is easy to write when we know the outcome.
But taking the time away from other things to write when the outcome is unclear... that takes some bravery.

Showing up fully in anything takes a certain level of bravery.

Art
Friendship
Love
Life
Any time we give ourselves fully to something (even if only for ten minutes) we are stepping outside of our comfort zone.

Those stolen moments when we step out side of the known and the secure and stand on the edge of the unknown.

It's what makes life interesting.

Small and Brave: A Mission for 2016.

They say to write what you know. This is what I know. I know an ordinary life. I know play dates and dinner dishes. I know bus stops and first grade home work. I know bed time routines and sticky hands.

My life is quite. It is wonderfully beautiful in all of it's ordinariness. I see a trend on places like Instragram to celebrate the simple, small wonder of our every day lives. It's a wonderful trend. But I wonder, have we romanticized the every day. Are we afraid to acknowledge that the mundane can be as exhausting as it can invigorating? None of us want to be whiners, but I wonder if in our desire to offer hope, we have painted the world with rose tinted water colors ( or instragram filters.)

I love a good movie quote. You've Got Mail is full of them. One of my favorites is when Kathleen Kelly is writing to Joe Fox about her small life.

"I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave?"

When we were kicking 2016 off Josh and I chose a word for our family for the year. As I have moved more fully into this year though God has given me a word for my writing. "Brave."

It was probably last October when I realized that my words that seemed to speak to people most were those I wrote about the ordinary struggles of life. I haven't over come any major hurtles in my life., but, like every Mom, I have had to over come boredom as I fix the 25th sandwich of the week. They may not win any Pulitzer prizes, but if my words on sick babies, rough home work nights, and missed naps offer encouragement then they are worth writing.

But writing these words takes bravery. It takes trusting that you all will understand my heart. That you will know that I am not trying to complain or gain sympathy. I am writing for the Mamas who need to know they are not alone.

There is a lot written out there for Mama's with special needs kids.
But what about the kid who is struggling just a little?

There is a lot written for single moms, or military wives.
But what about the wife who does bed time every night because her husband works late?

There are words of hope and encouragement for those dealing with crippling depression.
But what about the women who is dragging. Surviving and living, but with less joy than she would like?

I took a huge step in bravery last Friday. For the first time on social media I addressed my depression.
There are seasons when it is overwhelming, and seasons when I don't even think about it, but more often than not it just a part of my life I am learning to live with and cope with. It's something I am willing to talk about face to face, but never before have I mentioned in on social media.

But I stepped out in bravery in hopes of being a voice for all the other "ordinary" women out there.

Steps of bravery aren't always rewarded. Mine was. In a way that blew me away. It was encouraging beyond my wildest hopes. But more than that is reaffirmed what God has been calling me to.

For the first time I feel like I have a true goal and mission for this blog. My prayer is that it will be a space to give voice to the beauty and the pain of the ordinary.

Here is to a small and brave 2016.

Seasons and Stories

We are in a season of change at our house. We are writing a new chapter of our story. The first six weeks of the year included God actively taking some things out of our lives. I can't even say “we let go of things” because we really didn't have a choice. The changes were swift and out of our hands.

It would be easy to dwell on the loss of these things. To mourn what no longer is. They were good things. Things we loved and had prayed over and had chosen for ourselves. They were good things they just weren't “right now” things.

In her book “The Best Yes” Lysa Terkeurst talks about trees having to let go of their leaves to survive winter storms. There is a season for leaves and a season for snow, but if a tree holds onto its leaves too long it can't hold the weight of winter storm. We can't move into a new season with out letting go of something.

And so we let go to make room for new things...and this is where it get's slippery for me.

I love Instagram and follow a wide variety of people. I follow photographers and restaurants, doll makers and art journals, theater gals and art worshipers. And it is amazing! My feed is constantly full of amazingly talented women and there is a world of inspiration at my finger tips. Some times it is amazing and I walk away energize and excited to pursue my own passions with new energy.

And then there are days when I walk away discouraged because I want to try ALL THE THINGS!

I want to read that new books

And WRITE the next book
And making stunning works of art in my Bible
And have a perfectly decorated planner
And perfectly styled photos
And be on ALL THE DESIGNE TEAMS
Heck be on ONE design team
And make all the types of dollies
And grow my business

And add DIYS to my blog

And make adorable Valentine's with my kids...
And
And
And
And

Instead of being inspiring and life giving it sucks the beauty out of my season. These are the days when I have to put down my phone and remind myself what MY story is. I have to remember the passions and jobs God has given me to do. What my main things are.

And, for me, that is the key to living happily in my season, letting go of some things, waiting on others, and living fully with the “right now things.”

Living Our Story in an Instagram Age: or Lessons from a Horse and His Boy

 

Have you ever read A Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis? If not I encourage you to. Actually I would encourage any one who hasn't read through the entire Chronicles of Narnia series to do so. It will change the way you see the world. I promise.

Depending on what order you are reading the series A Horse and His Boy is either the third book you read (if read chronologically) or the fifth book you read (if read in the order written). Either way it is an interesting departure from the formula used in all the other books. In each of the six other books children from our world are transported to a magical world. In A Horse and His Boy however, all of the characters are from the world that contains Narnia.

In this unique book Lewis explores the concept and idea of story in a number of ways. Particularly the idea that we each have our own story, and that we are never told stories that are not our own. Over and over people tell their stories and . in some case, have their stories told to them. Each story raises questions and you are left with the realization that even our own stories can never fully be understood when they over lap with the story of someone else.

“Child,' said the Lion, 'I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own.”

C.S.Lewis A Horse and His Boy

There is no way that when C.S. Lewis wrote his book in the early '50s that he could have even imagined the world of social media we live in. Now days our stories aren't just told around kitchen tables or on park benches. Our stories are being told daily, moment by moment on a variety of social network platforms.

This is so much beauty in this. So often it isn't until we share our stories with others and hear a much hoped for “me to” that we find meaning and healing in our own stories.

This constant story telling also poses a danger. It is so easy to see a picture on Instagram or a few moments on Periscope and think we have the whole story. Even when it is a dear friend and I know the story is deeper than what I am seeing, it is so easy to forget.

It is so easy to wonder...
“Why them?”
“Why not me?”
“What are they doing right?”
“What am I doing wrong?”

It is so easy to long for a story that is not my own.
To get caught up in the snapshots of beauty and forget about the hard work behind them.

And so I remind myself over and over.
To live MY adventure.
To full enter into MY story.

“No one is told any story but their own.”

Un-extraordinary Loss: Our Miscarriage Story

February 12th 2012, the day we announced our pregnancy to friends.

Trigger Warning: This post is about pregnancy and loss.

I realized recently that I never really wrote about or shared my miscarriage story. At the time it wasn't really something you saw much of on blogs. Trust me, I searched. In the years that have passed I have had a number of friends experience this type of loss and many of them have written beautifully honest posts about their experiences.

But, one of the things I have noticed is that still, the people who write about their loss are those who have been through extraordinary circumstance. Be it ectopic pregnancy, late term miscarriage, laboring after a miscarriage, multiple losses, all of their stories have been intense.

My story is not.

I did some research and numbers are confusing and fuzzy, but most studies seem to agree that between 15-20% of confirmed pregnancies end in miscarriage. A confirmed pregnancy, in this case, means a normal (not early detection) pregnancy test has confirmed a pregnancy after a missed period.

That is a lot of pregnancies.

One of the main reasons I haven't shared my story up to this point is a sense of shame. I felt foolish grieving a baby I had only known about for two weeks. Had I been pregnant when my mother was young there is a possibility I wouldn't even had taken a test and would have assumed I was just really late. But the fact is, I was pregnant in 2012 and I had spent two weeks loving the child inside of me. I share my story for all the mamas out there like me.

You are not alone.

It was in the last couple days of January 2012 that I found out I was pregnant. January had been a crazy month and it took almost a week for me to realize I was late. A home pregnancy test confirmed that I was in fact pregnant. It was the beginning of the week and my mom and sister were coming to visit that weekend. We toyed with the idea of sharing our news with them, but decided to wait till we had visited the free pregnancy center for an “official” pregnancy test to share our news. This didn't however stop me from texting my brother's wife in Nebraska with our news. A day later she texted back with news of her own and I am still amazed that I managed not to spill any secrets while my mom and sister were in town.

Thursday, February 9^th about ten days after our home pregnancy test, we visited the local crisis pregnancy center for a “medically administered” pregnancy test. It was the only place in town that would do a free pregnancy test that could be used for insurance purposes. We had left our kids with his parents under the guise of “date night” so it was just the two of us when the nurse handed us the form that stated we were pregnant. Too excited to keep it to ourselves any longer we sat in the parking lot and called our families only to discover that my brother and his wife were making the same phone calls that night.

Friday, February 10^th Josh had plans to drive to a near by city with some buddies. I dropped the kids of with his parents for a sleepover and headed home for some rest. I noticed some spotting that night but didn't worry too much. I had a large amount of spotting with my first pregnancy and intense cramps with my second both caused by dehydration. I drank a glass of water, put my feet up, and decided that was no need to call my husband and worry him.

Saturday, February 11^th I picked the girls up from my in laws that afternoon and we went to visit Daddy at work. The spotting had come back so I mentioned in passing to my husband. He calmly reminded me of the spotting in my first pregnancy and told me not to worry.

Sunday February 12^th by the time we got to church Sunday I had been spotting all morning. To ease my mind I sought out a friend who was a nurse educator for labor and delivery nurses. She reassured me of all the reason spotting could happen. She encouraged me to rest and pray, and if I was still concerned in a few days to call the doctor's office to see if I could move up my first visit.

Convinced that rest was the answer my husband picked up tale out and movies on the way home from church and parked me on the couch for the afternoon. It is a testament to his love that he sat and watched teenage vampire movies with me all afternoon.

It was around 4 pm that afternoon that everything shifted. Certain that dehydration was the primary culprit I had been drinking crazy amounts of water and, as a result taking constant trips to the bathroom. Everything was fine... until it wasn't. The brown spotting had changed to bright red.
I knew then that my baby was gone.

It took me a while to tell my husband. I went downstairs and sat in our recliner trying not to cry. I sent two text messages. One to my mom, one to my sister in law. “It's red.”

A few hours later the spotting changed to bleeding and I knew I had to tell Josh. I thought I made it clear. I guess I didn't. He still had hope. I fell asleep crying that night while he prayed for protection over our baby.

Monday February 13^th Josh left for work that morning continuing to pray over the baby that I knew was gone. I was left with the task of calling various doctors offices and the pregnancy center trying to find some one who would see me. All of the had the same answer. “Sorry we can't help, go to the emergency room.”

His mom came and sat with our girls, a friend came and drove me to the ER. After a while Josh met us there.

Here is the thing about going to the emergency room for a miscarriage.
It isn't an emergency.

There is nothing they can do to stop it.

You are bottom priority.

And so we sat, and sat, and sat. Friends brought us lunch. My sister called. I still hadn't told our siblings so I am not sure if I texted her or if my mom had told her, but she called. I stood in the waiting room staring out a window listening to her. “I'll come,” she said. “But only if you want me to.” I felt horrible asking her to come. It was beyond selfish asking her to take time off of work to drive from Maryland when there was nothing to be done. I couldn't answer. “You have to ask me Joy. I need you to tell me what you want.” More silence. “Come,” I said. “OK,” she said. “I'll be there.”

More waiting.
They take us back.
They draw blood.
More waiting.
They order an ultrasound.
I drink water till it hurts.

The nurse does the ultrasound and for a few fleeting moments she seems to see something. Our spirits perk up only to be dashed when we realize she thinks she sees something wrong with me.
It's nothing.
It's not a baby.
It's not something wrong.
It's just nothing.

They still make us wait for blood work. The Dr. comes in and hands us lots of papers. He says things he thinks are helpful.
“There's no signs you were ever pregnant.”
“You probably had already lost the baby before the first pregnancy test.”
And as kind as his intentions are, what I hear is that I have no reason to grieve.

We quietly tell our families and post something simple on facebook. Conventional wisdom says you don't announce your pregnancy before 12 weeks to avoid situations like this. I have no regrets sharing our news when we did. Every baby should be celebrated, even if only for a few weeks. I am so thankful for those who not only celebrated with us but walked with us through the next few weeks with grace and concern.

Tuesday February 14^th Valentine's Day. Josh fixes me breakfast in bed and the girls and he bring me my gift. He has to go to work and offers to call his mom but my sister is on her way so he goes and the girls and I wait for her. I don't remember much about her visit. I do know it was one of the most self sacrificing acts of love I have ever experienced. To say any more would be to tell a story that is not mine. And I will not attempt to do that.

And then life moved on.
Sort of.
We picked back up where we left off.
I went to MOPS that week.
We went on the trip had planned to TN and up to Ohio to see some of his family.
No one mentioned the miscarriage, so neither did we.
We went back to church.
No one mentioned the baby, and so neither did we.

Over the next few months two couples in our circle both experienced miscarriages ending in traumatic DNCs and a close friend delivered her baby girl stillborn at 20 weeks.

I kept silent, full of guilt because I was still grieving after such a “simple” and “uncomplicated” experience. I felt like my sadness was invalid. It was an early miscarriage with no complications. Had it been a different decade chances are I wouldn't even have known about it.
But I did.
I knew and loved my baby for two beautiful weeks.

October 2012 my mom came to visit. It was the weekend of my due date. We didn't really talk about it much until right before she left. She told me in many ways the hardest part was over. I could stop ticking down in my head what milestones we would be passing in the pregnancy. Now I could move on.

And she was right.

There are still days I miss our baby There are still moments I look at my brother's oldest son and wonder if we would have had a boy or girl and how they would have played together.

I have a wonderful, beautiful, full life. I have three amazing daughters. We were eventually blessed with our rainbow baby Anastasia which we found out means resurrection. It seems fitting as she resurrected hope and dreams we had placed aside.

But loss is loss and I four years later I am finally writing this blog post with no shame or embarrassment.
Having three healthy pregnancy doesn't change the fact that one of them ended too early.
Loosing a baby 8-10 weeks is still loosing a baby.
Just because it happens all the time doesn't mean it isn't devastating.
You don't have to have felt the baby move, or seen an ultra sound, or heard the heart beat to know you have a child inside of you and to love them like a mother.
There is no shame in your sorrow or your tears.

You are not alone.

On Saying "Yes" and Saying "No" : A Lesson from Noah and the Ark

Has this ever happened to you? You are sitting there having your quite time, maybe you are reading your Bible, maybe it's a devotional, when all of the sudden a phrase lodges itself in your brain and won't budge. You go about your day, but that phrase or verse just stays there, stuck in your brain like an annoying commercial jingle playing over and over.

This happened to me the other day and, since I am trying to pay attention to the things that clearly stick with me, I took some time to sit down and do a art entry in my journaling Bible. A lot of times I will sit down and write out my thoughts on a verse that sticks with me, but this time I couldn't quite pin point what it was that drew me to the passage so I decided to just sit with a bit. I let my mind work the words over and over while I painted and created. I spent about 20 minutes with it and in the end felt like I had wrestled through some of the Lord was saying to me through these words.

The exact verse from the ESV Bible reads “And Noah did all that the Lord had commanded him.”

Clearly I took a little bit of license as I journaled, but I think I stayed pretty close to the translation.

Here is the interesting thing about the story of Noah and the Ark, his part of the story can be summed up in that one verse. Noah's story is covered in a a little less than four chapters and, with the exception of one incident, all of it falls under that one verse. Everything he did was in response to God's directions.

“And Noah did all that the Lord had commanded him.”

Not the easy parts.
Not the parts that he understood.
Not the parts that made sense.
Not the parts that lifted himself up.
Not the parts that lined up with his own plans.

ALL.

And that's all.
He didn't do anything else.
He did his part, and that is it.

It had never rained before.
But Noah didn't question.

He didn't have a clear time line.
But Noah didn't rush.

The outcome was unknown.
But Noah didn't hesitate.

The task seemed impossible.
But Noah didn't hesitate.

God gave Noah a job.
And he did it.
And he didn't worry about anything else.

It is now just over one month into the new year. Maybe you are like me and you sat down in early January (or maybe even let December) and set out some dreams, goals, and plans for yourself or your family in 2016. Maybe you are nothing like me and tend to fly by the seat of your pants evaluating opportunities as the arise.

May I encourage you with this?

Are the things on your to-do list the things God is asking you to do?
Is there anything that needs to be added?
Are you holding back from saying “yes” to God because the outcome seems unclear?
Are there things that need to be taken off your list?
Have you said “yes” to things that aren't yours to do?
Be cautious.
Saying “yes” to tasks that aren't ours makes it harder to say “yes” to the things that are ours to do.
That is some a task for some one else.
When you say “yes” you are taking away their opportunity to say “yes.”

May we say “yes” to all the Lord has commanded us (and “no” to the things He has not.)

Dear Mom at Story Hour

Dear Mom At Story Hour,

I don't know who you are. I didn't ask you your name. I saw you at the story hour working to wrangle your toddler just like me. Like me you stuck around after the story to explore more of the children's museum. I noticed you again in the under three area. I noticed you because you were sitting by yourself. The room was full of busy toddlers and chatting moms. You and I seemed to be the only two moms who didn't come with a friend. We both sat silently watching our kids play. You looked nice. I wanted to come over and introduce myself. I wanted to get to know you and ask if you were coming back next week. But I didn't. I was scared to.

I sat on the opposite side of the room wanting to talk to you, but too afraid to and I was struck again by how lonely motherhood can be.

You see I didn't come up and talk to you because I was afraid I would say the wrong thing.

I worried that I would make a comment about schooling, or car seats, or diets that would upset you.
I was worried that instead of connecting over this beautiful thing called motherhood I would say something that would unintentionally push you away.
Something that would make one of us put up a wall and mentally declare the other one unsafe.

 

I have good reason for this fear. I stopped going to play groups over four years ago after multiple attempts. After having my second child just 20 months after my first, my mother kindly but firmly pushed me to step out side of my little duplex and try to meet some other moms. I tried (Honest Mom I really did!). Like most endeavors mine met with some hits and some misses.

I did manage to find a MOPS group that I loved and participated in for nearly two years before the closed down. I have seen what motherhood done together can be. I have seen the beauty and the fun and safety net other women can provide. I have also experienced the side ways looks and out and out unkind comments that come when you say something out of step with other moms.

I can remember with extreme clarity the moment a play group found out I had two c-sections or when I asked another group of moms their thoughts on a particular medication. I learned fast to keep my mouth shut unless I knew exactly who was there and had followed them on face book long enough to know where they stood on things like nursing, car seats, schooling, and vaccinations.

It's exhausting and lonely. The chances that I will agree with some one else on EVERY SINGLE parenting “issue” is pretty slim.

I took a photo of my daughter on her 1^st birthday (or shortly after). She had just had her one year shots and was sitting in a forward facing car seat for the first time drinking whole milk out of her bottle. I went to post in on facebook and stopped. She was my rainbow baby after a heart breaking miscarriage. I was so excited for the milestones she had reached. We had made it through the haze of sleepless nights and weaned her just a few months prior. I was so proud of my baby girl. I didn't want to read the inevitable negative comments. I sent the photo to my mom instead.

I know I am guilty of these comments as well. I know my exhaustion and insecurities as a mom mean that I have times when I give in and let loose a sarcastic comment or two about moms who are different than me. I know that when I feel defensive my Mama Bear comes out and I lash out verbally at “them.” I'm so sorry.

Here is the truth. I don't care how you parent. As long as your choice aren't hurting your kid then I encourage you do to whatever works and keeps you and your kid happy and healthy. There is a good chance my choices will be different from yours no matter how crunchy or not you are. (I am maddeningly middle of the road.)

I may not understand your choices, but I do understand they are yours to make.
I know that at times I can make comments that are snarky or sarcastic about other parenting styles.
I can guess that you some times do to.
So let's make a deal.
I'll do my best not to do that any more, and to remember that when you do it's most likely out of a place of exhaustion and insecurity.

And maybe next week I'll work up the guts to introduce myself.

When the World Falls Apart: or showing up in a cluttered life.

I look around and the world feels like it is falling apart.
There is evil every where.
Paris is broken.
Isis is powerful.
There are refugees that no one knows what to do with.
There is hate and racism and deep-seated distrust in our country.

And that is just the world out there.
At home it is my cousin's cancer.
And the broken seatbelt in the back seat.
Sales numbers that need to double and only nine selling days left.
There are exhausted outbursts at the end of the school day.
And home work that feels too hard.
A toddler who won't give up her bottle.
And a cavity in my back molar that irritates the corner of my brain more than my jaw.

And if I can't do anything about the small things close to home, how can I even hope at having an impact on the world out side my front door?

I drive down the highway flipping between bitter debate and saccharin music. So the radio goes off leaving me with my own thoughts. And my father's voice plays over and over shuffling between two thoughts.

"We chose to clutter our life with people not things."

and

"Show up."

The first a line from letters he wrote my husband and I on our wedding day. A motto he and my mother applied to their entire marriage. A motto my husband and I strive to embrace. The reason we bought our home. Not for status or security. But to fill it to the brim with family and friends and laughter and God's goodness.

The second line from a sermon he once preached. It was a difficult season for us. A toddler and a newborn with a close family member ill. We were in constant pain and it was easier to check out and shut down than to actually show up and be present in our lives. We were on a path that could have destroyed our  marriage. During the four hour drive home that day we made a choice. No matter how painful, no matter how messy, no matter how inconvenient or irritating, we would show up for our lives. When with each other, with our children, with our families, at church, we would stop shutting down and start engaging.

I don't really know what these two things have to do with a broken seat belts and cavities, much less bombings and refuges.

But there is homework tonight.
And Thanksgiving is next week.
And Christmas is coming.

And so I pray.
And bake bread.
And clutter my life with coffee dates and soup suppers and date nights and family nights.
And wherever life puts me I will show up.
Because some days, that's really all we can do.

The Best Laid Plans

I am a planner. It is in my nature. I have an unhealthy obsession with school supplies and get down right giddy about back to school shopping. Nothing makes me quite to happy as an empty notebook or blank planner pages. So much so that I collect them. My wildly disorganized office is full of stacks of notebooks and planners in use, discarded, or waiting for their time.

I can schedule and map out action steps with the best of them. Making to do lists and figuring out what needs to be done to reach a goal are a piece of cake.

But the best laid plans.

You see there is a flaw in all my planning. Though I have been a mama for almost 8 years, almost with out exception, I make plans failing to take into consideration this crazy bed head and her two big sisters. Despite careful thought and planning I am rarely able to accomplish all I set out to do.

With this toddler's big sisters starting school last week I set out to take steps to grow my blog, as well as submitted my application for the largest, juried show our area has to offer. I made plans to grow my offering at this show and introduce new products. I started doing yoga. I added name to my happy mail list. I attempted to rearrange the girls bedroom.

I forgot my pint size companion was on a sleeping strike. I forgot that I was running on fumes. I forgot that when we move toward what God is calling us to there will inevitably be set backs. There will be road blocks and distractions and there will be other work to do.

And I would like everything to be simple and clear cut. I wish the answer was as tidy as forget the to do list and play all day. Forget the dreams and focus on the dishes. Or, forget the dishes and sew up a storm, your family needs the money. But it's never all or nothing. I am a mother, and a wife, and a friend, and a writer, and a creative, and a church member and all of those things require my attention. So some times and answer is to cut back on the to do list and some times the answer is to stay up till 11 pm to knock it out. Some times the answer is rest, and some times the answer it to kick myself into high gear and get things done while the baby plays and the kids are at school so that I can cook dinner and do home work when they get home.

I really like planners. I like the boxes and the lines and the check marks. And life is so much messier than my plans. It's complicated and pushes back far more than I would like. There are days when the hats I wear get confusing and I am not sure which is supposed to have my attention at the moment. Life isn't as easily as defined as I would like to think on my notepad pages.

So I keep trusting that as long as I keep moving forward, and doing the next thing, that it's all leading to the perfect place for me.

P.S. For fellow planner addicts you can find my planner instgram account at https://instagram.com/plannerofjoy

Don't Grow Weary

Galatians 6:9
And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

I don't have a well thought out, edited post for you all tonight. I have tried but my brain is just not working the way it needs to. I am lucky to be getting this up.

Some days are about simply doing the next thing.
The thing right in front of you.
Doing the right thing because it's the right thing.
Some times faith is big and bold.
Some times it's folding the laundry and baking bread and sending an e-mail.
And it's easy to get weary when the work is mundane.
Some times doing good looks a lot less changing the world, and a lot more like changing my heart.
And so you play JJ Heller music way louder than was ever intended and brew your third cup of tea and keep on keeping on till harvest time.

Resting in Grace

It was our last day of Summer together as a family. The girls started school Monday and since Josh doesn't get Saturdays off, Wednesday was our last day to do something fun. And so we did just that. We sat around in our pajamas till 11 and then got chicken nuggets for lunch and surprised the big girls with a trip to the movies-complete with a large soda and extra large popcorn. They loved every minute of it.

Since we had a long promised sleep over scheduled for tonight we came home afterward to do some cleaning. The kids weren't too thrilled, but together the four of us managed to knock out basic cleaning in the basement, kitchen, and living room.

 

Dinner was prepped, the big girls were playing, and since Tacy was with my mother in law I was presented with a unicorn of a concept - free time! Yes there was more work that could be done (isn't that always true), but Josh suggested that enough is done for now and it would be a healthy thing to do something enjoyable for a bit while it is quiet.

I was torn. You see, my first response was that I should do something creative. I should sew, or journal, or make something with my stacks of scrapbook paper and stickers. At the very least, I should write a blog post! But honestly, all I wanted to do was curl up with a big mug of tea and watch Star Trek. I LOVE being creative and it feeds my soul on so many levels, but lately I have found myself too tired to even do that which I so dearly love.

 

While I sat talking about this with Josh, I was struck once again but what a producer I am. I have constantly struggled with this.

 

As a child I loved to read, but I often find myself disregarding this hobby as I get older. To sit in a chair with my feet up and a good book seems like to lazy a way to spend an afternoon. If I have nothing to show for my time at end of the day I feel like I have failed.

Eight years ago I learned to sew. It started out as a fun challenging outlet for my creative side, but in effort to justify the cost of fabrics and patterns I found myself attempting to grow a business. After I few years I had found a decent level of success, but found myself loosing interest once I had turned something I enjoyed into something I had to do. I thought I had to make it into something big to make it worth while. I have since found a level of entrepreneurship that works for me, but it is a constant battle. Every new design I create I find myself wondering if I should produce it for sale. I have to remind myself that creativity is worthwhile in it's own right.

 

I know that some people struggle with this more than others. That “Type A” personalities are notorious for taking control and not knowing how to unwind. But I think it's deeper than that. I think it's something that has been in all of us since the fall. It's why God put the Sabbath into the ten commandments and why we struggle to observe it.

 

We are scared that if we stop producing we will no longer have worth.
It's why I find myself texting my husband through the day to tell him all the chores I have accomplished.
It's why one of the first questions we ask when we meet people is “What do you do?”
It's why we feel resentment when we feel our contributions to ministry are being over looked.
It's why we identify with the brother in the story of the prodigal son.
It's why we LOVE Proverbs 31.
It's why we feel Martha got a bad rap.
It's why the first thing I think when something goes wrong is “I am a failure”.
If I am not producing I am not needed.
If I am not producing I am dispensable.
If I am not producing I am not lovable.

 

I started writing this post a few days ago and then came back to it. And while I was being honest and genuine when I started I realize now just how much I was censoring myself. Because talking about turning hobbies into careers is safe and even a little humorous. But talking about the deep down fear of failure, that fear that we are not enough, is ugly and uncomfortable. We don't like talking about it because it feels like we are fishing for a compliment. We don't like listening to it because it his a little to close to home.

 

So we sit quietly in our homes, slaves to our to-do lists, Desperately trying to prove we have worth. Listening to the lies of the deceiver who says our value is determined by the size of our laundry pile. So we throw ourselves into achieving pinterest perfection. Or we give up and stop even trying and give into laziness. And either way the serpent has won because he has convinced us that God can't be taken at His word.

 

I have value. Not because of anything I have done. But because on the 6th day God made mankind and pronounced it “very good.” And if I love my children no matter what, how much more does a perfect God love is wildly imperfect children. Because Sabbath isn't about do and don't but accepting that if I stop working, God will still provide, and still love, and still be good.

 

And so I'll watch Star Trek and sew dolls and color in coloring books and make notebooks and do the dishes and fold the laundry and sit in my big chair with a cup of tea and pray.

Because grace says I can.

Back to School and Growing Up

Abi at Kindergarten Open House 2013

First Day of Kindergarten and First Grade 2014

Today was back to school open house for my girls. They got to see their classrooms and meet their teachers for the first time. Josh and I got to fill out paper work and stand in lines to figure out bus schedules and when and where to get finger printed. (Two years in and I still haven't done this. Bad mom, I know.)

Abi is thrilled and cannot wait while Maddie is in denial and walks around dejectedly stating loudly that she doesn't WANT to go back to school.
And I am in the middle.

I am ready for summer to be over. I am ready for routines and set bed times and wake up times. I am ready to know what we are doing every day, rather than trying to concoct a plan exciting enough to entertain a 6 year old at the drop of a hat. Selfishly I am even looking to have some down time with Josh on his days off and going back to our favorite walking path as soon as the weather cools off a bit.

I am not ready for them to be in first and second grade. Always before starting a new grade, it has seemed like an exciting mile stone to celebrate, but this year I am dragging my feet a bit. It's a little more bitter sweet. They are growing up in front of me and I am thrilled with the exciting things they will get to do and learn this year, and terrified of the challenges we will face.

The past two years, my mother, sister, or both have been present with us over the weekend. While I knew it was impractical to think this would go on forever, my heart aches and I find myself wishing for them. I'm not ready to do this on my own yet! And yet it is time.

The first year my mom and sister were here to help me after I had just had my third baby by c-section. School supply shopping, large crowds, and even fixing lunches was a challenge and I was beyond thankful for their ability to expertly hold everything together so I could be there for my terrified kindergartener.

Last year we found ourselves once again in the middle a massive transition at the start of school. My brother and his family had found their own home after living with us for 18 months and we were doing home renovations. We had another one entering kindergarten and public school for the first time, and to top if all off underwent a pretty intense tooth extraction the day before open house. I remember my one year old grabbing my cup of fresh brewed tea and dumping it all over her and I just about thirty minutes before my parents arrived that weekend. I was at a point of shear exhaustion and my parents found me on the sofa tears rolling down my face holding ice packs on the baby and I.

And then there is this year. My sister is busy with her own back to school things as she prepares for another year of teaching first graders and my parents are getting ready to have one of my nephews come visit for a week before he starts 6th grade. While I might miss them all desperately, this year I realize we don't NEED them like we did in years past.

As my children grow and I adjust to this season my confidence grows-as does my ability to navigate this whole school experience. My children are growing and so am I  and we all find a new level of independence.

I take a step back and look at all of us; my mother, my sister, myself, and my three daughters. The two that have gone ahead of me, the three following behind, and me, in the middle.
And I know that another step back would reminder me that we are a links in a chain extending past and future.
 But today, it's those three links I see.
 So I take a deep breath, brush tears from my cheeks and say a prayer of gratitude for my mother and sister, a prayer of protection on my daughters, and a prayer of grace for myself

Something To Say

 

 

 

I have three amazing little girls. Each one a unique individual in their own right. 

 

My oldest developed speech early or so I am told. She had complete sentances by a year and would follow my younger brother around the house demanding that her "Unce Etcher" give her a "cacker" By three she had a vocabulary that more often than not left me shaking my head.

 

"Mother, there is a situation with Madeline and the body lotion."

A situation?

Seriously?

The kid had emptied an entire tube of Bath and Body Works body cream into her head.

 

My middle one was a little slower, though pretty standard when it come to speech. Her first sentence was "I la oo" on Christmas day at 18 months. Once she picked up on the whole talking thing she loved it. Thought we could only understand about 1/3 of what she said until she was nearly 4 that didn't stop her from a steady stream of communication. I once tried to count how many questions she could string of in succession and zoned out after question 30. Her last timed talking streak lasted 45 minutes with minimal response from any one around her.

 

My youngest is now two and gives her sisters a run for their money. What she lacks in vocabulary she makes of up for in volume and repletion.

 

It comes as no surprise to any one who knows my husband and I, that two of our kids are talkers. It am fairly certain if physically pains them refrain from joining a conversation.

 

For my middle daughter this means conversations often dissolve into her bouncing from one foot to the other, eyes roaming the room looking searching for something to talk about. She has a voice, and she wants to be heard, she just hasn't figure out what to say yet.

 

My youngest pulls the pretty typical two year old move of saying your name over and over and over until she has your attention, only to respond with a long drawn out "Ummmmmmmmmmmm" when you ask her what she needs.

 

And, while I waver between amusement and irritation and their constant interruptions, I find myself startled when I see so much of myself in them.

 

Not because I talk a lot, though the fact is I do, but in my writing.

 

I have a voice. I have a burning inside of me to tell story. I want to be heard. I want to be part of the conversation going on out there in the great big world. I want to add my own unique perspective and experiences.

 

And yet.

 

I wonder if I have anything to say.

I come to this little space on the internet and shout "LOOK AT ME!" Only to have my thoughts drift away and I am left hoping from one foot to the other hoping to hold your attention until I have something worth sharing. This post alone has taken me over an hour to write because I keep roaming around, playing on my phone, looking at instagram, reading other blogs. Searching for something to say that might keep you here with me. That might hold your attention.

 

And I have said before that I never want blog simply for the sake of blogging, and that the internet is noisy enough with out me adding to the chaos.

 

I want to be like my oldest daughter. I want to write and share because I have something worth saying. I want to post because I have thought through my words and sorted them carefully and want to engage and connect.

 

But I am a young blogger and children some times ramble. Some times my children speak because they are still finding their voice. They may not have anything to say yet, but they want to know that when they do we will be there to listen.

 

Some times my words will have weight and depth and some times it is just me, leaning in close, wanting to connect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kansas

I heard a sermon once on mountains and valleys in our spiritual journey. It was a great lesson and has stuck with me over the years. The pastor talked about our spiritual journey and the highs and lows and the contrast and importance of both.

Mountain top experiences are important in our walk with God. There are a number of stories in the Bible recounting God meeting with and speak to people on the top of mountains. We all want those experiences. Conference, summer camps, sermons, and personal devotions. Seasons where God is so close we feel as though we could physically touch Him. Those moments when we know He is speaking to us with startling clarity.

In contrast valley's aren't as popular. When we think of the word valley in the Bible I think it's safe to say many of us jump strait to Psalms 23. Valley's are the low places in our journey. It's where we encounter pain and doubt and questioning. The speaker pointed something out that we often over look the fact that while mountain's are wonderful, things grow in the valley. We all desire mountain top experiences, but it's often in the valley's that we grow. The struggling that comes with our spiritual valleys can bring forth a lot of fruit.

It's a wonderful analogy. But he forget something. He forgot Kansas.

Let me explain.

I have spent all but 3 years of my life living on the East Coast. My roots run deep into Maryland's sandy soil and Virginia's red clay. But my younger brother and I are the only ones in my family who can say that. To my parents and grandparents the Mid West is home. My mother is a Midwest farmer's daughter, and my dad's great grandfather was a circuit preacher. Starting in their 20s my parents started migrating East to eventually settle in Maryland, but Kansas and Illinois especially are sacred places for my family.

While salt water my run in my veins, my father's are fill with the Colorado mountain stream water. And so, as often as he could my dad would round up as my of his six kids as possible, pile us into a mini van and drive from Maryland to Colorado and back. Personally I have made this trip three times that I can remember, though pictures show more trips than that.

To get from where we were to where we going we had to pass through Kansas. It's a long drive. Land locked on every said Kansas is flat. No mountains, no valleys, not even hills. Flat strait roads as for miles. Valley's my be lush, but Kansas feeds America. Over 88% of Kansas land is farm land. Over 9 million acres of wheat and 4 million acres of corn are planted there every year. I looked it up. It may not be much as far as scenery goes, but it get's the job done.

I think back to those drives across Kansas. Mile after mile of predictable scenery. It wasn't the forests and streams of home or the wilderness of mountains we were driving towards. It was the in between place. It held little interest to my adolescent imagination, but it was necessary to get where we were going.

When we see our faith as all mountains and valleys we loose perspective.
We expect everything to be either an emotional high, or a season of crisis.

Most of life is lived in the middle.

The day to day of our faith.
Waking up
Reading our Bibles even when it doesn't seem to make a difference.
Choosing to loves those around us.
Walking the dog.
Diving car pools.
Interacting with our co workers.
Showing up and choosing to stay engaged when what we see before us is the exact same thing we see behind us and there doesn't seem to be any change in sight.

It may not be the popular thing to say, but some times faith is about going through the motions when things seem flat. We shy away from these seasons saying that they are lukewarm, or that we fill in-authentic. We are afraid of a faith that is about checking boxes. We become so wrapped up in being genuine that we drift away from daily discipline lest they become route or routing. But some times faith, some times obedience, is accepting the ordinary and trusting that it is needed to get you where you are going.

Some times the plains are the hardest season. Things are fine and steady and we forget the joy of the mountain and who gave it and the pain of the valley and who brought us through. There are stretches of struggle, and there will be stretches of shear joy, but in between is the spiritual Kansas.

Being an Extrovert in a Introvert Society: Part One

Years ago my dad started a tradition. Whenever one of his children gets married he writes two letter. One for his child and one for their spouse to be opened on their wedding day. Being the fourth to get married I knew these letters were coming and looked forward to reading them.

Though my father wrote about many things in those letters, there was a common theme in both that has stuck with my husband and I through nine years or marriage. Dad wrote about cultivating a home that was focused on people. As he put it "We chose to clutter our life with people not things." In that one sentence he summarized a family culture I knew, but never knew how to articulate.

Josh and I have tried to make this a motto in our own home, though often it isn't always as easy as I wish it was.

In many ways I am a perfect storm when it comes to the need and desire for community. I truly believe that God places in his church a call to walk to through life with others. I think this is especially strong in women. Add to those two things my bent toward being an extrovert and you end up with some one who doesn't always know what to do when left to her own devices.

As a child my out going personality was easy to see in a positive light. Between my dad being a pastor and my mom working for the school I attended I was often expected to play greeter for the new kids and it was a role that felt natural and easy to me. People like outgoing children who smile and strangers and talk to the new kid.

Over the years though my desire to build relationships has started to feel like a burden. My outgoing personality and pension for initiating have become a personality quirk to be managed rather than celebrated.

In the age of social media, texting, and telecommuting it seems that the introvert is king. Search "introvert" on pinterest and you will come up with pages and pages of links on how to care for, understand, love, and be friends with an introvert. Search "extrovert" and you will find a number of links as well, most of them about introverts.

On the one hand I appreciate pieces like this. For most of my life my closest friends have been introverts and so insights on how to understand them are appreciated. On the other hand there is a small part of me the curls up and pulls back with every one of these I read. I fear that my desire to engage in friendship and build up the Church body is perceive as needy, clingy, obnoxious, and ultimately unwanted.

I have noticed a change in myself over the past few years. An unwillingness to initiate contact. When my husband and I purchased our home five years ago it was partly because we wanted more room to build community. We had a desire to have people in our home and use our space to minister to others. And yet I can't remember the last time we invited people over.

People are busy.
We are busy.
Schedules conflict.
You can only hear excuses so many times before you start to pull back. 
Before the door that once one wide open slowly starts to close.
You can only hear no so many times before you start to guard your heart against the inevitable disappointment.
A guarded heart is hard to share.

And so I find myself at times in a season of isolation. Holding every one at arms length, afraid of committing some social blunder. Afraid of being rebuffed again. Resisting the urge to reach out to others. Ignoring the promptings I may feel to send a text, make a phone call, or suggest a coffee date.

I can defend this behavior to myself to no end. Declaring I need space and that it is simply self preservation. I argue that I am pouring into my kids and husband and that those are the only relationships I have time for right now. I hide behind this "season" saying it will pass and I will make community a priority "later."

But we can only dodge the truth for so long. Eventually it will catch up to us and shine a light on all the lies we have been hiding behind. The truth is God designed His church, Women, ME for community.

So now what?

I have been trying to reach out more. To invite people into my life more. To ask a friend for coffee, to initiate a phone call, to text more often. To listen to the still small voice I had come to ignore.

At times the out come is balm to my slightly bruised, extroverted heart.
A friend thanking me for taking the initiative and extending a dozen different invitations over the summer.
A late night cup of coffee while our hearts are slowly being knit together.
The unexpected, initiated text from a friend who will never truly know just how much her reaching out first means to me.

And for the times when I feel rebuffed again, when I feel to weary to place my emotions on the back burner in consideration of a friend, there is God's grace. His gentle reminder that if I am full of Him and His love and provision that there is ALWAYS enough. That I can give love and attention and compassion and not have to worry that my tank will run dry. When I meet with Him first, and invite Him into all that I do, then there is more than enough to go around.

God made me this way. And so I trust He has a purpose for me. I trust that my friends, my family, and my church need people like me. Even if I do invade their bubble from time to time.

To The One Who is Finally Using Her Gifts

I recently had the opportunity to sit down with a group of local creatives and just enjoy each other's company. We shared our stories, our backgrounds, our business and creative struggles and our hopes for the future. I normally love these meetings, but for whatever reason my heart just wasn't in this one. My brain jumped from thought to thought, not entirely sure why I was there or even if I fit with this group I normally love.

And then my attention was caught by the story one woman told. She is a women I admire and respect personally, creatively, and spiritually. I have never heard an unkind word from her. She is unfailing positive and kind, always encouraging, always offering a smile. She is one of the most welcoming women I know. Any one who meets her at the shop she works in, or a show where she is selling her beautiful work, walks away feeling like they have bee seen, like they matter.

She was telling her story about how she got to what she was doing now and how she has always been an artist and a painter. And yet, when she got to college she didn't study art, she studied ministry. She shared how she felt like art wasn't good enough because, "we have to do something big for God" and it was, "soul crushing." And I wanted to cry.

I think we all have felt that way at some point. I wonder how many women still feel that way. How many women are serving in ways they were never created to because they have bought into the idea that there things we do that are "ministry" and "God's work" and then  there is everything else? How many women are dying inside because they have been told that their gifts at passions aren't "right"? How many women are missing out on the work God has prepared for them because it doesn't look like what they, or others, thought it would?

I looked at this woman and thanked God that she listened to God's prompting. That she used her passion for art to teach children. That she paints beautiful things that brighten the lives of so many. That she is there, in that place, offering herself and her gifts to others. She allowed herself to see past a narrow interpretation of ministry and in the process found the work that God had created her for.

Instagram Summer

We are a few weeks into break and we have been summering hard. It's been a crazy week full of spontaneous activities and reworking plans. Nothing has been set in stone and we have been successfully embracing the spontaneous (not always my strong suite).

I have been having a lot of fun using my nice camera and I can't wait to show you all those photos. But until then here are a few of my favorite Instagram photos of our summer so far.

Happy mail coming and going.

Lots of time at the sewing machine. 

Legos, legos, and more legos

Reading for hours on end.

Lots and lots of time at the pool.

On Showing Up

I was cooking dinner with a dozen different, semi-related, thoughts running through my head. I stood over the stove, fork in hand, turning bacon and trying not to get grease all over everything.

My thoughts felt scattered and disconnected. Over and over I went back to the story of Jesus telling the disciple to throw their nets over the side of the boat.

I am horrible at remembering details so as the bacon drained I pulled up Bible Gate way to search for the story. Turns out there are two similar stories recounting two separate events.

The first one is Luke 5. After fishing all night Simon is told to go put his nets into the deep water. Despite having nothing to show for a long nights work, Simon did as he was told and ended up with so many fish he had to call for help pulling them in.

The second story takes place after Jesus is resurrected. After all the miracles and amazing things they saw at his side, Christ's disciples have gone back to fishing. Again they have caught nothing when Jesus tells them to put their nets on the other side of the boat. And again the take is to plentiful the nets almost break.

I stand back at my kitchen counter assembling BLTS (or rather BLs for the girls and I and a BLT for Josh) thinking about these men. Things weren't really going their way. Work was rough, and unfruitful. They had put in hours and hours of labor and saw literally NO return. It would have been really easy for these guys to have called it quits. What would have been the harm in calling things early? The fish weren't biting. Why not clock out and catch a few extra minutes of sleep? But they didn't do that. They were faithful. Even when things seemed pointless they showed up. And as a result they saw miracles, but beyond that, they saw Jesus.

Showing up when things are going well is easy.
People want to be part of something big.
As a church it's easy to show up when babies or born,
when the church is putting on a big out reach event,
when funds are being raised after a natural disaster.

It is easy to show up when God is clearly moving and there is revival.

It's a lot harder to show up to serve in nursery,
to clean the toilets,
to mop floors,
to fold laundry.

We all want to be part of the harvest. But being part of the planting isn't as glamorous.

My daughter wants to read her princess books, but doing sight word flash cards is boring.

I want to have deeper community with the body, but chasing a toddler around at prayer can leave me feeling frazzled.

I want to be close to my husband, but the to do list is long and by the end of the day I am too tired to spend real time with him.

I want to be closer to God, but I struggle to make time to open my Bible daily when I feel like He is silent.

I think about those fishermen and their faithfulness. I think about them showing up in the mundane every day. I think about what they would have missed out on if they hadn't.

I think about where God is asking me to show up. Not in the big ways. The conferences, the out reaches, the dates nights, and the school programs.

But the small things. The letter written, the meal cooked, the home work finished, the questions asked, the verses read, the hug given.

I think about what I a might have missed by not showing up.... and what might be in store if I do.