Stumbling Towards Perfect

Claim Your Single Anniversary

2025-01-01T21:46:00.004-06:00

August 31, 2021 is the day I claim as 'Day One of My Beloved Singlehood'. It's actually way more complicated than that. Simply put, I was involved in a toxic enmeshment that went on far too long so, while there was no physical entanglement for quite awhile before that date, they were a part of my life that made it completely impossible to carry on with another in a healthy manner. So, August 31, 2021 is as good a day as any to start counting.

Being single is just as amazing as being in a committed relationship and should be celebrated with an anniversary just as much as a marriage can be. In fact, I would argue perhaps it deserves to be celebrated even more so.

Our society is set up for couplehood. Shoot, the cost of a mortgage alone is proof of that. Most housing options are designed under the assumption two people will be sharing the space and the cost. There's also Valentine's Day and then Sweetest Day lest we forget being in a relationship should garner an entire nationwide marketing campaign twice in one year. (To be fair, there is National Singles Day which takes place on the Saturday of Singles week in September in an effort to recognize the nearly half of the U.S. population who, whether by choice or circumstance, remain unattached - but my guess is you've never heard of it.) As a society we celebrate dating, engagements, and weddings, followed by daily reminders posted throughout social media that they have something you don't: an anniversary.

Personally, I love being single. I watch what I want to watch on Netflix. I get to sleep in and not feel judged. I set the thermostat to where I want it. I don't have to put my hand inside a dirty sock that belongs to another able bodied person and turn it right side out in order to ready it for the wash. There are no droppings of facial hair in my bathroom sink. I don't have to come to an agreement about what color car I want to drive, or where to go on vacation, or justify my desire to attend library programs that are otherwise deemed as "lame." I make, save and spend my money the way I choose. I eat girl dinner or take out or fancy dinner at my own whim. My independence is fierce and valued and something I'm actually quite proud of. This life I am living gets to be mine and I have to remind myself not to feel sorry for people who have to check with their significant other before being able to make a decision.

I'm not depressed or sad or feel less than because I don't have a committed partner. I'm not angry or a "man hater" or jealous of those in loving relationships. If someday I find someone worthy of sharing my life, great! If I don't, great! The joy and success of my life is simply not contingent on being with someone. Though I do have some complaints. I mean, I could do without always getting stuck at the singles table at weddings. I understand the ease for seating arrangements but I'll send my regrets and a gift rather than risk being stuck with your crazy cousin who only eats warm tuna and your neighbor that monopolizes the conversation about his competitive duck herding hobby. It is a let down when your coupled friends are seated together at table 7 and you're squished in the back corner by the bussing station at table 14 with the other solos.

But the thing that really irritates me is the lack of anniversary celebrations for singles. Being solo in a coupled world takes grit. It is so easy to settle for someone less-than just so you could have someone scrape the ice from the windshield or carry the heavy boxes down from the attic. It's easy to put up with someone because they have a decent pay check even if you learn you don't have much in common. Being solo means handling it all. Figuring out a way to install the window air conditioner units, or who to call to fix the glitchy electrical outlet. It's leaning on yourself to plan a vacation or how to handle your estate in the event of your death. When you have surgery you need to cast a wider net finding a ride home from the procedure. It's up to you and you alone to call the insurance company, get the lawn mowed, pay the bills, make the money to pay the bills, clean the house, decide to rent or buy, decide to stay or move... and while one of the greatest things about being single is having the autonomy to make every decision the fact remains, you have to make every decision. The mental load can be exhausting. Plus, if something goes wrong you only have yourself to blame.

After all this work I feel celebrating an anniversary of your successful singlehood once a year is beyond well deserved. In fact, there should be cards dedicated to single anniversaries and dinner deals at fancy restaurants and a free massage for those celebrating independence.

For this reason, I will be celebrating my Single Anniversary this year on August 31st - which also happens to be National Eat Outside Day. I might celebrate with a picnic.

To the Other Woman

2024-12-03T20:57:00.009-06:00

Out of respect I'm referring to you as the other woman but really you are closer in age to a teenager than a full-fledged mature woman. You're younger than my oldest daughter. When I found out, I felt sad for you. No one thinks about where they want to be in five years and says, "I'd like to take part in destroying a legacy. I'd like to break up a home." I thought your dreams should be larger, even if you didn't know that yet.

I remember how you were described to me and I thought I would never, ever want anyone to describe my daughter in those terms. Especially by someone who had to sneak around and lie in order to sleep with you. I wondered if you even understood that you deserved better.

Of course I was angry. Who wouldn't be? But that was quickly replaced with worry for you. You were so young. So impressionable. You were supposed to be out having fun with someone proud to be with you, not sneaking around hoping he would one day leave and choose you. How could this older man living with another woman raising a child together be the low standard you held for yourself? You looked so bold, so beautiful - why would you shrink yourself for a man who disrespected committed relationships? Whose main form of communication is mendacious and deceptive on the very best of days?

It took me a while to weed out the lies he told me from the truth. Too long, really, but you saw that. I knew you were hurting, that you so desperately wanted your happily ever after with him. When you're my age and have spent that many years together with children you'll understand why it can't just happen in the blink of an eye, why it had to take time. Truth be told, I'm disappointed it took as long as it did, but my critical hang up was purely logistical: finances, and I had a child to figure out how to care for. We had been paying down the mountain of debt that came with him (seriously, who mortgages their down payment?) - we had lived so lean for too many years in order to satisfy his many debt collectors and build his credit back up. We had a plan. Unfortunately, that plan was self serving to only one person and that person wasn't me. I pray that never happens to you. Never give all of your time, all of your talents and all of your money to someone who doesn't care that the cost you paid for building him up has left you completely depleted and empty. You deserve someone who never ever wants to see you struggle. You deserve to be taken care of, not stuck doing all the doing. I pray you never have to start over with absolutely nothing. Learn from my mistake.

You're married now with two small boys of your own and I still pray for you. I pray that when life comes crushing in (as it is known to do) that your husband turns toward you and not away, outside the relationship. I pray that he never walks into a place of business and decides the young girl working is a far better choice than his family at home. Because eventually you will become older and there will be someone younger. There is always going to be someone younger. And someone lonelier. And someone willing to look past the fact that you share his bed and these children and, no matter what insane story he tells, there will always be someone who desperately wants it to be the truth.

I pray that if your husband ever does become tempted, that it is by someone who knows her self worth and knows how she should be treated, and knows how women in general should be treated. Especially ones in relationships. I pray she will look him square in the eyes and say, "go back home. Figure this out with her." I pray she is nothing like you in this regard.

I pray your children will never know what it's like to be removed from the only bedroom they ever slept in, forced to make a new place their home.

I pray that your husband looks at you in wonderment and pure love for the next fifty years. And I pray you now understand that you were never meant to be the other woman. You were always meant to be the Only Woman. You were not meant to be with some cowardly older man that had to sneak around and lie in order to sleep with you. You were never meant for a beginning based on chaos and hurt and betrayals. You were meant for love. You were meant for respect. You were meant for honesty. And you were meant to have your happily ever after with someone worthy of you.

May God continue to bless you.

The Dinner Party Wedding

2023-02-22T19:44:00.002-06:00

I've dreamt about my wedding for years. I've discussed it, talked about it, imagined it, and mentally made notes about what would be perfect for the day of my dreams.

When I was engaged (and I was engaged for many, many, many years before it became painfully obvious that we were never moving on to the next stage), we would lie awake and make plans about how amazing our wedding would be.

But it wasn't going to be a wedding others were used to.

I tired of going to so many weddings where the church was less than half filled while the reception was filled to the gills. I felt sad that the thank God that's over paved the way for a night of drunken chaos and debauchery. I did not want "remember when Ryan got so drunk he got in a fight with your niece's date?" or "can you believe Doug tripped over the ice sculpture and puked all over the dance floor" to be memories at my wedding.

The idea that all that primping and prepping for a seventeen-minute church service that would make us legally and emotionally connected until death. do. us. part. followed by two hours of photos and cold chicken for dinner seemed, well, off balanced to me.

Here's what I envision:

A Friday evening event. I don't want people taking off work. You'll have plenty of time to get ready before arriving at 7:00 pm. Also, you're not bringing gifts. I'm an adult who has lived her life and has every kitchen utensil I need and lots I don't. You're not paying me to come to my event. You are my guest. I want you to feel special. I want you to know how important you are in my life. I want you to be here because I want to share this important event with you, not because I'm obligated to invite you. (Plus, I'm already happy because I'm marrying the man of my dreams!)

I want a Friday event because you have your life and I don't expect to take your entire weekend. Don't worry, we won't be out too late. You'll be able to do whatever you want on Saturday.

There will only be about 30 of us. I'll actually try to whittle that down because I want to be able to talk with and spend time with all of you. (It would take me all night to say hello to 250 guests and I'm not the type of person to ignore them while I go bounce it on the dance floor while you wonder whether I only wanted you there to feel obligated to purchase my overpriced knife set off the Target app.)

We will greet you when you arrive, my fiancé and I. I'll be in a nice dress, you'll be dressed nicely, too. Because I like getting fancy. I'm talking black tie and floor-length gowns fancy. You can wear white if you want. I'm not wearing it. (I am far from a virgin; I have the children to prove it.) I've been married before and I wore a wedding dress and a wedding dress a marriage it does not make. You'll feel fancy, I'll feel fancy, we'll all be giddy at how fancy we are. I'll joke about this is the closest we'll ever get to being royal. And we will feel royal.

The event will take place in a historic building. Of course it will. My nerdy love for all things architecture and pre-1900's makes this an obvious choice. Bonus points for exposed brick! And old wooden floors. And floor to ceiling windows. Are you swooning? I'm swooning.

There will be hugs and kisses for greetings and cocktails to socialize before you are shown to your seat and this, ladies and gentlemen, is where the magic begins, because we are about to eat dinner.

I love food. Good food. Amazing food. Incredible food. I also have celiac and can't eat gluten which means most dinner parties are filled with things I have to go without. That will not happen at my wedding. I will hire the best chef to prepare the meal of a lifetime. My budget will primarily be spent on food. Seven courses minimum: hors d'oeuvre, soup, appetizer, salad, main course, dessert, and mignardise. All gluten-free.

In between each course there will be an element of the traditional wedding ceremony.

After cocktails and once everyone is in place, there will be a few words of (formal) welcome, thanking guests for bearing witness to our union.

Then the hors d'oeuvres will be served.

Next, the officiant will share some words on our love story and what marriage means to us.

Then the soup will be served.

From there, we'll include some readings while the soup settles, and the wine glasses are refilled.

Salad time! And we continue to chat and laugh and share and enjoy each other while we eat.

After which the officiant will discuss the responsibilities of marriage and the sanctity of the vows we're about to take. This is seriously the most important part of the ceremony to me.

Now it's time for the main course. It will be to die for. It will be savory and bursting with so much flavor you won't know what to do with yourself. Ginger braised beef, pistachio crusted halibut, and Kurobuta pork belly. Parmigiano roasted fingerling potatoes. Wild mushroom ragoût and lobster mash.

You guys. This is what I want to share with you.

After the incredible main course has been shared, the two of us will rise from the table and take turns reciting our vows. Your bodies will be filled with food and your hearts will be filled with the witnessing of love promising to cling and claw its way through hardships.

We will return to the table for dessert. Close to the finish of dinner... close to the finish of our ceremony. Hours of thinking about what marriage truly means. To get in the mindset of what is about to happen: a commitment like none other.

After dessert, lighting of candles or some other symbolic scene. I thought about having someone sing, but they'll be way too full of food to be able to do that.

And then the mignardise. Perhaps a meringue or pavlova. Light. airy. A pastry to remind us that life is sweet and even sweeter among friends.

We will lean back, smiling at each other, looking over our guests on each side of the table we have been sharing. The officiant will ask you to raise your glasses of champagne that had just been poured as we walk toward each other, each taking steps toward our final act of the ceremony. He will announce that indeed, we are now husband and wife. "You may now kiss your bride, the one woman you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with."

The champagne will be swallowed, and coffee will be served, and a chai tea latte placed in front of me. We will move to the seating vignettes and talk and take photos and laugh and tell stories with soft music piped through the speakers because it's all only ever been about friendship and food.

We will, of course, spend the weekend in a historic Bed & Breakfast in a quiet town before heading to our honeymoon... perhaps Old Old Québec or Annecy in southeast France, or really any English village in the Cotswolds. Anywhere, really. There just needs to be great food.

The Greatest of All Friends

2021-10-02T21:06:00.001-05:00

About nineteen years ago I showed up at the house of a stranger because the guy I was dating said his friends were having a Game Night. We played Catch Phrase. When it was his turn he started describing the word we had to guess in order to win the point:

"My girlfriend has these... they're small... they're not very big..."

And everyone started guessing various body parts except the obvious one as he kept going on and on about how small these were and they're not big and by this point people are awkwardly looking at the ground whispering things like collar bone and ankle even though everyone was thinking breasts but no one wanted to be the jerk who said it.

The word was mounds. I left that night bound and determined never to see any of those people again.

Except the hostess stalked me like a crazy person and basically demanded that we be friends whether I liked it or not. And that's how Kim became my best friend in the entire world. Because she forced me.

She was engaged and worked ridiculously hard and I was dating the red flagged mounds guy, and still she wanted to be friends. She was considered lake people and I was not considered much at all because I lived in this farm town that no one ever really went to - that was before we got the Walmart, but still she dragged me into her world.

She took me to Book Club and MOMS Group (Ministering our Mothers Spiritually, or something like that). She invited me to her parent's house on the lake for 4th of July and to New York City for her bachelorette party. We found we shared interests like drinking tea because we hate the taste of coffee (I know) and we were also very different because she climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro and I hated climbing stairs to the second floor.

Her brunt, to-the-point opinionated style of conversation was refreshing. I always knew where I stood with her. She was the first person that if I disagreed with her it wasn't a big deal. Nothing was a relationship breaker. I could, unapologetically, be myself. That is the very best kind of friend to have: the kind that know your flaws and love you anyway.

We were going on day trips and mini vacations together, laughing and complaining about normal things when suddenly Avery died. I was alone in the house with my 3-year old. The office said I needed to call someone. I looked at him not understanding. "Who is your rock?" "Kim." "Let's call Kim."

I know it was a God thing. Kim was at work and she never has her phone on her and yet there she was, upstairs in that office where her phone was. She answered. I don't know what I said. I can't imagine I informed her gracefully. But I turned around and there she was, in my house. I still have no idea how she got there so quickly. But she was there.

Sometimes I think about what a jerk friend I am, having my kid die. Like, who signs up for that? She did things that, to this day, I do not have a full account of. I know somehow people were informed and there was food at the luncheon and she took my son trick-or-treating and made sure I didn't go crazy.

I don't understand how she does it. She just does.

After Avery died her mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer. Kim was there. Doing what she does: the hard stuff. Six months later her mother died.

After that her Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. And she stood up to the task of caring for him. All the appointments, all the medication, all the laundry, all the tracking down when he got lost and couldn't remember his way back. It's like she refuses to let the hard stuff win.

She's tough and strong and loves her family with an undeniable fierceness. And me, too. Because she keeps holding me up through all of this.

On August 27th, we had our annual Avery Step You Take 5K to raise money for AVERYday Ministries, the nonprofit we started in Avery's memory. Kim was right there, the Queen of Organization, making sure the volunteers knew what they were doing, the route signs were placed properly, the tables set up, all the forms ready for day of registration participants. She said she tweaked her back so she couldn't do any heavy lifting. She lied.

She explained she hadn't wanted me to worry. That was Avery's day and she didn't want to take the focus off that. She told me she had cancer in her breast and there were things that would need to be tested to know what the full treatment would be, but the second opinion confirmed, and the mastectomy is scheduled for October 14th. Her mother's birthday.

My best friend in the entire world has cancer. And she shouldn't.

Because she's the good one. She's the one that makes a hundred cake pops for her kid's school party and she's the one that cleans her father's bathroom and she's the one that remembers birthdays and she's the one that walks every day and eats avocado toast and actually likes vegetables.

And she's been through so, so much. Avery's death. Her mother's death. Her father's difficult diagnosis. I'm faith filled and I know God has a plan and a purpose but why this? I just don't understand. And I don't know if I ever will.

But I know one thing to be absolutely true and certain: this is just another adventure to navigate in our friendship. Not the one we planned on, and certainly not the one that gets the final say.

I Want to Live A Very Boring Life

2021-09-20T21:58:00.043-05:00

I want to live a very boring life.

I want to wake up on Sunday mornings knowing we'll always stop at Starbucks before the morning service and always get there ten minutes before it starts.

I want our bills to be paid on time.

I want to go grocery shopping like it's the most fun we'll have all week. I'll grab the chai latte concentrate, you'll grab the package of cookies and wink like you just got away with something big. We'll both stop at the butcher's and pick the meat you'll be grilling on Saturday night.

I want to go to baseball games where you'll be excited but not obnoxious and we'll high-five when the grand slam gets hit in our favor. You'll grab a beer and bring me back a Diet Coke and nachos because you know that's gluten free. And you'll stop at one beer because you don't need to get wasted and you need to drive home. And I'll stop at one nacho dish because those things are huge.

I want to walk in the evenings with you by my side and talk about people at work or your mother or how my father still can't figure out why he's so angry that we turn on lights when it gets dark.

I want you to check my oil and clean my car and tell me it's because you want to know I'm safe and comfortable when I tell you that you don't have to do that for me; I'm perfectly capable.

I want your biggest deception to be not telling me what you're getting me for Christmas, or my birthday, or our anniversary.

I want you to be where you say you will be, where you say you were.

I want you to smile when I walk in the room and say horribly tacky things to the waitress that makes her think we're old fashioned but lucky to be in love.

I want you to reach for my hand when you drive, open the car door for me and, when you give me a kiss, think about me, not the latest porn video you watched while I ran to town.

I want you to love God, write scripture on your heart, and fiercely pray because you know the only way we're getting through this world is with Christ leading our way.

I want you to do our taxes honestly.

I want you to refuse to take anyone for granted, most of all me.

I want you to want me to take my role of wife seriously because you take your role of husband seriously and we'll laugh together when we make dinner. I'll sauté the mushrooms. You'll take the roast out of the oven. We'll both clear the dishes before settling down to watch tv.

I want to go to our friend's wedding and not have to count drinks. I want to learn what it's like to ride home and not be afraid that something I might say or do will set you off. I want you to wrap your arm around me while we walk to the car, me dangling my heels in my hand, you chuckling while saying you enjoyed watching me have fun tonight.

I want you to go to the McDonald's drive thru on the way home and order me a hot fudge sundae even though I know it's not real ice cream.

I want to go shopping for a washer and dryer and listen to you tell me about what you learned in Consumer Reports because an investment of this kind should last awhile.

I want to bring you lemonade when you're painting the trim on the house. I want to smile when you bring the garbage cans to the end of the driveway and wave at our neighbor.

I want to know what's it's like to believe the words coming out of your mouth. I want to know what safety in truth feels like. I want to see how big my heart can grow.

I want to watch as you cast your fishing line, calm and patient, strength in your stillness.

I want to catch a glimpse of you outside while I'm putting the laundry away and marvel at how natural you are at encouraging my boy to kick that soccer ball. I want to smile when I hear you yell GOAL like Messi himself just won the World Cup from our backyard. I want to laugh out loud when I watch the two of you running around, arms raised in celebration, scaring the chickens that lay our brown eggs and a couple of those light blue ones, too.

I want to change the bedding and fold the towels and sweep the floor while listening to music and never have to hear how lame I am for liking that song.

I want lame holiday celebrations, year after year, that you love so much you'll say it just wouldn't be the same without them.

I want you to light up and say yes when I ask if we can get professional photos done. I want to send out Christmas cards with our smiling faces on the front to everyone we know.

I want you by my side when I get the diagnosis. I want to be by your side when you come out of surgery.

I want to be old and grey and feeble and tell my grandchildren that not once did you ever threaten to leave me, that you never told me how easy it would be to replace me, or that I should be lucky you put up with me. I want to tell them with pride that not a single day went by without telling me you loved me - and meaning it.

I want to make you coffee in the morning even though I don't drink it. I want to check the door at night to make sure it's locked. I want the porch light to always be on and a light to glow in the living room window because you always loved driving down the roads at night commenting on the cozy homes.

I want to live a very boring, happy, peace-filled life.

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

2021-03-09T20:24:00.002-06:00

I got a voicemail the other day from the hospital saying ‘since you’re the contact on record we just want you to know your Dad can get a Covid vaccine.’ I ask my Dad if he wants one and he practically jumps out of his Lay-Z-Boy. (Not an easy task.)

ABSOLUTELY he wanted one! 

So I call the number back, have to complete a 15-minute auto-response survey pressing buttons 1 or 2 before being transferred to an actual human being who sets the appointment. They tell me the Elkhorn and Burlington hospitals are way backed up and he’ll be dead before they can fit him in
; however, there is a new site in Milwaukee at the Advocate Aurora Health Care Center in Walker’s Point like THE. NEXT. DAY! I think to myself, 'huh. Walker’s Point. An hour away – how bad can it be?' and sign him up.

I announce he has to wear a t-shirt and bring his ID and face mask and that we're leaving at 8:00 am today to get his Covid vaccine. The man is absolutely giddy with excitement.

Until this morning when he asks which hospital we're going to. For the next 55-minutes I listen to him repeating over and over what a stupid waste of gas this is and how I should’ve told the lady working in the scheduling department that there would be space in Elkhorn if Biden didn’t let the god damn illegals in because that’s whose getting all the vaccines.

I grip the steering wheel a tad tighter. 

We get to the clinic and park. It’s an old converted warehouse that is gorgeously remodeled. However, he’s commenting on the “trash” on the side of the buildings surrounding us. “Some people refer to that as commissioned street art, Dad.” “Well, it’s stupid!” he declares.

Walking out of the building as we come shuffling up to it is an elderly man with a cane and the cutest hat I’ve ever seen, accompanied by his tiny, 80-pound elderly wife. The man lifts up his hand in a wave and says to my Dad cheerily, “go get your shot!” To which my dad angrily spits back “that’s what I’m doing!” 

Undeterred, the happy stranger asks my Dad if this is his first or second shot. My Dad spits back, “first!” Like he’s accusing the guy of being a thief. Happy stranger says congratulations and good luck, my Dad ignores him (as he was the entire time) and I follow-up with a sweet congratulations of my own, telling the happy stranger I will pray he has no side effects and that I am so happy for him! (See Dad, that’s what being nice looks like.) The happy stranger waves and tells us to have a great day! I wonder how much wine I'd have to give to the workers in the nursing home if God forbid my father ever needs to go there.

Anyway, we get inside without any further hassle (i.e., happy people) and have absolutely no wait. Dad is shown to a chair where two nurses sit. They check his ID and begin their spiel, at the end of which the sweet nurse asks, “Do you have any questions for me?” 

And my father responds: “yeah, why'd they rename the Brewer’s Stadium? That’s just stupid! No one’s going to call it the American Family Stadium!”

“Dad! They aren’t in charge of renaming the stadium!”

 Nurse: “Oh! Are you a baseball fan?”

Dad: “No.” (As if that is the most asinine assumption anyone could ever come up with. He would have handled being asked if he was a drag queen with more decorum.)

I start laughing – because what else can I do - this is what I have to contend with. “Are you ready for your shot, Dad?”

After the shot you’re supposed to wait for 15-minutes to make sure you don’t die. But none of the chairs in the place have arm rests which he needs to help push himself up from in order to get out of the chair. The average age of the vaccine recipients are 87-years old and none of them can get out of the chairs. Instead of sitting he walks. 

WE walk. 

Around the entire perimeter of the waiting area. 

Step. …

Step. … 

Step. … 

Step. ...

In 15-minutes we took only 47-steps. 

The entire time he’s bad-mouthing the converted warehouse we're in (which looked amazing, by the way) because they have to raise prices at the hospital to cover the cost of what it must be to heat the place and there should be a law that doctor offices and insurance companies are only allowed small buildings. (Okay; I confess, I'm with him on the insurance companies. Some of those office buildings are ridiculous!) And then we're back on to the subject of the idiotic renaming of the Brewer's Stadium. 

I finally get him shuttled back to the car and we’re on our way back.

At this point I am emotionally exhausted.

I need to stop for gas. I figure that at least gives me a few minutes to breathe in the fueled aroma. Maybe I even have a chance of achieving a slight high. I could use a little relaxing. As I’m headed toward the highway exit (read: going very, very fast) my dad is attempting to dig into his back pocket for his wallet. His arm is about to break off, the seat belt is threatening to choke him and I’m like “Dad! You don’t have to give me money. I have enough money! What are you doing?" but he’s insisting and I’m all “stop moving! You’re making things worse and I’m not going to be able to untangle you!”

For the love. I just want to go home.

We’re back on the road and I'm practicing the breathing techniques I learned in birthing class. 

About 15-minutes from home, cruise control set to 75, he opens his coat and pulls out a white plastic envelope thing from the breast pocket on the inside of his coat and hands it to me saying “we have to stop at Poplar’s.” (His local doctor.) 

Holding the envelope I say, “Okay. What is it?”

"My stool sample."

Child, You Have My Full Attention

2021-03-07T20:07:00.005-06:00

Our one constant growing up was arguments revolving around excessive alcohol consumption. My father would be the "fun guy" out with his friends after work and during the weekends, then get to that tipping point and head home to finish things off. We experienced the downside. (The part his drinking buddies weren't privy to.) He wasn't the "fun guy" for us. He was critical and angry, annoyed and distracted. He would come home to "fall asleep watching tv" (pass out). In fact, unless he was yelling, there was very little interaction.

My father's choice to regularly over-consume meant poor financial decisions that affected us all. My mother had to carry the brunt of responsibility raising us children while working full time and a part time job. (She had to make up for the money being spent at the bars and liquor stores.) 

Any hope for a sense of self worth was distinguished through his constant criticism. No matter how well we did in any particular area he'd tell us what we should have done to earn an even better finish. He called it encouraging us. We felt it as we still hadn't earned a position of worth in my father's eyes. When people aren't happy with themselves they subconsciously tear others down to make themselves feel better. We were the bystanders who took the hits.

My father barely knew what grades we made, who our friends were, what our interests were, especially as we got older and in high school. By that time he had been so selfishly living his own life that we really didn't understand the need for him when he suddenly piped up with some bit of advice. 

Some classmates got to know him and, while there were some that thought he was really cool for passing out beer in the auto shop where everyone hung out, most kids shook their head out of pity. "Is that your dad?" was a question that would send me reeling with embarrassment. He thought he was fun and happy; I saw him as loud, foolishly animated and trying too hard to cover up the fact he was drinking. 

No matter how many times there'd be an argument explaining how this. is. not. okay. he would feel justified. He worked hard. We weren't starving. It wasn't like he was having an affair or asking for a divorce. He had a right to have friends. And, god, why can't you just relax? Maybe you could use a drink!

It didn't matter how many ways we would try to express how the negative ramifications his choices to regularly overconsume had on us as individuals, on our family. When faced with a choice it would always be the alcohol.

And so we simply learned to live around him. 

I lost count of how many times new friends or co-workers would express shock when they found out my dad was actually alive. 

"Hold up! You have a dad?!" 

"Yeah, my parents are still married."

"But you've never mentioned him before!"

I wasn't intentionally not talking about him; he just was not involved in my life in any meaningful way so he had no context. He was positioned in the center of his drinking buddies, but that meant he was in my peripheral. Either he had to move closer to me or I had to move closer to him in order for us to be involved and known in each other's lives but, personally, being teen surrounded by my father's model of excessive alcohol consumption was probably not where I needed to be if I wanted something different for my life. In the end, we each stayed where we were positioned. Although we lived together for the entirety of my young life, being on the fringe meant my father knew me no better than the kid at Blockbuster. 

The interesting thing is this doesn't just happen between alcoholics and their children.

As parents, we get to choose where we position ourselves in the lives of our children. When we make our career our priority we move toward that and our children get pushed out to our periphery. 

Excessive volunteering can convince us that we're doing all the good, right things but we have to know that we're also moving your kids to the fringe. (If you're on more than five boards or committees it's time to honestly evaluate where your kids are in your life.)

Making everything about sports and putting the worth of our children in how many baskets they make or how fast their split was centers ourselves with the activity itself and shoves our kids off to the side - especially if they're heart is in music or something else. It's so easy for us to believe that we're doing this for "their good" but unless relationship with our child is at our center we can get off base pretty quick. 

As parents, we decide if we want to position our children in the center of our lives or if there is something more valuable to us. And if there is, fine - but own it. 

"I never went to any of those art shows my kid was in because they were always held on my bowling league night." 

"My kid is really active in drama but I want to focus on my dating right now." 

"I don't know anything about the classes my child is taking because I choose to use that time  I could be talking with her to instead engage in the chaotic drama with my ex."

Understand that your relationship with your child is on you - not anybody else. You can make all the excuses in the world and I guarantee that if you truly wanted to, you'd be able to position your life to where a connected relationship with your child is at the center. Now, that doesn't mean you give up yourself completely and entirely and do nothing but the bidding of your child. We're talking about something entirely different here (but if that's where your headspace is at right now, feel free to go back to the top of this post and re-read it from the beginning).

It's time we start taking seriously the responsibility we've asked for. For eighteen years, this person who we chose to put in our lives should get our focus and attention. 

Do you prioritize parenting or have you found that something else is occupying the center position in your life?

Have you built the kind of connection with your child that lasts beyond just the moments when you're face to face with them?

What do you need to reduce or remove in your current life in order to prioritize the relationship you (should) have with your child?

Now, what are you waiting for? Because no one else is going to make your relationship with your child their priority.

Stop Thinking the Answer is Moving in with Him

2021-01-12T19:53:00.005-06:00

Our society puts a lot of pressure on girls to look a certain way. Those tall boots you bought last season need to be replaced with ankle boots for this season. Your hair needs to be colored because your natural color isn’t enough. Your nails need to be done, your make up perfect, and your pictures on social media will be dissected so you need up to date home décor for the background. You need a new car and a new phone and a new purse.

That’s a lot for one young person to afford.

Somehow you’ve got it in your head that if you just move in with your man (or some guy you start dating), he can take care of the rest: the house, the utilities, yardwork, the groceries, etc. On top of that, he should take you out for dates regularly because you’re young and you don’t wanna be a loser sitting at home. Besides, what’s the point of getting your hair done if no one gets to see it?

This is an incredibly selfish way of thinking. 

You have the dream of the house and car before you have the vision of your relationship; what you need in a relationship, what you want in a partner. Start imagining your partner and if you are the right kind of person for him  - stop imagining the dining room furniture. You rush into moving in so you can plan parties with your friends without understanding the person you’ll be living with.

What will you gain by moving in together? I bet you know the answer to that without thinking too hard. What will he gain?

We’ve got so many young, broken men. Broken financially from having to start over and over each time the live-in girlfriend decides the relationship itself isn’t working and she’s going to take all the furniture and décor with her because it’s girlie and she picked it out and he doesn’t like it anyway. 

And our men are emotionally broken because they’ve been so busy working to fulfill these ridiculous standards and requirements they never had time to figure out who they are as a person, what they want in life, what they want in a relationship. They’re hurt, angry, and feel used. They don’t trust anymore. 

And you know what the world tells them? “Be thankful it wasn’t an actual divorce! That’s even more expensive!” We might as well be saying, “don’t ever commit to marriage; it will cost you even more than playing house with the first girl who pushed you into it.”

So, girls, how do you afford to live on your own when you know you can’t afford to live on your own because it’s too expensive for anyone young to live on their own?

Well, you can get a roommate! Did you know you can rent a room from someone? Or, if you have a home you can rent a room out? Did you know that you and a friend could actually rent a one-bedroom and share the bedroom? Like a dorm room. Only bigger.  

Get four of your friends together and rent a 3-bedroom house. Convert the dining room into a bedroom. We all did that in college... but usually with double the roommates to rooms ratio.

I guarantee you’ll treat your roommate much more fair and respectfully than your boyfriend you live with. You'll learn to ask nicely, negotiate household responsibilities, be respectful of each other's space and time. It will be good for you to learn to do things for yourself - like budgeting. It will teach you what your financial priorities are before you commit to a long term, loving relationship.

Guess what? If you don’t save money on your own you’re not going to go into a relationship saving. And don’t tell me you don’t have enough money to save anything. You will save $1 a paycheck if saving money is truly important to you.

If you spend $5 a day at Starbucks on your own it’s unlikely you’ll suddenly stop your $1,200 a year habit cold turkey just because you moved in with that cute guy. 

Figure your own self out. It’s the best thing you can do for yourself. 

And give our men time to figure themselves out. It's the best thing you can do for them.

This is real life. Not a game.

Re-Evaluate Your Rough Day

2020-12-03T09:40:00.000-06:00

Job not going right?
Feel unappreciated and overlooked?
Spill coffee on your new cream colored tights?
Hair look ridiculous?
Sister mad at you?
Mother-in-law hate your guts?
Boyfriend forgot your birthday?
Car trouble?
Missed a doctor appointment?
Loose filling in your tooth?
Dog run away?
Mortgage company misapply your payment?
Speeding ticket in a known speed trap?
Neighbor's garbage cans out for the third day in a row?
Can't get those concert tickets last minute?
The holiday "it toy" completely sold out?
Coworker throw you under the bus?
Client humiliated you in a very public meeting?
Teacher called you in because of your kid's behavior?
A simple misunderstanding morphed out of control?

There's a whole culture watching you quietly: we're the Mama's who have experienced a level of rough that frightens you. We're the ones you say, "I wouldn't be able to live..." after hearing our story. We hear your complaints and read your posts and we stop ourselves from saying back to you, "you have no idea what rough is."

Rough is your child being rushed to the hospital with yet another seizure with no understanding of why.

Rough is the insurance refusing to pay for a procedure that will keep your baby comfortable... and alive.

Rough is picking out a coffin instead of a Christmas present. Laying your child's body in the ground instead of lifting her up into your lap.

Rough, we know, is dependent on your own personal circumstances. We get it. We really do. We get that you have no idea where "car troubles" land when that truly is the worst thing that has ever happened to you.

But, as we listen to your complaints, we wonder if there might be a way for you to understand without ever having to go through what we do. A way for you to see your day not as a series of inconveniences, but rather of a beautiful, glorious, magical experience there for the taking.

We wonder if there is a way for you to feel the incredible joy a sunrise can bring without having to sit hostage through the dark.

We wonder if there is a way for you to taste the crisp air of December without having to experience what it feels like to fight for breath.

We wonder if there is a way for you to celebrate the wins instead of focusing on the losses... because the losses have a way of wrapping themselves around you like a python intent on slowly strangling the life from your soul, leaving your eyes dull and expressionless.

From all of us struggling Mamas:

- the one's who have experienced a forced and sudden without still struggling to put one foot in front of the other,

- the one's with too many womb losses holding their plastic smiles on their hurting hearts just to let everyone know they're okay and sometimes this happens (when really all they want to do is scream WHY?!),

- the one's hanging on by a thread making desperate deals with God to please just keep their child alive....

our wish for you today and throughout this holiday season is that you RE-EVALUATE... look for the joys, search out the happiness, revel in the light, and choose to fight against any "rough day" that threatens to dim your world.

We need your happiness.

We need your joy.

We need your laughter.

Because, especially at this time of year, we need you to light the way.

The Eighth Year

2020-10-23T21:00:00.014-05:00

Eight years ago I paced alone throughout a house wondering where my daughters were. An inquisitive 3-year old boy as my shadow. I remember feeling so utterly alone.

I called their phones.

I sent texts.

I posted on Facebook.

I called my sister.

I called the police.

I called my mom.

I drove to the church.

I called the police again.

I walked in circles.

I panicked.

I prayed.

I answered the door.

And my world went dark.

I broke down.

I broke apart.

I broke empty.

I broke completely.

I broke alone.

Then I lifted my head and let God in.

There has been countess blessings and so much incredible joy from sweet friends and absolute strangers! So much goodness! My heart swells just thinking of it all! The Avery House in Haiti. The 19 Days. The Avery Step You Take 5K. To this day I still meet people who say, "wait - are you Avery's mom?" Her story and her love for Christ has reached the hearts of people from all over. How could this be possible except for such a good, good God?

And I have experienced the deepest cuts of betrayal. Endured active deceit, the abuse of alcohol, adultery's humiliating sting. I live now with my parents, struggle financially after achieving debt-free status, and go to sleep wondering why grieving a child wasn't enough for me.

Yet every morning, through the grace of God, I rise to a world filled with beauty beyond words. Avery's memory and God's Word tells me to love. Love deep. And I will continue to do just that. To the stranger, to the neighbor, to the friend, to the lonely, to the unknown. I will continue to do my part to throw good into the world, to make others laugh, to feel included, to feel heard, to come to recognize they are not alone but that God is with them if you just let Him in - because I do not know what pit they're clawing their way out of. This world is filled with far too many hard things.

If I have learned anything from Avery's death it's this:

(1) God is good. Always.

(2) You have a finite amount of time on this earth. Find out who you are supposed to be - and be brave enough to own it.

(3) Kindness matters and has its place in all things. Especially the ugly and difficult.

These past eight years have produced the greatest growth and the most amount of fruit in me. There have been times when I wanted to tap out, call uncle, roll over and go to sleep and never wake up. I look back and realize I am so far from where I was the day before Avery died and that movement in me was absolutely needed. Every second of my suffering God has taken and produced something wonderful for His Kingdom. I will praise Him even when I can barely catch my breath. I will praise Him even when I feel shattered and destroyed. Satan will not have me because I belong to God and God alone.

Eight years without. Yet every single day God is showing me how good He is to me. Sending me support, encouragement, friendship through the incredible people he placed in my life and brought just when I needed it most. Eight years and I have never been alone.

Missing Pieces

2020-08-18T22:25:00.038-05:00

I have this theory that every one of us is born with missing pieces of our soul.

Throughout our lives we pick up different pieces - experiences, relationships, careers, hobbies - in the hopes that the piece fits and we become one step closer to whole.

But sometimes we pick up pieces where the shape fits but it is obvious when we look at the color and pattern that it isn't supposed to belong there.

I think it's especially this way with mental illness and addiction. There are so many shapes that match but they aren't right. In fact, if you leave them in place, you'll never be able to complete your soul.

Alcohol to take the edge off. Getting drunk by 4pm on a Tuesday. Hooking up with people you don't actually care for just because you're lonely or bored or, truthfully, just desperate to fill that empty spot. Smoking marijuana, snorting cocaine, popping oxycontin, xanax, ativan. Inappropriate behavior that hurts innocent people who didn't even know you a month ago. Forgetting your responsibilities. Disappointing loved ones. But the desire to fill that empty hole with anything you can shove in there takes priority over treating others with respect. With treating yourself with respect.

It takes an incredibly brave person to admit a piece needs to be removed.

It takes courage to say I cannot do this anymore.

It takes every ounce of strength to ask for help getting rid of it.

It is not for the faint of heart to admit that when we look in the mirror we don't even recognize the person staring back.

That things got out of control and you can't even recount how it happened.

That everything you worked hard for in the past six years completely crumbled and was destroyed within three months.

And that you have to start over.

Again.

Just like you started over the last time.

And the time before that.

But it's not just chemical addiction that can take us seriously off track. Some people are so scared of dealing with the holes in their soul that they fill it with things that look good but are taken to the extreme... like exercising. That's a good thing, right? But when you're working out so much and so often that you're unable to nurture friendships or get enough sleep or attend family gatherings it's time to acknowledge it isn't the right piece.

Some people like taking care of others. And that is a super noble thing to do. But when your worth is wrapped up in doing everything for your children or your spouse or your boyfriend/girlfriend a red flag is being raised. You cannot change someone. You might be able to influence them but you have no control over whether or not they want to change to be the way you want them to be.

Relationships that are toxic but you don't know how to get out.

Jobs you hate but are convinced this is the best you can do.

The landlord raising the rent again but you feel guilty leaving because they're so nice to you and you know they need the extra income.

Gym memberships you just keep paying on because admitting you don't even like going to the gym makes your feel like a loser.

Look, we all have hurts, habits and hang ups that try to convince us to keep the ill-fitting pieces in our soul but we also know deep down that we aren't meant to live this way: incomplete. Uncomfortable. Feel less than we deserve.

If you're ready to start over and take a step to a new kind of freedom - whether it's your first time or your thirtieth - give Celebrate Recovery a try. Just enter Celebrate Recovery and your city or town in your search bar and find a meeting near you. Most likely, you'll be able to find several meeting places around you throughout the week. Go to however many you need to go to for however long you need to go. I promise it will be one of the most welcoming places you will ever go. And they'll help you take out the pieces that need to be removed and you'll start finding the ones that are supposed to be yours.
.

The Package

2020-06-09T20:01:00.003-05:00

The other day a package, sent to me, from me, was delivered to my home.

Except I didn’t actually send myself anything.

So I had no idea what it was or who would send it or why they would.

Inside was an anonymous note referencing Avery and The 19 Days and I’m not including the note because the sender went through great lengths to remain anonymous and therefore I’m respecting that and no one will be able to scrutinize the handwriting.

Because it isn’t really about trying to figure out who sent it.

It’s about allowing yourself to just feel loved and cared for. In this case, allowing myself to just feel loved and cared for.

Because the truth is, I’ve been craving that for a long time. Years and years, really. And I kind of forgot what it was like - to just receive.

To just accept.

To just think about how someone, somewhere, thought about me and said, “I think she’d like this.” So they took out their money and purchased something that was perfect for me when they could have bought something that was perfect for them or perfect for anyone else in their life. And then they went to the post office and purchased a package to send it in and then paid for next day shipping in order to have it delivered to me.

Do you know how great it feels to be considered next day shipping worthy? Because I do. And it feels really amazing.

And on top of everything, this person essentially made certain that I had absolutely no obligation other than to simply receive and enjoy. I have no name to send a thank you card to. I have no name to reciprocate. I have nothing... except for this gift that was given to me.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, expected of me in return.

Except to receive and enjoy. And to know that somewhere, someone believes I’m pretty wonderful.

And that makes me feel pretty dang incredible.

So much so, I can't wait to do this to some other unsuspecting soul.

In the Desert

2020-04-15T20:25:00.001-05:00

I think we need to talk about the desert. Real talk.

As a Christian, we've heard this story a thousand times. The Israelites, God's Chosen People - special, marked, loved, cared for - were exiled into the desert where, although not ideal, God took care of them. We learned how daily God performed miracles just for them! He made manna (bread) fall from the sky so they could eat and he brought water out of a rock to quench their thirst!

But they weren't thrilled about it.

They whined. They complained. They felt they deserved more. They forgot to say thank you.

And, as every good Christian girl and boy does, we reacted in shock! How could they not see their God providing for them?! How could they be so ungrateful? How could they lose faith in their great and holy Father? How could they forget who He was and how much He loved them?

We would never act like that! We would learn from them! We would not let down our God with our short memories of who He is and what He promises to His people! We would be better than the Isrealites, we promised.

Friends, we haven't even been in the desert for 40 days. (That was the amount of time Jesus spent in the desert. Remember? He went without food and water and he was completely isolated except for the presence of the enemy. Literally.)

You guys! How can we be the light of the church during such a time as this if we're posting our complaints about how we shouldn't have to spend all this time teaching kids and doing school work? How it's ridiculous that restaurants are closed? Or complaining about how we haven't had a good night out with friends in ages. Or how unfair it is that our family doesn't get to go on the vacation we booked before a global pandemic thwarted our plans?

How can we convince others that God will provide for them if we can't see how God is providing for us right now?

How are we showing how great our God is when we spend more time arguing and defending politics than we do sharing God's grace and mercies of the day?

How do we share God's love and light and faithfulness and goodness and wonderfulness and powerfulness and beauty and greatness when all we're doing is whining that we deserve more than the pitiful manna piling up around our feet?

We're moving - whether we realize it our not. Our thoughts, our words, the habits we're forming - they're either moving us closer to God or closer to the enemy.

We're not sitting still through this. We're moving - whether we realize it our not. Our thoughts, our words, the habits we're forming - they're either moving us closer to God or closer to the enemy. And it's all our choice. All our doing. All our decision making. And most of us can't even see how far away from God we've actually become.

This is our desert. And why not? What makes us so special that we wouldn't have a challenge? It's not the way of our people; of God's people. God has never disillusioned us. He told us straight out that our lives here would not be easy.

John 16:33 (NIV) tells us what Jesus said. “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

The Message describes it like this: "I've told you all this so that trusting me, you will be unshakable and assured, deeply at peace." Are we showing the world how at peace with God we truly are? Do we feel unshakable and assured through our faith in God? Or are we filled with worry and fear and doubt?

How many stories have been passed down through the generations, how many scriptures have been shared, how many Sunday School lessons and church sermons have illustrated the fact that God's way is not easy - but that he HAS a Promised Land in store for us!

That he never leaves our side.
That He's with us in the battle.
That we're not forgotten.
That He will give us the strength we need to endure for one more day.

As Christians, our greatest battle isn't COVID-19. It isn't being laid off. It isn't the dwindling check book and the empty pantry. It isn't hours of school work battles around the kitchen table. Our greatest struggle is with our patience in God and our gratitude to God.

We're not forgotten by God. But we have been forgetting Him.

Leading Me.

2020-01-01T19:15:00.000-06:00

Based on evidence from radiometric age-dating of meteorite material, the earth is about 4.543 billion years old.

I am 46. By this point in my life I have slept away at least 15-years, but it's actually probably closer to twenty. If I remain healthy, I have about thirty good years left, but I still have to sleep.

If I were to be honest, I would admit I have spent the majority of my life in a state of reaction to someone or something else. I am not exactly known as a trailblazer or a leader. I will happily pass the leadership baton to someone else and let them decide what my life should look like. Where should we eat? You decide. Where should we vacation? You pick. What should holidays look like? I guess I'll just deal with whatever you come up with.

I have always had these grand plans to pick up and move to someplace quaint and quirky, fall in love with a man who was much more level-headed and rational than I, and have a bunch of kids that would be the pride of my heart. I'd know everyone in town and would get my coffee at the same diner every morning. In my dreams, I'm always someplace south. (Also, I drink coffee in my dreams which I do not ever do in real life.) But instead of making choices that would lead me down the path to that quaint and quirky town, I hopped in the car of the first boy who paid attention to me and ended up going nowhere but staying here trying to raise babies alone.

I often picture myself hiking alone, invigorated, soul-filled, balanced, but nature scares me. I used to run long distance throughout the trails in the DNR land at the back edge of our property. Nothing but my breath and the sound of my feet crunching leaves and small sticks. I loved every step of it! Then there was this crazy encounter with a fox that took me immediately and forever off those trails.

I have always done whatever I had to do to get by. To get from the step I was at to the very next step. Conservatively move from job to job to get to the top paying one with the best benefits. Buy the car that makes the most sense. Purchase the sofa that's on sale even though it's not the one I really wanted.

So, I think I'm going to switch things up in 2020. Instead of watching my life waltz by with each passing day and trying to follow it around, I'm going to be intentional about where I step and what decisions I make. It's about time I lead instead of waiting to be asked to go out on the dance floor.

It's going to be hard for me. It goes against some really bad, ingrained habits. But I'm going to try it.

This year, I'm going to learn how to lead me.

The Accidental Veteran

2019-11-11T23:02:00.003-06:00

I'm on the front page of the base newspaper, a bulky Kevlar helmet on my head, even clunkier military issued glasses on my face, frozen in time next to a 4-star general.

I'm showing him the results of my target practice. He's smiling, proudly. All the bullet holes in a tight circle in the center. I look bored.

It was raining.

I was woken up extra early, before any of the others. Placed on an old school bus painted drab brown-green. Or maybe it was green-brown. It was so long ago. It's hard to remember the details.

I sit directly behind the driver. Alone. I didn't know who I was with. I didn't ask. They didn't offer.

We drove in the dark. Stopped. Exited.

I stood waiting with two other strangers dressed the same as me. Someone pointed. The three of us, strangers to each other, walked away.

I found the perfect spot up on the wooded hill. Covered in camouflaged face paint - the most make up I'd ever wear on my face, covered my body in tree branches and leaves. Waiting in the wide open where no one could see me.

Dark can hide the shape but can never hide the sound. They thought they were so good, and maybe they were... but they weren't silent.

If you quiet your mind and slow the beat of your heart you can hear everything you need to.

The stranger-sergeant low-crawled, angry-advanced screaming directly in my ear: at least let them get halfway way up the goddamn hill, private! I still feel the sting of his spit on my face just under my right eye.

Isn't that what we were supposed to be doing? Playing pretend so they could do the real thing? Who was going to tell them that when they left they wouldn't even make it halfway up the hill?

Yelling. Lights. Banging. Bunks toppling over with the sleepers still in them. Get up! Get up! Get up!

Night drill. We flooded a concrete bunker in silence. And waited. Waited for what seemed like forever in the frozen night air. If there was light, maybe I could see my breath.

Suddenly, chaos from all sides. We scramble over the too-tall bunker wall into a make believe hell.

Artillery lights the sky, explosions next to our bodies, wriggling on our backs through puddles, all we had to do is get through.

But one body stayed under the barbed wire. It was no longer make believe. Two drill sergeants drag him out. They said it was a heart condition. But it was just supposed to be pretend.

Of the young men and women I did life with, only one was gung-ho. One. He knew all the insignia, all the generals, all the history. He wanted to be there with every fiber of his being. Planned for this moment in time since he was seven or eight. He bored us to tears and connected with no one.

The rest? The overwhelming majority?

We were there by accident.

The misfits. The ones who knew they didn't fit in and just wanted to disappear. They could slip away and collect a pay check. Finally a win.

Kids who couldn't, wouldn't hack it in school.

Kids with families so messed up the military looked easy.

One told us about growing up poor in the south. Her daddy was too mean to the other kids. He was too nice to her. She just didn't want him to touch her anymore. She knew if she left she was never coming back. But she didn't have anywhere to run to. Here she had a bed and meals. So what if she had to learn how to properly clean herself after a chemical attack. She'd been scrubbing her skin raw since she was thirteen.

Another, in and out of foster care. She couldn't tell us how many. Shoot, all the places and the faces ran together. This wasn't the first time she had to share a room with people she wouldn't bother getting to know.

The girl taking a 4-year detour. She never wanted to learn how to wire a land mine. She wanted to learn how to write a lesson plan for third graders.

Baby-faced Elias who knew no other way to escape Watts. He had a better chance for survival in Desert Storm. Watts would definitely kill him. It had already taken his brother, his uncle and his favorite cousin.

Selfies. Before they were a thing and before you could delete the
entire thing if you all looked ridiculous and do a do-over.

There was this thing after boot camp - a graduation of sorts where family could fly in, take pictures, tell you how amazing you are, take you out to a fancy restaurant. The majority of the recruits had no one come. They went back to the barracks. Became their own family.

Me? Well, the unromantic explanation is I flunked out of college. I had already been disappointing my parents for the majority of my existence, so there was no use trying to go back down that route again. I was working part-time at a gas station; hardly enough to pay any rent. I didn't know what to do with my life and there was some sort of recruiting station in town. I walked in and signed up. It was that thought out. I needed a place to live and a job. Two birds, one stone. Done.

For a long time I didn't consider myself a veteran. I was a cocky young kid who had failed and just needed a place to go. The military took me in. I have a copy of my DD 214 but have never cashed in any of my long-ago promised benefits. I never used my GI Bill to go to finish school because somewhere along the line society convinced me that I wasn't "veteran enough." I was never deployed overseas, never saw combat, never killed anyone in action. I was in the very first class the Army offered Automated Logistical Specialist training. I graduated second in my class. We learned how to keep track of inventory on a computer. That hardly seems like a reason to benefit from a VA Loan.

Let's be honest, compared to Gung-Ho Military Guru Guy, the rest of our squad was pretty, well, basic.

But with age comes wisdom. And here's what I know now:

Those misfits? Those escape artists? Those family-less? They are brave. They are courageous. They saw real-life combat in a way many of us take for granted. They choose to put our country first, even if it is because it's their last resort.

So, as we're going around celebrating our loved ones who wore the uniform: the ones we have a plethora of pictures of and love letters from; the ones we finally received the phone call from; the ones with the funny stories about how their Drill Sergeant embarrassed them for getting your care package with the chocolate chip cookies and the card sprayed with perfume... think about the others.

Think about the soldiers who go through the entirety of basic training ang AIT without a single letter received nor a single phone call to make.

Think about the soldiers who stay on base when it's a holiday because they never had the benefit of a family.

Think about the soldiers who recognize the irony of ensuring you have a safe life to live because they had to escape their dangerous one.

Think about the accidental veteran. The one who never once saw themselves as a soldier but somehow ended up there.

Meeting My Dad for the First Time

2019-06-16T21:19:00.002-05:00

Growing up, I avoided my dad whenever I could. I'd slink around corners and sit quietly in rooms wanting nothing more than to stay undetected. I'd avoid looking him in the eyes or speaking directly to him, preferring someone else to do the talking while I observed from a safe distance.

I was scared of my dad. Deathly afraid at whatever outburst was about to erupt. My dad was impatient, short-tempered, angry. He saved his best self for his friends. I got the just stay out of his way and don't make him mad.

The most common words from my Dad were shut up, be quiet, and don't make me come up there. I could relax when my Dad wasn't home. My stomach would turn into a tight ball of nerves the second I heard the sound of gravel crunching under tires coming up the drive.

I was fourteen years old when I learned my father was an alcoholic. I knew he always had a can of beer in his hand while mowing the lawn, but alcohol was not kept in our home. (Except for a bottle of peach schnapps hidden away in the back of a tall cabinet in the kitchen that my older sister made my brother drink after he got lost in a blizzard walking up to the house when the school bus dropped him off, but that's a different story.)

Suddenly kids at school were laughing about how they saw my dad stop at an intersection downtown and get out of his car to grab a couple cans of beer from the trunk. I realized the impulsive decision to buy a horse (with pygmy goat companion) wasn't because he was artistic and saw the world in a different light, it was because he was drunk and made stupid decisions without consulting his spouse. His rantings about politics and government were not informed, they were paranoid. When he told me I was stupid and wouldn't amount to anything it wasn't because he was just too tired from working all those long hours, it was because he was mean when he drank.

My father was what one would consider a functioning alcoholic. He went to work and worked hard. He paid his bills, made sure his family ate. He kept the yard looking nice and had gardens others were jealous of. He washed and waxed the cars by hand, making sure each tire held the right pressure and the oil was regularly changed.

My Dad mowed the yard after he got home from his job at the local factory, would watch some television and fall asleep on the calico print furniture in the living room. I never understood how he was capable of startling awake the second I tried to turn the channel, yelling I was watching that! When things got really stressful, and my mom took on a second shift job leaving my dad in charge, I hung out in the laundry room. It was as far opposite from the living room as possible.

He took us kids to the driving range so he could hit shag balls while we walked up and down ditch lines trying to see who could find the most golf balls. Some people were lousy shots. Not my dad. He won trophies and people asked his advice on how to improve their swing.

But then he'd have a few.

There are far too many stories of what happened when Dad had a few. I can laugh now but I couldn't then. To be honest, I couldn't for a whole lot of years after I moved out. Like I said, he saved his best for others. We got the worst of him.

One hundred and thirty-three days ago, my Dad almost died. He started bleeding out - the result of years of drinking, ulcers, and a previous stroke which required blood thinners... the bleeding wouldn't stop. Three transfusions later and a wicked bout with withdrawal, I watched as he relearned how to sit up, stand, and eventually walk again. His vision is permanently destroyed.

But something new bloomed.

I was meeting my Dad for the first time. I was meeting the real him. The sober him. The one with focus. The one who remembers. The one who can hold a conversation, rather than repeating the same thing over and over.

I've learned that his sister Rhonda makes the best lemon meringue pie ever and that he thinks there's something wrong with people who don't like lemon meringue pie.

I've learned that he tried so hard to get his dad to stop smoking. He actually tried smoking once. Never again.

I've learned that in his early twenties he worked on a bridge construction crew, traveling about Australia fixing bridges. He told me that's why he never wanted to go camping. After having to live it, who would want to do that for fun? His favorite jobs were ones where they could reach running water in a creek or river below. Those made the best showers.

I've learned that when he was about 17-years old (he guesses) he was driving a tractor down the road and saw lightning strike a tree about 200-yards in front of him. It filled him with a powerful fear and reverence for lightning. You won't catch him outside in a storm. Nope. He's too scared of lightning because he's seen first-hand what it can do.

I've learned that when he was about 9 or 10 years old he desperately wanted a bicycle but knew they could never afford it. He went to the garbage dump scavaging for bits and pieces of thrown away bikes, took them all apart and created a new bike. He painted it blue. He loved that bike.

I've learned about people who have hurt him. A teacher. An in-law. A guy at work. All reiterating the same message... that he would never amount to anything. He wants to find that old teacher, pull up in a spot free, paid-off car and say you were wrong.

I've learned that he was the first one of all his friends to buy a car. A Datsun. Up and down the coast they'd fly! But he always asked his friends to pay for gas. That was the deal. They used his car; he used their gas.

I've learned that times got tough. Too tough. He had to park the Datsun, cover her up, and ride his bike to and from work because he couldn't afford the gas. But he did it because that's what you do... you find a way to keep going.

I've learned more about him in these past 133 days than I have in the past 45 years. And I could be angry about that.

I could stomp and pout and rail against him: it's too late! Do you even know what it was like living with you? Never able to make you happy? Or proud?

I could hold a grudge: no. You don't get to come in at the end and expect me to clap and cheer because you're finally doing something you should've done forty years ago.

I could choose to be stubborn and refuse a relationship with him -- but I'd be the one missing out. I've been wishing and wanting my dad to stop drinking since I figured it out when I was fourteen and now that time is here. Only self-centered, spoiled people choose bitterness because they got the gift they asked for... but aren't happy with when they got it.

I finally get a chance to meet my sober dad. My children finally get a chance to meet their sober Papa. We finally get a chance to care and encourage and find happiness with each other and I am not going to squander the time I have been given just because I don't think this happened soon enough for me. And I am certainly not going to be the one who shows the world that I'm holding a grudge at someone who is finally trying to do things right.

We most definitely still do not share the same views politically or religiously, and sometimes he just gets on my nerves like any other person might, but that's okay because he's my father. And I'm learning that I actually like who he is. I don't avoid him anymore.

Avery absolutely loved her Papa.

I don't think my Dad knew what to do with Avery...
but I know Avery knew exactly how to love my Dad.

When Break Up Behavior Isn't Normal

2019-05-16T21:54:00.001-05:00

I once met a young man and we got to talking. He made me laugh. We exchanged phone numbers and started getting to know each other. We were out to lunch when I realized this wasn't someone I was interested in moving forward in a relationship with. He had stated his goals and what he wanted out of life, as did I. What we wanted was too different. It was as simple as that. I thanked him for lunch, he wished me well.

I tried to end a different relationship when it was obvious that one wasn't working. He got angry. Felt disrespected. Called me selfish. Called me a lot of other names, too. It was about as opposite a reaction I ever could have imagined.

He stood across the street from my house on the sidewalk. Just staring. I closed the curtains. I called the police.

What is he doing? Standing there.

Is he threatening you? No, he's just standing there staring at my house.

Is he yelling? No. He is standing across the street. On the sidewalk. Staring at my house. Where he has been for the past 25 minutes. He is not moving. It's creepy.

Look, he isn't threatening you, he isn't bothering you and there's nothing illegal about standing on public property.

I had been told, by the police, the ones that I was supposed to go to when I felt scared, that I was being ridiculous. That there was no reason to bother them. Just because I didn't like it, didn't mean it was illegal.

He was there all the time. Day after day. If he wasn't standing, he was slowly driving past my house over and over. Guess what? There is nothing illegal about driving around either.

I kept my curtains shut. I never opened the windows to reveal just screens. I looked up and down the street before darting to my car and leaving. I kept my lights off all the time so he wouldn't know if I was home or not. After getting far too many hang-ups after I answered my phone, I started to just let it ring. And ring. And ring. Eventually, I just switched the ringer off.

I was a prisoner in my own home and, although the legal definition might not have ever been met, I guarantee this guy knew what he was doing. He meant to hurt me, scare me, and teach me a lesson.

And he did.

I moved in the blink of an eye, leaving behind the house that I owned and renting another. I moved to a location without a public sidewalk he could stand and stare on, and without a quiet street that he could slowly drive by on every twenty minutes until his obsession wore off. I moved to a place where he and his behavior would look obviously out of place. Where others would notice he didn't belong. I wanted to make sure everyone would be aware of the creepy guy with the creepy behavior.

I did the right thing. I ended the relationships I knew were not right for me. I walked away from the thing I no longer wanted to be a part of. I stood up for myself and advocated for myself. I was strong.

It's a message we teach our young girls over and over again: get out of the relationship as soon as you know it's not the right one. Don't string another along. Don't give up your future or yourself for another. It's better to be happy and single than miserable in a relationship.

So, where are the messages for our sons? The ones where we teach: you have no right to intimidate someone just because you're mad. You are not allowed to pester someone who said they don't want to date you. She said she doesn't want to see you - so stop trying.

Who has talked to their sons about the proper way to behave during a breakup?

Because 42 text messages over eight hours is not normal breakup behavior.

Standing on a sidewalk for 30-40 minutes at a time across the street from the girl who broke up with you a month ago is not normal break up behavior.

Yelling profanities and calling the girl who broke up with you names is not normal breakup behavior.

Facebook stalking, Instagram refreshing, Snapchat spying, or trying to befriend her accounts under a false name so you can see what she's up to is not normal break up behavior.

Sitting outside her work trying to catch her coming or going is not normal break up behavior.

And maybe parents can't quite see how their sons are mishandling breakups... but I bet friends see. Because I have heard you talking.

Dude's obsessed, man!

Yeah, I told him to just stop texting her but he won't.

He, like, got into her Facebook account and can see everyone she's talking to.

He's freaking crazy, man!

Friends, step up. YOU'RE the ones that need to go to the police. YOU'RE the ones that can stop something from getting out of control. YOU'RE the ones that can warn a young girl that they're in danger. YOU'RE the ones that can help someone from slipping down into a dangerous place where people get seriously hurt.

I'm going to switch gears here because the area in which I live has been talking about opening a new domestic abuse shelter for women and I am probably the only person against it. Yep. Me. A person who has lived through this is against it. Not in theory - but in location.

It's a proposed location right across the street from a huge public park area. Where someone with a 300' restraining order can still sit and watch the proposed domestic abuse shelter property because guess what? It isn't illegal to sit in a park. You can even walk back and forth and back and forth in a portion of the park. It isn't illegal to walk in a park.

It's a proposed location with four different "back way" entry points straight into the housing side at the rear of the building... easy access for the guy who cannot seem to participate in normal break up behavior. Several of those access points are through commercial properties where no one will notice someone walking through late at night after the office staff left. (I don't know if you know this, but most men intent on scaring someone and teaching them a lesson prefer the surprise attack. They tend not to park in the lot and check in through the main office.)

It's a proposed location where a woman (and her children) staying there cannot see who is outside. In fact, if they're lucky enough to have a car, their car will be parked in a back lot which, I hope the neighbors daily keep an eye out to ensure no one's lurking around. Lots of guys "just want to talk" and if they could just see you one more time...

It's a proposed location with public street parking all around it. It's not illegal to park a car. It's not illegal to sit in a parked car. I don't know about you, but I want to know what I'm walking or driving into way before I get to it.

It's a proposed location where, if you don't have a car - which happens sometimes because, for some reason, those really great guys that love you so much also don't want you to have transportation - so, if you don't have a car, you get to walk 2-miles to the local grocery store, dollar store, drug store or medical center. A lot can happen in two miles there and two miles back. Or, I suppose you could spend your hard earned cash getting one of those big burritos at the gas station for dinner. Because who cares if you will ever actually have enough money to live independently in your own place? It's way more important to support the businesses downtown that happen to be more expensive than those horrible big box stores on the outskirts of town. Besides, if you can't financially support yourself, you could always go back to that great guy you were trying to flee from.

It's a proposed location where young children can walk to school! Umm.... absolutely not. If that was my kid, I'd want them on a bus. Not walking where dad/stepdad/mom's recent boyfriend can saddle up next to them and start asking questions... or maybe just offer them a ride. Kids don't know how to handle these situations. Don't make them walk into one.

It's a proposed location that, quite frankly, given the situation I was in - would never go to because I wouldn't feel safe there. Now, maybe times have changed since my situation and men who abuse/stalk women are much more polite and follow rules better. Maybe it was just my situation where they knew oh-so-well just how much to do without getting into any real trouble.

But perhaps you should take one look at the aerial photo of the entire block area just in case...

I don't pretend to have the answers, but I do think we need to start with talking to our sons about how to behave in a break-up and get some laws on the books to better identify the behavior that isn't normal in order to stop things before they slip too far. Because, when our girls are strong and walk away from a relationship that isn't good for them, they need to be able to keep living.

The proposed new domestic abuse shelter property outlined in red. The living facilities will be at the rear of the building with offices up front. Note the multiple access points to the rear of the building. Note the large park opposite the front of the building with public on-street parking. Note the parking area at the rear of the building where anyone can easily hide.
Everything about this location is not secure. Not good. Not safe.
Walworth County can do better for our women and children who deserve to be and feel safe!

Ticket for One, Please.

2019-05-05T21:13:00.002-05:00

I started doing something after Avery died that, when I tell people what I'm doing, they look at me with very sad eyes. But they don't need to.

I started going to the movies by myself.

I like it. I need it. I mean, I really need it.

There are obvious benefits: no one steals your popcorn or asks what just happened because they were totally not paying attention; and there are the obvious disadvantages: no one to go get you a refill because they're annoying you by asking plot questions they should already know the answers to, had they been paying attention.

But that's not why I do it.

It started as a necessity. A holiday without when my oldest daughter was out of the country on a much-deserved escape from reality and my youngest was with his father celebrating with his family. I was very alone on Christmas and the thought was destroying me. I felt frantic. That's a very common emotion felt after the death of a child: franticness.

It pops up whenever it feels like it. Frantic means, wild or distraught with fear, anxiety, or other emotion. Sometimes it shows up at obvious times like a holiday. Other times you're standing in the freezer section at the local Piggly Wiggly completely frantic with some overwhelming emotion because a box of popsicles triggered something within you and you can't breathe and you can't think and your baby died and your eyes are wide and you can't figure how to get out of the stupid store and why did this have to happen to you? What did you do to deserve this?

Frantic shows up a lot. Enough years pass and one day your arms are strong enough to hold Frantic at bay for a bit until you can actually get in your car and process. (That's another thing mothers of heaven-children become well acquainted with: learning how to process.)

Anyway. It was Christmas. I was frantic. I needed a plan to avoid jumping into that Dark Pit that was calling out to me so gently and sweetly. Come. I have a big fluffy mattress and pillows at the bottom. I have comfy blankets. It's dark so you won't have to see all those happy people. You know, the ones who get to keep their children... Dark Pits are liars. Plans to outsmart Dark Pits are necessary.

So, I hopped on my computer, conducted a Google search and created a spreadsheet that helped me pinpoint four different movies I could see in one given day without any awkward wait times.

I had the best time ever! There was hardly anyone in the entire complex until the 7:00 pm show started, and by then I had three movies under my belt.

Something happened that day that I needed. I needed to be alone. I needed to escape in a healthy way. (No alcohol. No hatred.) And I needed to not be required to be an active participant.

You see, something else happens when you lose a child. Those people around you that love you and care for you? They desperately want you to "get better." The thing is, we don't. We will always be grieving. We just learn how to make it less obvious so others feel less awkward. We still hurt. We still want to cry. We still long to physically hold our children. We still want to talk about it. But we know it bothers you. We know it's hard for you. So, we buck up and make sure that you are convinced that we are fine. And for the most part, we are. But not every single second of every single day. Whether you realize it or not? You really hold those stricken by grief to a higher standard of doing fine.

When we're not fine and we get quiet, that's when the trouble starts.

When we're quiet, you get uncomfortable. When we know we're tired and need to just sit this one out, you panic.

It's okay. We don't blame you. We know you don't have much experience in how to be friends with someone who lost their child. Nevertheless, sometimes we just need to process. Or ward off Franticness. Or sometimes it's as simple as we're just tired of smiling right now. We're not going off the deep end. We just need some time.

You're probably wondering why we just don't go to therapy. We do. I mean, most of us have. We frantically dialed a number and explained our kid just died and we're drowning and we get an appointment. But it becomes very clear very quickly which therapists understand grief and which ones learned about grief in a textbook.

Do you know how many times a mama has told me they stopped going to therapy after they realized they were holding back sharing because they knew it would upset their counselor? True fact. That's one of the first places we learn that Hard Grief is not acceptable in normal society.

Grief is hard and it is heavy and textbooks underestimate its power. If you can't be real with a certified therapist what options do you have?

I happen to have found popcorn is quite therapeutic.

There are times when I feel Frantic approaching and I know I need to get myself to a matinee. I have my boundaries: no killing, no deaths and no telling anyone I'm going before I go. Too often they want to force themselves along or convince me it isn't healthy for me to go alone.

Here's a fun fact: healthy people go to the movies alone all the time! No one looks at them with sad eyes. It's usually more in awe. I could never go to a movie by myself! That's so cool that you do that!

We need to start looking in awe at those who struggle when they are taking healthy steps to balance themselves.

A lot of mamas without have started running. That's something deemed healthy and good. Training for a marathon gives you lots of alone time to process where you're at emotionally. But running is kind of hard. Then there's that cold, raining weather you have to contend with. And hills. And dogs that run out of yards. And gnats that accidentally get swallowed when you're gasping for breath.

At the movies, they have really comfy chairs. And popcorn. With butter.

Some mamas journal or write poetry, others garden. One mama told me she learned calligraphy because she liked how it demanded her to focus. As she got more proficient she said the repetitiveness of the strokes and the sound of her pen on the paper was soothing. Some mamas will knit or sew or bake fancy cakes to forget the stress of the moment. I go to the movies.

The key is to find what works for you and then make time to do it. Whatever it is doesn't matter, as long as it is a healthy choice and one that refreshes you.

Keep going, mama. You've got this.

When the Day is Hard

2018-10-31T17:29:00.000-05:00

It is such a beautiful place, the cemetery. Peaceful, full of reminders that I'm certainly not the only one.

Days like this, they haunt me. Blue skies, unseasonable warm, leaves of gold glittering in the breeze. I remember this weather. The same as six years ago. How unfair is it that loved ones must die? How unbelievably cruel when the day is picture perfect? Shouldn't the skies mimic the complete and utter despair? Shouldn't the earth darken when the heart does, too?

Today is Halloween and everyone is giddy with excitement. My son carefully coordinated his "nerd costume" and made sure his candy bag had no holes in it. I passed the duties of trick or treating off to Matt.

I just can't do it. I cannot keep it together a moment longer.

October is so very hard for me to navigate. Avery's birthday starts it off, we end with her death. In between is a balancing act - one that I'm getting better at, but I'm still such a novice. Some people want to talk about Avery, others have moved on. Some still can't quite swallow around the sorrow in their throat, others forget there was an accident at all. I can't seem to figure out who is who until it's awkwardly too late.

It's at the point where there are more and more new families at school who never knew Avery existed at all. They just assume Brody has always been an only child. I still don't know how to answer seemingly benign questions like how many children do you have?

I find myself wondering so much - would Airheads candy still be her favorite? Or would her palate matured along with her age? Would she still like school? Would she have a job? The 11-year old would study her tookus off and get a job at Starbucks. But I only know my 11-year old daughter. My 17-year old daughter will always be a stranger; she will never be revealed to me.

I balance between grieving a child lost and celebrating the child living, constantly filled with guilt because I always fall short with one of them. Today, I am not in a good place to see swarms of happy children laughing together.

Six years ago today I felt everything catch up with me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I needed to escape but I didn't know to where. Brody, then 3, kept asking when Mimi (the name he gave Avery) was coming home. She had been gone for a week. Jadrian, then 17, was so burdened with guilt and pain I couldn't comfort her. Matt had no idea how to talk to me, much less comfort me. Everywhere I turned someone needed me to hold them up and I just couldn't anymore. So I ran away.

Technically, I hopped in my car and started driving. I got exactly two blocks away when I was met with more children than I could count. So much joy! How dare they. How dare they live their lives as if tragedy hadn't touched them yet!

How dare I judge their joy.

This living with loss is so much like walking a tightrope. Some days you know there is a crowd beneath you cheering you on; but at other times everyone has left to go to dinner and it starts to drizzle. Sometimes I feel confident striding across, other times I barely inch forward. Sometimes I mess up so bad that my balancing stick falls miles below me and shatters.

There are days when I will be the mother I'm supposed to be to my living son, laughing during a game of Yahtzee or watching another episode of The Worst Witch cuddled up together.

And then there are days like today when he really wants me to come with but I just don't have it in me. When I know I won't be able to stop the tears. When I have no more strength left.

Today, Brody went trick or treating with his Dad while I took a super hot shower and cried because the day is hard. I yelled out to God just so I could tell Him one more time how angry I am with Him. How I am still mad and hurt and sad because I miss Avery so very, very much, and I don't think that was fair and it just really sucks and I'm tired of it sucking. And then I asked Him to strengthen me, because that's His promise to me: never to leave me, to be my rock and my foundation, my source of strength. And because I was able to do all that, when Brody gets home I'll be able to ooh and ahh over all the loot he collected in his cute nerd costume and beg him to give up all the red Starbursts to his mom.

My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.

Psalm 119:28

To the Very Last Person to Ever Touch My Daughter on Earth

2018-09-26T16:11:00.001-05:00

Avery Johanna McCarthy
10.05.01 - 10.24.12

You were the very last person to ever touch my daughter on earth. You took her stilled, silent body and you washed her. You changed her into the clothes I had brought over in a brown paper bag. Her favorite blue jeans, a bright blue t-shirt with a tank top underneath. Years later, I'd panic, convinced I had forgotten to bring fresh, clean underwear. I contacted the people at the funeral home - can you believe we've become such good friends? I was told that when a family forgets something like that, they simply discretely provide it.

You helped me to understand that it was okay to put fuzzy socks on her feet. You patiently slipped them on her.

You took the down comforter I passed to your hands and listened as I explained through choppy breaths and a stream of tears that she'd need to be wrapped up in it - like a burrito. Because that's how she watched TV. Burrito wrapped in her blanket.

You wrapped her up tightly. And you laid her down gently for the very last time.

I honestly have no idea what compels someone to become a funeral director. I can't imagine many high school career counselors hear that one. In your case, this was a family business, but you could have done anything.

Instead, you chose to comfort the brokenhearted. You chose a profession where you see people at their weakest and most vulnerable. During the times where we are so lost we have literally no idea how we will behave. Some sit stone still, others rage. Some cry, others are in denial. Families fight in front of you, bringing up old, unnecessary wounds when all that should be done is to write the obituary and get it into the paper.

You see the absolute worst life has to offer. A front and center seat to the most horrible of all horribles. Children. Innocents. Disease. Accidents. Heartache. Fathers. Mothers. And those so alone no one comes to cry for them at all.

And yet, you aren't hardened. You aren't cold. You aren't even angry.

In fact, it seems the exact opposite; that your heart continues to grow and grow with unlimited compassion and a gentleness that seems to be unattainable for the rest of us. You love strangers in the most intimate of ways. You care for them. And you do it so gently. So beautifully. As if you know how truly honorable it is to dress the dead.

I wasn't able to see Avery after -- in fact, you looked me right in the eyes and asked me what my last memory of her was. I told you about that morning. How stunningly beautiful I noticed her to be. That she seemed bathed in golden light when she was standing at the bathroom mirror, when she was sitting in the passenger seat flicking on the CD. That light followed her all morning. I told you how she took my breath away when she sang. How I caught a glimpse of her as her older self but not quite - she looked like an angel. I explained how my words were at a complete loss when she looked back as she got out of the car: You know, Mom, I really am a God Girl. I smiled and shook my head, this sweet, sweet girl of mine, as she skipped away.

"Hold on to that," you said. "You don't need this."

I knew what you meant. You were saving me from a memory I didn't need to have. You took on for yourself what you knew I shouldn't have to be hurt by. An image that no mother should ever have to face. How many times have you done that? How many times have you chosen the heartache for yourself to save a stranger from theirs?

I can't imagine it's easy for you. In a society where we're keen on asking what people do for a living and griping about our jobs at dinner parties, where do you fit? When you haven't been to any of your child's soccer games and you miss the parent-teacher conference because you're answering someone else's crisis, how do you reconcile that? When you have to ditch last minute because a stranger's funeral had to be held that particular day, what do you feel when the pictures come back and your date is, once again, alone? How many people have you cared for, comforted, held up and yet they look away awkwardly when you pass them in the grocery store or at the gas station - not because of anything more than they're just trying desperately to figure out their new normal and they're afraid they're going to lose it so they pretend not to see you because that's the only way they know how to deal? How many times have you been avoided simply because of the job you do?

I imagine it might be very lonely for you at times.

I want to tell you thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I hope you know that what you do for others - what you did for me - will always mean more than anyone can ever explain. Thank you for choosing the hard road, the difficult journey. Thank you for showing up and taking the lead when everyone else is lost and has no idea what to do. Thank you for staying late. Thank you for listening to our stories. Thank you for making us feel that we matter. Thank you for your professionalism. Thank you for your kindness. And thank you for your compassion.

And, thank you, for tucking Avery in one very last time.

Just Pray

2018-09-16T20:50:00.002-05:00

During a football game, when a serious injury occurs, all play stops. Players on the field and lining the sidelines immediately kneel. The stadium falls silent. I'm told, although there isn't a specific rule governing bystander protocol during an injury, being still keeps others from gathering around the injured player and getting in the way of people responding to the injury. It is also a sign of great respect. Somewhere in those stands is a mama whose heart just sank to her stomach and she's trying to breathe but nothing's coming. Her child is lying there, not moving, and she has no idea what's wrong.

When Avery died, it was as if the entire stadium of my world went silent. People had heard about the accident, word spread, whispering through phone calls and hushed run-in's at the grocery stores. It wasn't until I pressed publish on my first blog post that the stadium community let out a collective breath and began that slow clap as I began to slowly rise. It would take a long time for me to heal, to stand and to be able to take confident strides, but I was moving. Even if all I was doing in that moment, figuratively speaking, was barely wiggling my pinky toe.

I found that it didn't matter what side people were rooting for - they showed up when it mattered.

The dynamics of my family - aunts, uncles, cousins, extended family, children, children's family, ex-boyfriends, current boyfriend and everybody in between - I swear have been taken from a soap opera plot. And yet, they were all there. Because even though there's all this crap and bad decisions and jealousies, blaming, hurt and hate, decent humans know that in the long run, none of that matters.

Deep down we all know that our turn for being the injured player on the field is just a matter of time and we just pray that we have a stadium full of decent people to hold us up when it does. Because no one, I don't care how macho or callous you try to make yourself, no one wants to be lying out on that field alone. It's knowing that we're surrounded - surrounded by prayers, by well wishes, good jou-jou, positive vibes and whatever else you call it, that gives us strength and comfort.

On September 9th at 5:43pm, my friend, Amy, posted these words to her Facebook page:

"Someone who I love more than life needs prayers. Please send prayers.... just pray."

Amy. Sweet Amy. Who always wears a smile and who always has a laugh! She has been diligent in supporting me since Avery died. The unexpected private message. The encouraging word at just the right time. She is the fiercest cheerleader I know, seeing so much good in others, especially when they don't see it themselves. She fights for the underdog and won't allow you to quit on yourself. See, she knows a truth that most of us don't, and that's that we give in to the lies of the devil more than we accept the truth of our worth in Christ. You might not believe in yourself, but she does. And she knows God does, too, so you're worth fighting for. And she is going to show up every single time, because that's just who she is.

She's a private person and respects the privacy of others, but in this case, I think she knows people are trying to knock down the gates and pile into her stadium and she needs them. She needs them to pray with abundance and without ceasing for her son, Austin.

Austin was in a car accident - and don't get me started on that because the second I heard I fell apart but I quickly pulled it back together because one thing I will NOT let happen is let a mama think she has to do this all by herself. Not on my watch.

Austin has had several surgeries already so specific prayers right now are for absolute restorative healing and also the complete ability to walk. Austin is a young, good looking guy with a wicked sense of humor and a life story that will hurt your heart, but he's a fighter and a warrior and he just needs to keep on fighting and not give into any of the lies trying to fight for space in his head.

I believe in the power of prayer.

I believe in Our Almighty God who performs miracles even today.

And I believe that Austin is going to look up and see that stadium overflowing, filled with neighbors, community members and strangers with prayers on their lips. His family and friends kneeling on the field, eager to stand when he does.

When Your Imagined Life is Nothing Like This One

2018-06-20T19:51:00.001-05:00

There were so many ways I imagined my adult life would be....THIS is not one of them.

I posted that on my Facebook wall last night. It might have been seen as funny except my choice of hashtags gave me away:

treading water getting nowhere

piles of disappointment

not many successes

worn out and exhausted

out of options

I always imagined my life would be thrilling. Full of exciting adventures and people from all over the world. I would dine at Ethiopian, Thai, and Indian restaurants. I would write books, teach English, coach forensics and direct the play. My husband would be charming and funny and not care about gender roles when it came to household chores. He would beg for at least six kids and I would fall in love with him all over again each time I caught him giving good life advice.

I would take photographs and travel the world documenting the people I came across. I would adopt a sibling group of three or maybe four and work on foster care policies because the ones we have aren't working.

I would live in a house with lots of windows because nothing feels better than natural light and my walls would be bright and the lights would always be on. The lawn would be mowed and I'd wave at the neighborhood kids from my front porch swing.

I would sing and run and ride a bike - but not a horse because no matter how majestic and beautiful they are they still have teeth and don't tell me horses don't bite because I have first hand childhood experiences with a doozy named Rocket.

I would wear smart clothes and keep running my 5 miles a day because I love the sound of feet hitting pavement. (All you earbud wearing people are missing out.)

I would hop in the car and just drive until I got there, not a care in the world other than experiencing the journey I didn't know I was even on. Surely it would be a convertible.

I would get my own radio show where a stranger would walk in and in a half hour we'd all know their amazing story because every single person on the planet has one. And I would write in my own column whatever I felt like writing about. Surely it would be syndicated.

I would have friends over for themed dinner parties and we'd laugh and talk about documentaries and eat gorgeous food that I made myself. I would go to plays and see comedians (but not the really raunchy ones) and purchase popcorn with extra butter for every comedy I would watch in the movie theater.

I would be carefree and happy and doing what I love the most: always learning about our world - like how redheads require about 20% more anesthesia to "go under" than other hair colors or that water can freeze AND boil at the same time - it's called the triple point.

But none of that is my life.

I am a 44-year old single mom who lives at home with her parents. The lights are always off in my parent's home because apparently we're anti-light. (Yes, I pay really good rent to be here.)

I work in a painfully high male dominated industry and I cannot work hard enough or be perfect enough to illicit even the smallest amount of respect from my peers. I should explain that my peers don't even consider me their peer. I'm just "the girl in the office." The only writing I do is in email form or for dry reports in which one particular colleague of mine enjoys picking apart every syllable I write or speak in an effort to make me look completely incompetent in front of my co-workers. This has been going on since I filed a sexual harassment claim against my boss and was told I should "be happy because I got what I wanted - he's gone now, isn't he?" Good times.

I rarely eat out at restaurants that feature cuisine from other cultures because I can't figure out what is gluten free and therefore safe enough for me to eat. I have adopted zero kids and fostered even less. Instead of gaining more kids, I've lost half the ones God originally blessed me with.

The only documentaries I watch are the ones on Netflix that I watch after my son goes to bed.

The majority of my everyday I do pretty good. I mean, I still read ferociously enough to learn a lot, but every so often this memory from the past rises to the surface and changes everything.

I was just standing there alone like my awkward high school self was known to do when a classmate came waking up to me. They stopped in front of me and calmly said, "I'm going to graduate and be an attorney.... you are never going to amount to anything." The thing is, this is someone I never spoke to. Like, ever. That was seriously the only interaction we ever had. More good times.

I've never cared whether they became an attorney or not but I've often wondered if they knew something back then that I didn't know. Was it the way I styled my hair? How I spoke? The grade I got in Geometry? Because I admit, that was a really bad grade but in my defense I have NEVER needed this:

By the way, those are the formulas to figure out volume and surface area of a right circular cone - and, honestly, other than ice cream cones and those orange construction cones WHY DO WE CARE?!

Sorry if I offended any mathematicians out there but I'm kind of busy having my midlife crisis here.

Which means I have 44 years to save up for my funeral and cemetery plot.

I usually try to end on some high note. Something encouraging and impressive, but I've honestly got nothing. I know this will pass. I know, logically, my life is so very, very good. I've seen what life is like in Haiti and trust me - I'm beating myself up for how petty I sound right now.

I guess I just figured that by now I would have done something... something sure and solid... built something that would last: a family, a home, a career, a change... something I could point to and say to my awkward teen self, "nah, they've got it all wrong. You're about to knock it out of the park."

The Fisherman

2018-05-25T23:04:00.002-05:00

My friend, Amber has been living in Haiti with her family for the past 8 years. She spent most of her time in what I would describe as a more rural area, centrally located in the middle of the country. Then she relocated up north. Way up north. Straight to the heart of the city that God told her to go: Port de Paix, or the Port of Peace.

It takes anywhere from six to seventeen hours to get from Port au Prince up to Port de Paix. The vehicle will break down. The roads are predominately gravel, or, as one person described it "like the rocky bottom of a dried out riverbed." That was closer to being right.

Port de Paix is a large city with everything possibly wrong with it. A coastal city with too many people, too much garbage and a variety of rogue pigs wandering around.

There is a beach just a few blocks from where Amber lives and where the Avery House currently sits.

I let Brody splash around in the water. I figure it toughens his immune system. I grew up making mud pies out of cow manure and I turned out fine. I do make him keep his shoes on, though. Way too much broken glass.

The beach is adjacent to the garbage pit. I'm not sure how garbage gets inside the rock walls but I know both pigs and people scrounging for something worthy can make it both in and out. So can the ocean. It's kind of best not to think too much about it and just be thankful there is a place to cool down in the 100+ degree August heat.

Amber and her husband met a man who happened to be a fisherman and they started talking.

Amber was describing our beaches - the ones with life guards and metal containers for trash and recyclables. A concession stand and cleanliness. I guess we don't really fear the potential of our kids getting lock jaw from the beach. The newly met fisherman said, "I can take you to a place like that."

Trusting the fisherman, they set out together.

It takes awhile by truck to get to the fishing village where the man lives. One of those drives where everything you see tells you you're getting further away from the water and not any closer to it. There is actual cactus growing out here.

Eventually though, the fishing village appears. Isolated. Desolate. There isn't even a market nearby. But somehow these families have carved out a little peaceful paradise on this great, big planet.

The vehicles park and the people pour out and life jackets are strapped tightly around the littles. This may be Haiti but somethings still require a United States safety net. The ocean is one of those places.

The walk to the shore is short. The same rough path the goats take. It's beautiful here - that is true, but still littered with broken glass and debris that never seems to go away. The shore is lined with old wooden fishing boats. Paint peeling. A graveyard of worn and weary wood.

Eyes settle on the boats in the water. Three of them. They look fancy compared to the ones sitting inland, paralyzed in their brokenness.

The fisherman readies his craft and crew. He has a beach, he says. One unlike anything you've ever seen before. I will take you there.

It takes a lot of trust to go off with a man you don't know. But Amber says the peace of God tells her it's okay. She knows something most of us don't: God has plans. Plans to prosper. Prosper even the people of Haiti. She and her husband get on the boat. And when they come back, they know.

They know.

That bold offer from the fisherman... that trust to get on the boat. Lives changed on that trip and soon we will understand how.

You see, we too, took this journey. We got in a vehicle and drove to the fishing village and walked to the edge of the Caribbean.

See that old, rickety wooden boat resting on the shore of the Caribbean?

I'm about to put my son in it.

IN GOD WE TRUST painted on one side.

JOHN 3:16 on the other.

I'm acutely aware that the three girls we have with us can't swim. One says she can but I think she's just saving face. I watched her later trying to learn to float. We split between two boats and put the strong swimmers in with the girls. The mamas stick close to their babies. Life jackets checked two and three times.

The boat ride is unlike anything I have ever experienced before. At first, it's calm and smooth, providing a nice view of where we launched from.

When we get out of the cove the wind and the waves break free. It's the best of any roller coaster I've ever ridden! Salty sea spray washes over us with every crash. I notice they're bailing out water with a tiny yellow plastic bucket.

There is this point in the journey where my head is tipped up, the sun allowing my closed eyes to still experience its glow, and my 8-year old leans over to me laughing, "I can't believe this is my life!" I laugh back at him and hug him tight. Me either, kiddo, me either.

I realize suddenly that we're literally in the middle of an ocean on wooden boats, the hand carved oars smooth from years of use, with no GPS system to be had. No one knows we're here. There is nothing around us but water, yet the fisherman seems to know where to go without any landmarks to guide him.

We are riding in this man's livelihood. This boat is what makes it possible for him to feed his family, to feed the people in his village. How many days of bad fishing has he had? How many times did he curse where God placed him? What would he have done if Jesus had walked up to this particular village, to this particular shore, to this particular man, and offered to make him a fisher of men? Would he have gone? Would I?

We head toward a wall of rock, tuck in close to it and follow along its battered edge. There's a point jutting out from the rocks that we'll have to go around... and when we do...

Our very own personal paradise awaits.

How many places like this exist in the world where only a couple of men know how to access it?

The fisherman drops us off, but one man and one boat stays with us. The rest of the crew disappears back around the rocks and into the ocean. For several hours we play. Amber has done this before, she packed peanut butter and Haitian bread and water. I rub layer upon layer of sunscreen on my arms and face and still burn.

I listen as laughter comes easily today.

These kids deserve to laugh more. They deserve to experience childhood. The girls currently in the Avery House are 18 to 20 years old and yet I watched their eyes fill huge with wonder and fear as we traveled out to sea. I watched them play as if they were still seven or eight years old. They giggle and tease and pout and stomp their feet. Little children trapped inside adult bodies because things happened to them that they didn't deserve. They deserve experiences like this and I want to find ways to give them more.

Soon the other boat returns. Bodies are dried off. Backpacks zipped. For some reason the ride back is more solemn. Leaving paradise is always hard. Yet I am so thankful for this opportunity. I think of my 8-year old's earlier words: I can't believe this is my life! So much had to be broken before I could experience this. So much brokenness in all those people gathered that day on the pristine isolated beach in the middle of the Caribbean.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

I have heard it said that the best growth comes through persevering through trials, not escaping them. And that when we learn perseverance, we find surprising joy. Joy was definitely felt that day.

It was at the end of the journey that I learned what else had been happening while I slathered on sunscreen. After the fisherman dropped us off on the beach, he took to the sea. Using the nets he makes himself, he caught what God provided.

He then took the fish back to his home where his wife and some other village women had been busy cooking. They were to prepare a feast for us: rice, fresh fish, chicken, pikliz (spicy coleslaw), fish sauce and chicken sauce -- a dinner fit for royalty!

The fisherman opened his home to us. We sat under a recently constructed gazebo with a metal roof on what looked like his finest furniture waiting underneath. We ate too much and laughed too loud, agreeing that this was, hands down, the best day ever for all of us.

When Amber met the fisherman she didn't know what God had planned. It turns out that first trip the fisherman offered, the one where he said he could take them to a clean beach, led to a new business venture. For $10 American dollars, you can enjoy a private boat taking you to a private, secluded beach, followed up by dinner. Not too shabby of a deal for ten bucks.

It's these interactions that solidify why God wanted us to partner with Amber for the Avery House. Her willingness to meet people where they are, really listen and trust what God has planned makes her unlike anyone I have ever met before. Her talent to take the already there skills and bring them to the forefront of a person's life in a way that creates self-worth, income and dignity is unparalleled.

Her unconditional love for the people of Haiti is what will bring change to the people of Haiti... one person at a time. And it's this same love that will change the lives of the girls at the Avery House.

The House that God Built

2018-04-16T17:41:00.000-05:00

in·stan·ta·ne·ous

/ˌinstənˈtānēəs/

adjective

1.

occurring or done in an instant or instantly.
synonyms: immediate, instant, on-the-spot

Photo found on Avery's iPod after her death.

The thing is, she died so sudden.

I didn't have the chance to plead with God, to make all the irrational promises. If he would just let her be okay.... I would start taking better care of my health. I would be nicer to the neighbor that drove me crazy. I would always let someone else go in front of me at Walmart no matter how long the line was. I wouldn't complain. Ever. I would volunteer at the Homeless Shelter. I would clean up after pigs. I would clip the toenails of the elderly. I would do anything and everything He would ask me to do....

There is a box on her death certificate that captures the amount of time between the initial injury and the time of death. It reads "seconds." I wish it read "instantaneous" because she deserves a clever word like that.

Fast forward five years.... definitely taking MUCH longer than "in an instant".... but....

The Avery House has officially opened!

The Avery House, Port de Paix, Haiti

Inside the front hall. I sobbed. Those are Avery's Shoes.

I cannot thank everyone enough. You fell in love with a girl most of you had never met and you believed in her mission to take care of the children of Haiti. You paid attention to God tugging on your heart strings. You showered Avery's memory with prayer, with encouragement and with support. You wouldn't let me give up and crawl back into bed. You opened your hearts and your pocketbooks and I will never be able to find the words to adequately tell you how my heart appreciates and truly loves every single one of you.

We decided to open a home for at-risk girls. The first three girls who currently reside in the home have lived the majority of their lives in large orphanages. They have families - as do the majority of children living in these types of facilities throughout Haiti. Statistical reports refer to them as "poverty orphans."

As young children they couldn't understand why they were being abandoned by the only family they had ever known. They spent their formative years in an institution that focused on survival - food, clothing, education. Relationships and emotional health never even hit the radar. That's what happens when you have 100 kids and very few staff members. They survived until they were asked to leave.

By all accounts, these first three children are now considered adults. We have an 18-year old in the 8th grade, another 18-year old in the 10th grade and a 20 year old in the 9th grade.

Go ahead and think for a second what the lives of 18 - 20 year old girls look like when they're asked to leave the facility they've been safely housed in for the majority of their lives. When they have little to no relationship with the families they came from. When they're education is far from over. When they have no business skills and no way to support themselves. When the gates of the orphanage opens and a man offers to help....

So we opened Avery's home to them.

There are some ground rules to living here.

You must continue with school. Education is important.

You must engage in an extracurricular activity. God gave you interests and talents. Let's explore them.

You must participate in cooking and cleaning. You'll need to care for your family some day.

You must give back to your community. (This is the one I'm probably most excited about.) You are now in a position where you have the ability to improve the community you live in. Volunteer to cook a meal and give it to someone less fortunate than you. Organize a club for the neighborhood kids. Tutor a street kid in reading or writing. I am so excited to see what the girls come up with. I am so excited for them to see first hand the power their love and compassion wields.

Some things happen in an instant. Others take a lifetime. May this house serve the lifetimes of countless girls in need of love, encouragement and family.

Oak Savanna Souls

2017-05-05T14:23:00.002-05:00

We grew up with 40 acres of woods as our playground. A cool, magical escape from the lazy humid days of stifling heat. We'd walk the lane to the wooded edge and step boldly inside.

There were trees to climb and trails forged by animals to follow. One particular favorite tree had a low lying branch that slung out like a porch swing. I'd sit on that tree limb, the soft breeze slowly lifting my hair, as I sung and made up complicated stories of fairies I was certain held home in these woods.

The woods were exciting and full of things like moss and strangely shaped rocks and vines that held berries I knew I could eat. But the woods also held secrets. Acres you couldn't reach because the brambles and thorns were too thick, refusing you entry even at the exchange of blood.

I realized then that I would never truly know these woods for the simple fact they wouldn't let me all the way in.

The first step to restoring an Oak Savanna is to remove everything that doesn't belong. The thicket, the thorns, the overgrowth that chokes others out; it's all removed. Invasive weeds and quick growing nuisance trees that shoot up too fast and too tall, hoarding all the sun and leaving Oak saplings weak in the shadows are cut down and hauled away. The bad and the ugly removed to give the mighty Oaks a better chance to grow strong.

But there are also decent trees holding court among the Oaks. Trees that, on any other given day, would be considered a pretty decent addition to a yard or field. They aren't invasive species. They aren't harboring illnesses or disease. They have full limbs covered in bright green leaves, waving a gentle welcome in the wind.

They are good trees.

But they don't belong.

Sometimes, something good can stand in the way of something else becoming great.

Sometimes, something good can stand in our way of becoming great.

It's easy to look at our lives and see the thorns and thickets that are stopping us from standing tall and mighty. We remove things like immature behavior, arguing with clerks, screaming at the driver who is going too slow. We chuck out the irresponsible friend who can't seem to have a good time without getting drunk and disorderly. We cut out the drugs and the booze and the casual sex to make room for the relationships that last and the children who will bring grandchildren who will bring great grandchildren and so on.

But it's harder to get real about the decent things; the seemingly good things that, standing alone would be wonderful, but for whatever reason they're soaking up too much of your sun.

It's so much harder to take inventory of our lives and admit that hard truth that this, while good on its own, is not good for the growth of me.

It's easy to get overwhelmed and frozen in fear as the reality of eliminating something good from your life is something you need to take action on in order to reach your mighty potential. Too many book clubs and recreation athletic leagues are slowly crowding out the necessary communication needed to make a relationship work. Too many community fundraisers are standing in the way of paying that past due bill. Too many friends are paying for the dinner and giving the good gifts at Christmas but gossip too much while peppering toxic ideas in their commentary.

We know better.

We know what we need to do.

And those of us that do the hard work of getting rid of the good are rewarded with the great.

But others will not want to look at their life at all. Content with the brambles and thorns piled high, vines so thick it's impossible to see through. Acres of a soul unreachable. They would rather remain unknown than to start the hard clearing required to enable them to reach their greatest potential, They would rather keep the comfort of their disorder and chaos than remove the bad and ugly required to give them a better chance to grow tall and strong.

Are you mighty?

Are you living tall and majestic?

If not, what is standing in your way of becoming great?

And why are you letting it?