Short Stop

Though He Slay Me

2022-04-20T10:41:00.003-04:00

Have you ever done something so impossibly difficult that you thought it might break you if you attempted it? I don't know, maybe running a marathon or hiking some colossal mountain or baking Grandma's ten-layer cake that involved dental floss and some crazy kind of magic? You stood there at the task before you and thought, "I don't think I can do this. I really don't think I can do this."

This is where I am today.

I'm sitting here wondering how I can do this thing that I feel so compelled to do, to share with you, but I'm battling the urge to close my computer and say, "To hell with it." I suppose I'm afraid of what I'll unleash inside of me with these words, what emotions I'll have to wrestle with in the telling of this unfolding story that's been handed to me. I'm afraid I won't do justice to any of it or steward it well or that I'll dig deep to draw it all out only to find that I'm no better off, and neither are you.

Words are powerful. For better or worse.

But I'm so painfully stubborn that I refuse to let fear get the best of me, no matter the outcome. So I'm going to reach down, dig it all out, throw it together and see what happens.

If you read my post from several months ago here, then you know that my third son, Lincoln, has the same rare genetic orthopedic condition that I have. It causes early onset childhood arthritis and almost always requires surgical intervention in order to keep walking and not be bound to a wheelchair. Lincoln had his first leg realignment surgery on his right leg in November, and he will have his second later this week.

The news of Lincoln's diagnosis brought about a painful reckoning for me with my own past suffering, with the wounds and abandonment of my childhood, and with the God that I love. He and I went to battle, God and me, and over many months, He worked in my heart and stitched up some very broken places in me to produce in my ripped open heart what suffering often does - a holy, grief-laden surrender to his will, his ways, and his goodness and love. I was, after some time, able to see how God could and would use this in Lincoln's life, in the lives of my other four children, in my marriage, and in my life and heart.

And then, just as I was coming up for air from that wicked, brutal storm, a tsunami hit. And I was drowning again.

Why is it that when we are already suffering, already knocked down, desperately pleading for some peace and good news that another catastrophic blow seems to follow? Wasn't my last hellish bout with grief enough to be some kind of teacher that I needed or whatever?

Do you ever feel this way about your life? If so, can we be friends?

A few months after Lincoln's diagnosis, we began to notice that one of our other kids was having some trouble walking and keeping up.

Our Holly. Our beautiful and only girl.

I made her an appointment with Lincoln's orthopedic surgeon to rule out that anything orthopedic was going on with her. She's been growing and I knew, I was certain she was just experiencing some growing pains. I made the appointment for when Jason was out of town with a few of our boys and I knew I could sneak her out of school and spend some special girl time with just her.

Lincoln's doctor examined her and found her to be strong and healthy, and sent her off for x-rays and she and I giggled about what we were going to do while the boys were away. "Painty nails, Mom?", she laughed. "And a movie night in your bed." This girl. The delight of my heart. How easy does the word "Yes" fall off my lips when she asks me for something?

Her doctor returned to the room, this man that has become a friend as much as a doctor. He has seen no small number of my tears fall onto Lincoln's copied x-rays in my lap and I have seen and felt true compassion from behind his eyes.

"Sarah, she has Lincoln's same diagnosis. Only her condition is much worse."

I was in disbelief. Pushed unexpectedly off a cliff and in a free fall to a pit of despair. And I was swallowed whole in an immediate wave of grief.

My God, why? Why would you ask this of me? Of her?

If the moment I heard Lincoln's diagnosis cut me to the core, this one clobbered me to black and blue and ripped back open my freshly healed and still tender wounds. In an instant, I could feel hot rage and desperate tears welling up right to the surface. I knew from the pain in my chest that my heart was in shatters. It was so achingly familiar. Only this time, there was no dam of drummed up bravery to contain the flow of tears, no shield of summoned strength to protect me from feeling the blows.

I just put my head down in defeat and let the tears fall. I was crushed.

My girl. How can this be?

Her doctor put his hands on my knees and looked at me and said, "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I know this is so hard."

Holly sat blissfully on the paper covered exam chair in a world of her own playing with the toys in her candy shaped purse and I wanted to trade places with her. I wanted to throw up, throw the chair across the room, and throw my fists in the air and scream at God in heaven. And I wanted to run away, just like I did when I heard Lincoln's diagnosis. Only this time not alone, but I'd take her with me. She and I would go live on some island somewhere and forget all that I'd just heard about her and I'd never tell her that she isn't perfect in every way. I'd tell her every single day that she is the best girl I know, full of life and spirit, and we could spend our days on the beach where our legs don't hurt and we don’t have to keep up with anyone who walks fast and we don't care if people stare at our scars and she'd never know. She'd never hear that she's broken like I am. Silent accusations flew around the spinning room and pierced my breaking heart:

"She's like this because of you, Sarah."

Mom guilt is a powerful tool of the Enemy because it takes an element of truth and twists it into a devastating weapon of lies and shame.

My only thought was to protect her. Only I knew I couldn't. Not from this. I didn't get to choose.

How much do we want to choose?

I looked at her doctor and told him, "I cannot do this with Lincoln AND with her. How am I supposed to do this?" I like to make things about me on the regular, but turns out, I especially like to do that when I'm desperately hurt and feel helpless. It's a real problem.

"Why don't we revisit this in six months? I'll x-ray her again and see where we go from there", he suggested somewhat matter of factly.

Oh, ok great. I'll just pick up the pieces of my heart you've stomped on, try to find a parachute somewhere here in mid-air, and be on my way.

I was so ... everything. Angry. Desperate. Flailing. I wanted someone to blame. Someone to punch. Someone to punch my ticket out of this black hole where 'Why, God?' reverberates against the cold, dark walls of my broken heart. Where ache and sorrow meet and are met with silence. We walked, hand in hand, to the car - me and my girl. She hadn't heard much and I wasn't about to tell her.

How could I ever tell her? Her dream is to be in the WNBA. Recess is her favorite. Her two football-playing older brothers are her heroes. She is the epitome of a girl boss, made strong and tough by four brothers who refuse to go easy on her, and have taught her not to take shit from anyone. So instead of "Mama", I can be "Dream Crusher"? What an absolutely shitty deal. I was so mad and heartsick.

Jason, on top of Mt. Summer Camp with our older boys, was unreachable for most of the day. When I finally got him later that evening, I could hardly speak about it so I just gave it to him straight all blunt like:

"Holly has Lincoln's same diagnosis but it’s worse. Don't ask me how I feel."

After twenty years of marriage, I still want to hide and push him away when I can't get it together and can't find my footing and my faith is hanging on by a thread. Marriage is so weird and complex and also humbling.

He listened and knew within an instant the pain I was in and as always, he was calm and compassionate. He reminded me of what is true about our girl - that she is a beloved daughter of the King, fashioned in the image of the Imago Dei, and loved by her Creator and her family and our community of friends. That none of that changes with a diagnosis. That her suffering won't get the last word on who she is and that it will never define her but that God would use this in her young life to mold her into a beautiful reflection of His goodness and faithfulness.

He told me he'd seen God do that with me. He is such a good man and the best truth-teller and I didn't believe a single word he said but it didn't matter because I was running away with Holly to The Beach of No Worries.

I told you last time that I'm a horrible fixer. I also have no money and have never planned a trip in my life and Holly would choose Jason and her brothers over me anyway so I'd be solo like Castaway somewhere trying to spear fish and find my medicated chapstick. Just a bad idea all around.

Earlier this year, we had her follow up appointment. Her doctor ordered an MRI and when we met to discuss it, I knew what was coming, because I had seen her steady decline.

Doesn't a mama just know?

"She will need surgery on both of her legs and pelvis. And we need to begin as soon as Lincoln is finished."

I immediately tried to summon numbness and set it onto my heart because it was the only way I thought I could handle those words. I had just sobbed my way through 2021 with Lincoln and I was hell bent on not being reduced to that again. And I knew what would happen if I let myself feel it all. I would have to grieve it, face it, come to terms with it, wrestle with God and weep and cry out and I was so tired of that. I was so tired.

Is this really what my life will be now? Tears on tears?

We just celebrated Easter. And I looked at post after post about how we as Christians, because of Easter and the resurrection, we have hope. And yes, we do. We serve and love a risen King who defeated death and took our place and we put our ultimate hope in that.

But, this year, more than ever, I needed Good Friday. The day it all fell apart. I needed to know and believe and remember that Jesus looked at God and asked him if there could possibly be another way. Just like I was. I needed to be reminded that there is no sin, no shame in the asking "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me." I needed to be close to Jesus when he was heartbroken, when his friends were sleeping and he was crying out in agony with bloody sweat falling from his face because the surrender required in "Not my will, but Yours" is so gut-wrenching and painful.

I needed to sit in the knowing that I have a Savior who has scars like I do. Who has scars like my son has, like my daughter will have. Who knows what deep grief feels like, all alone in the middle of the night. I have never had a hard time understanding the beauty of Easter. It is our victory song.

But this year? The agony of Good Friday felt like a balm to my weary soul. I feel understood in a nighttime garden, praying, begging, grieving. I have a Savior, Jesus, who knows what it means to suffer. Who bears scars on his body, even his post-Easter, resurrected one. He did it all for me so that I can ultimately, one day, be free from the agony of this world. Somehow, this year, I love him more for it.

Tomorrow, Lincoln will have his second set of surgeries, go into his long leg cast for several weeks, then a boot, then several months of physical therapy. We will rally. We will love him. I will be his mama - present, loving, nurturing, caring. I will meet his every need with joy at the privilege of being his.

It has been beautifully redeeming to be the mother to him that I didn't have.

And at the same time, I will be here wrestling with what lies ahead for my baby girl. And, she will watch it all with eyes that know this same kind of suffering is coming for her. She is scheduled to have her first set of surgeries in the early fall, when we have, I don't know, little to nothing going on. Just Jack's senior year of high school and all that comes with those lasts, two boys playing varsity football, Lincoln starting high school, and Whit entering middle school. I am having to dig deep as I desperately cling to the God I love and practice, every day, the holy and hard work of trusting Him. Yes, with my own life and heart. But, in a desperate plea for my children:

"Yet not my will, but Yours."

My life is surely marked by the beauty and celebration of Easter Sunday - the stone rolled away, the empty tomb, the resurrected Jesus, and the redemption of my sin. I am determined to live a life of joy and gratitude for the blessings that have been lavished on me and I never want to miss any of them. I want a life marked by worship through grateful tears because I was bought at a high price.

By his stripes, we are healed. Oh, how I see that differently now.

But my life is also marked by the sadness and loss of Good Friday - it's marked by Jesus' suffering. The agony of a mother laying at the foot of the cross as her son suffers unimaginable pain. The desperate prayers of Jesus in the middle of the night: "Father, take this cup from me." His scars. His suffering has broken my heart and I know my suffering breaks his.

So many of you have come alongside my family this last year as I've wrestled with this new story being written on our life. You have loved me, loved my kids, loved our whole family, showed up, sent me messages of encouragement, sent cards and gifts for my kids, and I could cry a thousand tears over your generosity and love.

Thank you. A million times. Thank you. Please keep loving us, encouraging us, loving my kids. I cannot tell you how much your many kindnesses have blessed us.

The most beautiful, compassionate, kind, empathic and God-honoring people I know have been marked by suffering. They are also some of the most hope-filled people I know. Suffering has a way of softening us, making us tender to the plights of others, and it opens our eyes to see people with understanding and grace.

Page by page, I know and trust and believe that God is writing a good, good story with this ragtag family of characters over here at the Shorts. He is molding us, He is. Through my tears, I praise him often for the ways he is shaping my kids through this story.

A friend recently shared with me that if we think what God has given us isn't good, then instead of questioning God, maybe we need to question our definition of 'good'.

"Though he slay me, yet I will put my trust in him."

God, use our suffering to do a good work in us: Jason, Sarah, Jack, Max, Lincoln and Whit.

And Holly.

May her scars, like her mama's, point her ever more to you.

When Our Children Suffer

2021-10-19T09:58:00.005-04:00

It’s been many months that I’ve thought about what to write here. I have this desire inside to write out the formative happenings of my life, this internal prompting that always nudges me towards transparency, openness, and sharing. I mostly see it as good, a manifestation in me of God’s craftsmanship and I could fight it and try to live outside of it, or just embrace it as part of who I am.

I’ve landed on embracing it. Bring what it might.

But sometimes, the stories in our hearts need time to unfold, to bring the grief they bring, to be honored for the holy and hard work they will do. This story needed time.

I needed time.

I will tell you before I begin that my heart is so tender, my feelings raw, and my hope feels fragile. I feel an ache in sharing this that I won’t do justice to any of it and that my words, that often come so easy, will fail me. So I will just start typing and see where it takes us.

Let me start at the beginning.

When I was very little, my older sister began to notice that it was hard for me to keep up with my siblings. Among other things, we would head to Ocean City, Maryland for two weeks every July - my family’s annual beach vacation. After splashing in the waves day after day, my Mom would choose one night and she would take all of us to the boardwalk - all of my siblings burnt to a crisp, but me? Perfectly tan. Never burnt. I would head out with summer hair blowing behind me that my grandfather said looked like spun gold when the sun drenched it. And I would laugh that my siblings all looked like blond-haired lobsters and I was golden brown.

I got the good summer genes.

We’d walk two blocks from our condominium on 30th Street to 28th Street where the boardwalk began, and we’d walk all the way to the inlet - thirty-six blocks in total. My older sister noticed that after a few blocks, I would tire. I’d need to sit and rest my legs. Never much of a complainer, I’d rest a while, then pick back up and keep going. Rest. Walk. Rest. Walk.

This was how I spent much of my childhood. I didn’t think much of it. It was all I knew.

My parents decided when I was age nine that it was time to see why I was having trouble in the many situations that mirrored the scenario on the boardwalk, so my Mom and I began a series of doctor’s appointments that eventually led to a stumped pediatrician, baffled specialists at our local university hospital, and prompted my Mom to take me from our hometown in West Virginia to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, MD for me to be evaluated by a team of medical professionals there. I went through a week-long series of tests and exams, and was diagnosed with a rare genetic orthopaedic condition that was causing my pain, inability to walk well, and fatigue. There was only one doctor in the world at the time who was treating patients with my condition, and he was based in Baltimore - but he had a year-long waitlist to see him.

So we waited.

One year later, when I was twelve years old, I had my appointment in Baltimore and it was there that I got the news that would change the trajectory of my life:

I would need surgery. Lots of it.

I would need double hip and knee reconstruction surgery over the course of many months (which subsequently turned into years), a full body cast for 12 weeks, many months of inpatient and outpatient physical therapy, and a whole lot of courage.

My family moved to Baltimore shortly after my diagnosis that also coincided with my parents divorce (which brought about many complications, trauma, and heartache) and I began my surgeries in 9th grade, when I was fifteen years old. Over the course of my high school years, I had more than ten different operations on my hips and knees, and three different 12-week stints in a body cast.

Here I am in my body cast in the hospital in 1990 with my sister, Cara, who came to visit me from Virginia Beach.

This wheelchair would become my second home throughout high school along with my hospital bed that was set up in the basement of our rented townhouse.

These were HARD years. I was, after all, a fifteen year-old girl full of life and dreams whose friends were skipping off to the pool, going to movies and the mall and out on dates and I was either confined to the basement or in the hospital. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would ever want me - wheelchair bound, can’t do things, can’t walk, can’t possibly be worthy of anyone’s affection. This is a recipe for teenage depression, deep sadness, and loss of hope.

But, isn’t it like God to take the ingredients of disaster and fashion them into a masterpiece of His choosing?

I was desperately lonely, but God lit a small flame in my heart and a flicker of hope began to take root. I began to believe something I had always been taught about Him: He would never leave me. I wasn’t alone. I learned to talk to Him in the dark night of my basement life when I heard the swift pounding footsteps of real life going on above me. I learned during those many years of solitude that we call this prayer - an open conversation we get to have with the God of Heaven who sees us, loves us, and wants to be close to us. He offers his presence wherever we are.

These were the years that God formed, fortified and forged my faith. I learned to trust Him in my loneliness, in my pain, and in my deep sorrow and loss. I saw His faithfulness to me firsthand, in the fresh baked Portuguese bread my best friend Sandra’s grandmother baked for me. I experienced His goodness in the hours my sister Anna would play Mario Brothers with me and in the brief evening minutes when the sun would cast beams of light through the basement windows.

It was during those long, lonely days when I wondered if anyone cared that I was alone that I began what would become a lifelong hobby of hunting for joy in little things - because I could not find it in the big ones. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t turn over. I couldn’t go out with my friends. Did I even still have friends? I couldn’t do anything physically, but lay there.

But.

I could delight in the prisms the sunlight brought through the window. I could savor every bite of the toast and jelly my sister made me after school. I could refuse to be defined by a situation I hadn’t chosen, but that was mine nonetheless. I began to dream about life outside of my suffering and I didn’t know what it would look like. But I knew I wanted God - my late night listener, my true friend, my confidant - with me when I broke free.

God drew me close and revealed himself to me - this young girl who needed a Comforter for her broken, lonely heart. But he gave me what he knew I needed more - a Savior for my soul.

He saved me in my darkest night.

It was in those months in my body cast that God became my constant companion. If you know me and read my words from time to time, you’ve likely met him here. His name is Jesus. We are tight. He’s never let me go.

That was thirty-one years ago. And there is much more to that story. But, I’ve lived a lot of life since those days in the basement. I had double hip replacements when I was in my mid-twenties and I married Jason, who has only ever seen the scars that cover my legs as evidence of God’s faithfulness to bring me through suffering. And I’m a mama now - to five beautiful souls who are pure joy to me - such undeserved gifts of God’s grace and mercy on my life.

And this is where today’s story begins. Me, as a mama.

About a year ago, we began to notice that Lincoln, our third son, was having trouble walking. He complained of knee pain and would often feel stiff and sore and would have trouble keeping up with his siblings. I took him to his pediatrician, only to be told that he likely was experiencing growing pains typical of boys in their early teens.

You know how mamas know when something isn’t right?

I knew.

I researched and googled and called places and took him to an orthopaedic specialist here in Raleigh and it was the sunniest day in March when I heard the gut-wrenching words that would rock me to the core:

“Lincoln has a rare genetic orthopaedic condition. It is the same one you have.”

I felt gut-punched. Crushed. When I was pregnant with my first son, Jack, seventeen years ago, I had genetic testing done to see if my condition could be passed on to my children. I was told no.

So, how?

Lord, HOW?

And how did I not know? What didn’t I see? I could feel hot tears making their way to my eyes but I looked at Lincoln and I saw he was looking at me...

Lord, make me brave. Give me courage. I just cannot do this.

I shoved deep down and away my feelings of panic and fear and put on a plastic face of “It’ll be ok.”

It wasn’t ok. I wasn’t ok. Was my boy ok?

We were referred to a pediatric orthopedist at Duke who specializes in this condition. And then we went home and I avoided talking about it, even when Jason tried to engage me.

Lincoln’s appointment with the pediatric orthopedist was two weeks later and the doctor came into the room with Lincoln’s x-rays and began to speak.

I knew what was coming. But I didn’t want him to say it.

Please Lord, don’t let him say it.

“Lincoln will need hip and knee surgery on both legs over the course of the next year. We need to begin as soon as possible.”

I looked out the window to try to will the heartache rising within me to stay put. I could not look at Jason. I knew that would be my undoing. His heart is entwined with mine and I knew his was breaking, too. So I put my hand on Lincoln’s leg and told him we’d get through whatever was ahead.

I didn’t believe it. I just said it. It’s what mamas do.

I was so mad at this doctor sitting in front of us for not giving us different news. Wasn’t there another way? Surely medicine is more advanced now. Wasn't there another way?

Is there anything as desperate as the internal pleading of a mother’s love?

Jason and I rode home mostly in silence. Lincoln wanted a treat, which is what kids in big families always want when out alone with their parents because they’re used to having to share everything and well, big canisters of oatmeal are cheaper than Cocoa Pebbles so they milk you for junk when you’re out. It’s a whole thing.

I was in agony. I wanted to cry and I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to turn around and tell him that the treat wouldn’t fix this and that it is going to be a horrible and hard road for him and he doesn’t even know how much it’s gonna hurt. I sat in silence instead. I knew I’d regret anything I said and hated the thoughts I was thinking anyway. Lincoln happily drank a Chick-fil-A milkshake and seemed unbothered by any of it. He was so brave. I was so heartbroken.

Only my pillow knows the grief I experienced over the next several days. Only God knows the heartache I felt, the memories and trauma that came flooding back in those late night hours - the basement windows and the bed sores and the loneliness and my parents divorce and how mom wasn’t around much to help me and the confinement of my body and heart. The relentless beeping of hospital machines for weeks on end and the horrible smell of anesthesia and the nausea and the pain. So much physical pain.

I cried so many tears. I wanted to run away. I would go to sleep and then wake up in the middle of the night and remember that laying upstairs was my son who had no idea what was ahead of him and I’d start crying again at the thought of him suffering and Jason would reach over but I didn’t want Jason. I didn’t want anybody. I wanted to run away. I wanted this fixed. I wanted to go back to life before Lincoln was in pain every day and he could run in the yard with his brothers.

I was absolutely grief-stricken.

Why was God asking this of my child? Wasn’t asking it of me enough?

For all of my life, I have never begrudged God asking this physical suffering of me. I have never shaken my fists at him for asking me to suffer or spend my teenage years staring blankly at the wall and alone in a cast or for giving me a life where walking is hard for me sometimes. I accepted it. I was at peace with it.

But this? Now my child?

No.
No.
I won’t accept it.

I cry instant tears now when I think back to those early days of getting the news about Lincoln's surgeries and the road we're on because I remember how I felt then.

I felt it all.

I let myself grieve. And boy, did I grieve. I sobbed. I gave my heart permission to cry out in agony. I made myself wrestle with the good God that I love. I knew that He could handle all of my pain, all of my disappointment and fear and heartache and well, so He should, I thought. He, after all, allowed this to be. I was so angry with him.

But it was this grieving, the permission to feel it all with absolute abandon that created a tear-stained pathway for where I am today.

My tears and wrestling? They pointed me back to what I learned as a young teen in my own suffering, to what I know is true about God: He will never leave.

Over the weeks that followed, God drew near, just as he had those thirty years ago. My heart began to rally. I could feel hope welling up in me and it was as fierce as the grief it was replacing. I called my sisters and I finally reached out to my tight community and I told them. I told them what was ahead for my boy and for me and my family and that I was heartbroken and grieving and so deeply sad. Just stating it in all of its cold truth felt simultaneously like a relief and like a fresh new wound. Each conversation held a new wave of grief. I will never forget how they cried and carried this with me. They promised to be here for me, to be here for us and the gift of not feeling alone in it anymore fanned the flames of hope within me. They spoke truth to me...and I believed them. They told me I’d never be alone in this, and that Lincoln would never suffer in a basement alone. They told me I was his mama - the perfect one to care for him and love him. That no one was better equipped, better chosen, better worthy of the calling God was giving me to walk through this with my boy. His story would be different.

I believed them. And God used them to comfort my heart from the initial blow of such hard news and to fortify it for the journey I’m embarking on. I will never forget their words of hope and care and love for me.

So here I am. Sharing it with you, my beloved friends and family from all over. I wanted to write this out for me, because it’s how I best process my feelings, but also for you - because you are somehow, in some way, part of our family’s unfolding story, too.

Some of you brought me flowers and cards and candy baskets and balloons in the hospital when I was going through my own surgeries as a young teenager. You went to church with me and you wrote me cards of encouragement and I still have them. I still have all of them. Your words were life to me in the darkest season of my life.

Some of you are my high school and college friends and you pushed my wheelchair or carried my backpack or walked slower for me on the way to class. You signed oversized cards at the lunch table at school and sent them to me and you called my hospital room and you took me to Chi-Chi’s in my reclined wheelchair. Your kindnesses were never unnoticed and I will always be grateful.

Some of you are my mom friends, that I met in a hundred different ways from a hundred places. You have parented your babies alongside me from Baltimore to Michigan to Raleigh and you’ve read my blog and made my recipes and you’ve always cheered for my kids and for me in every season. You and your children have suffered in some of the most difficult, heartbreaking ways and you have lifted me up with your example of faith and with your encouragement and sharing of your own lives. Your comments on my posts have fed my soul and helped me feel loved this year when I sat behind my computer or phone with tears falling and wondered how I could ever do any of this, if I could ever write or share about it. I am so grateful for a larger community that loves me and my family.

Whoever you are, however you’re getting here to read this, I need your courage and I ask for your prayers. Please keep cheering for my family. Please keep cheering for my Lincoln. Please keep cheering for my other kids, who must sacrifice as they watch their brother go through something so difficult and painful. They are the tightest pack of kids - best friends who are fiercely protective of one another. They feel this all so deeply for their brother.

Speaking of my other kids, I am so wildly proud of them. They have rallied for their brother, come alongside him and protected him and encouraged him and both Jason and I see compassion and empathy taking root in their hearts in the most beautiful way. They are being molded into people who are seeing suffering and pain firsthand, and are tender hearted because of it. Lincoln is giving them an unspeakable gift.

And Lincoln? I asked him if I could share this with all of you and he quickly repsonded, "Of course, Mom." I don't have words for the courageous way he has walked through all of this. I am in awe of him. What a gift that I get to be his mother and love and care for him through this. He will never suffer a lack of love.

I have asked myself this same question over and over these last few months:

Would I will out of God’s hands for Lincoln the very thing He used to draw me to Him those many years ago?

No.
And yes.
No.
I don’t know.

Would I take away from Lincoln the very thing that drew someone like Jason to me - a man of compassion and kindness and tender care?

Would I remove this suffering from Lincoln’s life - the very suffering that has tethered my heart to the heart of Jesus?

Would I fix it all with my own solutions if I could? I actually know how that goes so that’s a big no. I am a horrible fixer.

I can’t answer those questions with any depth of honesty right now. But, I know they are good questions to ask. My heart is fragile and I don’t need to know the answers, but to trust the God that never leaves as I’m walking out this hard road with my child and family. I do know that He will never leave me or my boy. I know this because when I laid there in my own cast, He never left me. He was always there. Faithful. True. Present.

It is no accident that underneath the layers of plaster of my own casts God was building in my heart the faith and resolve and courage to face the casts that await my son. In that dreary basement, he was forging truth in me that would help me bear the heartbreak of watching my child suffer.

Suffering is a good and faithful teacher. OH, how I wish that wasn't so.

Lincoln has his first set of surgeries in a couple of weeks. He will come home from the hospital with a hip to toe cast for six weeks. We will find our way together, and I will get to be the mom he needs, the one I didn’t have. We will cheer for him, care for him, celebrate him, dote on him, and love him with all we’ve got. And we’ll keep doing that until he has more surgery in late winter and then we’ll do it all over again.

He will never walk through a single bit of it alone. He will never live alone in a dark basement. He will never wonder if he’s getting dinner or if he’s loved. He will always know love.

I keep clinging to this verse:

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure…” Hebrews 6:19

The anchor will hold. Though the storms rage and batter the vessel...

The anchor will hold.

Thank you for cheering for us, for loving us, and for praying for our boy.

And his mama.

This Mother's Day Crushed Me. And Made Me New.

2018-05-17T12:04:00.000-04:00

I've been looking at photos of my Mother's Days past these last few days. I remember each one of them - when I picked out the kids' clothes, and hoping I'd have time to get ready myself so we could catch a photo together. Sometimes I had a newborn in my arms or a squirmy toddler on my lap. I scanned the images as my babies turned into big kids in a flash and I've thankfully, gratefully come to a place where I don't long to go back to those days, but I cherish the memories in each photo. I am a mom. I am unspeakably grateful.

This Mother's Day was different than every one before it. This Mother's Day crushed me.

I don't want to tell this story. But any writer will tell you that when the story is trapped inside of you, sometimes the only way to freedom is to let it loose. I need to let this one out. I am writing not from the end where this story has a ribbon wrapped around it, but from a place where my heart is still raw and the wounds are fresh. Sometimes, most of the time I might argue, this is the best place to write from.

The week before Mother's Day, we went to the beach. This is the ONE week a year we deliberately unplug, set our phones and computers and devices aside, stay off social media which is GLORIOUSLY soul-refreshing, and soak up family time together. We begin planning six months in advance and the anticipation of lazy days by the ocean and late night card games and sun-kissed faces falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves fills my mama heart to the brim.

The week at the beach started rainy and colder, so we put together a two-thousand piece puzzle and ate all day and played mini-golf in sweatshirts and made the best of it. Mid-week, the sun broke through and it stayed - bringing warmth to our faces and sand between our toes and lunch by the pool. We were in and out of the water together, digging sand holes and judging cannonball contests and Whit murdered his paper Flat Stanley who'd come along as part of a school project by burying him in a sand hole and decapitating him upon retrieval. The kids showered off in the outdoor showers before dinner each of those days and we all collapsed into bed late at night - bellies full, swimsuits drying on balcony ledges, hearts full.

I had wrapped my girl's hair in two buns earlier in the week and as she played all day and was exhausted by the time we settled in for the night, I decided I'd wait til we got home to untwist and untangle them and fully wash and comb through her hair.

We returned home on Saturday afternoon and she and I headed upstairs to give her a warm bubble bath, take out her buns, and comb out her hair before church the next morning. I put her in the bath, tried to remove the elastic bands holding her hair in place, and they wouldn't budge. I soon realized that her hair was matted against her head in two rock hard, twisted balls of hair that normally hung past her waist - twisted, tangled - two impossible webs of her beautiful, long hair that had never been cut even ONCE - the hair that still held her baby curls at the bottom.

It was 7pm. I set her up on our bed and began trying to separate her hair. I worked on it for three hours until she could no longer hold her head up from exhaustion. At 10pm, I laid her down in her bed, kissed her rosy cheek, and fell into my bed and sobbed.

Gut-wrenching sobs. What had I done?

The next morning, Mother's Day, I awoke and hoped that a new morning would bring fresh perspective and her hair would come apart and comb out and we'd head to church. I sat my girl on my bed again, with new information from Google on how to untangle and loosen the two twisted, mangled balls of hair before me, and began to work on it again. Tears streamed down my face as I realized after three more hours that I was going to miss church completely. Jason went without me and dropped off our boys, came home with a coffee in hand for me - a small shred of comfort to what was becoming a full on crisis in my heart - and then returned to church without me. He had to tell our dear friends that we couldn't make it to their house for lunch with them that day - which we'd had planned for weeks. I sat on our bed with tears that would not cease and watched him walk out the door - trying to decide how to tell him to handle the inevitable question:

Where's Sarah?

She's sick.
She's not feeling well.
She's tired.

Lies.

She's working on Holly's hair because she let it go and she's an awful mother.

Ahhhh. There's the truth. Finally. Now everyone will know the truth about me. I'm a farce. A fake.

I began to panic and a rush of terrifying anxiety came over me. I had been working on her hair - trying to separate it into something that could possibly begin to be brushed or combed out - for SIX HOURS. I had coconut oil, olive oil, vegetable oil and conditioners and sprays that Jason had run around and purchased at my request that morning. After SIX HOURS of my girl sitting in front of me, her holding back tears from all the pulling, tugging and desperate attempts to untangle it and me sobbing non-stop, her hair hardly looked any different than when we started the night before.

I wiped the oil off of my fingers enough to text a friend. Will you come sit with me tonight when you're finished celebrating Mother's Day?

I texted my wizard of a hairdresser, who is more than that to me - a treasured friend: Here is what I've done. Do you know what I might be able to do?

This is when my tribe showed up. They didn't just show up, THEY STORMED IN.

I started getting texts:

How is it going? I saw Jason. What can I do? How can I help you?

I know what you are battling. It's lies. All of it is lies. You are a GOOD mother.

I am on my way. My plans changed today. I'm coming with coffee and we'll fix it.

Thirty minutes later, a friend arrived and she sat next to me and coated her hands in oil and began working on my girl's hair alongside of me. My hairdresser (AB), a mama herself, left her lunch, and busted through my front door that afternoon with understanding tears and a bag of tools to help fix the mess I'd made.

Every Mother's Day before, I had sent out texts to my friends and my sisters and responded to theirs. I posted a photo of my babies and how proud and grateful I am to be their mama. This Mother's Day, the messages kept dinging on my phone and my hands were coated in oil and I was sobbing uncontrollably and couldn't respond to any of them. No photo. No celebration.

I wept all day. My girl would turn around and see me crying - three of us yanking on her hair, pulling, tugging, trying to untwist the absolute untwistable and she never once complained. She would turn around and see me crying and put her tiny hands on my cheeks and kiss me and press her cheek against mine and turn back around for more of the same torture she'd been enduring for hours on hours.

At 7pm that night, we called it quits. FIFTEEN hours of working on her hair, and it looked only slightly different than it had the night before. None of it had come loose. I hadn't seen my sons all day because they spent the afternoon at the pool with their Dad at my request - because I couldn't handle them seeing me in the condition I was in. They came home at 7pm, saw me, and our house fell silent. They all stared at me - blankly. I looked and felt like death. A helpless, relentless feeling of shame and guilt had fallen hard on me and darkness was closing in.

But, it's just hair, Sarah.

Here is the interesting thing about those of us that have experienced childhood trauma. It can rear its ugly head at any point at such seemingly small things and before you know what's happening, a scab has been ripped off to reveal a gaping wound underneath. This is where I was. I was bleeding. The guilt and shame were crushing me.

Here was my beloved girl - wearing on her head the same neglect I'd felt as a child.

This is what the Enemy does. He never comes at us announcing his arrival, wielding a visible weapon to destroy us. He comes in with past hurt, cutting into deep wounds and releasing his fury where and when we least expect it. His intent we cannot immediately dissect because he doesn't directly accuse us - he asks questions. Just like he did to God's very first children in the garden:

Did God really say...?

And to me on Mother's Day...

How could you let this happen?
Look at her, do you see her wearing your neglect?
Do you think she'll ever forget?
What will your friends think?

I collapsed into bed after putting my girl in hers and I sobbed. Gut-wrenching pain. My boys would creak the door to my room open, lay a handmade card or note on my dresser and I'd see but their shadows and then they'd close the door again. What it must've been like for them to see me like that.

Accusations flew around the room as if attached to the spinning ceiling fan:

Will they ever forget what you've done to their sister?

I sobbed all night long. I would sleep for an hour and wake to this horrible feeling and then remember. And I'd start sobbing again.

I woke at 6am the next morning, and a dear, precious friend arrived at 7:30am without even asking me, with kindness behind her eyes, my favorite coffee, and to take the boys to school. She only said three words to me that morning: God sees you.

She took off work to be there for me all day - whatever I needed. AB opened her salon that day - the day it's closed and her day off, and told me to bring my girl in at 9am.

We drove to the salon and all day long, AB blasted Bethany Dillon's soul-stirring music overhead and she began to work on my girl's hair. I knew at that point that we would lose most of her beautiful hair and both me and AB cried together at the loss and grief I was feeling, but we hoped to keep enough that we wouldn't have to basically buzz her head.

I texted my husband: "What if she gets bullied in Kindergarten because she has a boy haircut?"

He immediately responded: "I'm not answering that question because I know that's not you talking."

Satan's lies are rich in death and sorrow, devoid of life, and they are POWERFUL.

At 6pm, AB finished. My girl had endured with supernatural, Holy Spirit-powered strength and patience EIGHT more hours that day in a chair as AB calmly, patiently, and methodically made cuts into the webs of hair attached to her head and worked out tangles and more cuts and more tangles and because of AB's persistence and sheer will, she saved an amazing amount of my girl's hair.

My girl lost 24 inches of hair that had been growing since she was in my womb. I lost her baby curls. Remnants of her baby-ness strewn in rope-like, tangled strands on the floor. It felt like a death. A loss that was cutting me deep and a goodbye I wasn't ready for. We never want to surrender our idols and lay them at the feet of the cross.

It was never about hair. The gut-wrenching sobs came because every Mom has this easy-access door to guilt. We have HEAPS of expectations we carry around - real, from actual words we've heard spoken to us; or imagined, fashioned from years of innuendo and assumptions. They come from our own mothers and the way they did things and we want their approval - even if we don't see them or have relationships with them as adults. MOUNDS of internal expectations come from watching other moms and knowing we'll never measure up because we all play the comparison game and we don't wanna be the failure mom who doesn't have her crap together. They come from fake ideas of perfection on Instagram accounts and what we perceive to be the "right" way to do things. They come from trauma. They come from walking this world in bodies that were not meant to carry the weight of sin.

A mom's heart is a ripe playground for the Enemy's rompings. He doesn't need to be a physical presence to crush us. He can smugly and delightfully look on as we do it to ourselves with his favorite poison - a bloody cocktail of guilt and shame.

This is why and when the people of God need each other. My tribe - they came in fighting with the only cure for guilt and shame - the truth of God's word. They brought words of life and they SHOWED UP carrying their own shields of faith because I could not pick up my own. The Enemy's arrows were flying, and THEY FOUGHT THEM OFF with the Word of God and they were fighting to "extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one" that were headed straight at my heart.

A friend stopped by with a bag full of new girly hair clips and bows before we ever got home from the salon. Another drove over that night with a bottle of sparkling wine and a Yeti full of orange juice, looked into my tear-stained face and served me up a mimosa - the one I'd missed the day before on Mother's Day when my bed held me and my girl and the ashes of my heart that had been scorched by the burning fire of lies and crushing guilt

They started asking questions filled with truth and light - the antidote for the lie-filled questions I'd been hearing.

Did God really say you're His beloved daughter? YES, He did.
Did God really say that there is NOTHING that can separate you from His love? YES, He did.
Did God really say He will fight for you and that he put His spirit within you? YES, He did.

We didn't get her hair free.

Instead, my girl's hair is helping me break free from lies that are buried deep inside of me: That somehow her long hair defined her. That the lack of it somehow defines me. That little girls should have long hair and ONLY long hair, that women wear their femininity, or lack of it on their heads not in their hearts - Satan's lies I didn't realize were buried deep down in me from hearing them 35 years ago.

These lies buried deep in us that come bleeding out when heart crises hit is why we need our tribes that are willing do the hard things with us and speak truth to us. They come over with coffee and hair tools and shoulders offered up as a means of grace and carry us through when we cannot see the way out. They come on Mother's Day, when we've miscarried or are in the throes of postpartum depression or are childless or single and deeply sad or have lost a baby and they weep with us over the death of our dreams. We claim TOGETHER that the lies we believe about ourselves are NOT true with to-go coffee with plastic lids and mimosas from Yeti cups and fingers dipped into bowls of olive oil while tears fall fresh into our laps. We defy the lies with texts full of Scripture and phone calls filled with hope and WE SHOW UP and we declare that Jesus DIED for ALL of it. We help each other break free from Satan's grasp and we run together HARD after Jesus, knowing that in his arms we will find the only identity we ever need and the only love that won't let us go.

I sat on the bed this past weekend and all I could see was my girl sitting in front of me wearing my neglect, shame and guilt on her head. I am seeing past that now. God NEVER leaves us in the valley of the shadow of death. He didn't stay on the cross. He blew the door off the tomb and gave us in his resurrected body the key to our own resurrected life. If he can wrestle actual DEATH from the hands of Satan and claim victory over it, then He has already defeated him in the battleground of my heart as he makes me new and calls me to live deeper and more fully in the light of His love and mercy.

This is what redemption looks like on Mother's Day.

This is what a fiercely loving and loyal community looks like.

This is chains of childhood trauma broken and laid fallen on the ground. This is shields of faith gathered and raised around a mama and her baby girl sitting on a stool for HOURS on end in a family room in suburban Raleigh declaring to the Enemy, "Not this girl. And NOT her mama." This is a picture of the glory of God the Father who calls us to the deep waters of suffering then lovingly pulls us out, freshly made new and into His image and experiencing the joy of living in light of the Resurrection.

This is my new girl. The one who wears the crown of being a beloved daughter of the King, a cherished and adored child of God, never defined by her outward appearance, but fashioned by Him and bearing the unbridled beauty of the Imago Dei.

The same crown her mama wears.

This is my Holly.

The night my husband slept outside the bedroom door.

2018-05-02T12:15:00.000-04:00

And, I laid there in the hallway feeling utterly forgiven, grace-lended, and more loved by God than I had in a very, very long time. God's presence swelled into a glorious forgiveness song that filled our home and relationship with His peace and love.

That is the end of the story. It just seemed like the best place to start.

Last night, after our pastor, J.D. Greear posted on his blog what my husband had shared with a friend's 15 year-old son on dating and marriage, a friend asked us what was behind one particular point:

"Never ever sleep on the couch. If necessary, sleep on the floor outside the bedroom door."

He asked if that had ever happened to us. Well, it has. And this one moment was paramount in my life as I began to understand what true love and forgiveness could look like inside my young marriage.

Now that I've shared the end with you, let's start at the beginning.

Just a couple of months into my marriage, I stood in our bedroom shouting across the bed. My husband tried to reason back in what would be our first and most heart-wrenching argument. I cried. He clammed up. I shouted some more. I cried some more. And, he just shook his head in frustration.

It was late. I was devastated and angry and hurt and so very prideful. I ran down the hallway and slammed and locked the door to the guest room.

Please, Lord. Let him come after me.

I cried as hard as I could cry into the pillow. I cried because I knew I was wrong. I was so stubborn and would not yield, and my pride and I were now laying alone in the twin bed in our guest room.

He gently rapped on the door.

"Go away. Just leave me alone."

Please, Lord. Let him rap on the door, again.

Nothing.

A few minutes later, the light in the hallway went out, and I wept into my pillow until I fell asleep.

Early the next morning, I awoke alone. I woke up with that awful feeling that something was wrong, but wasn't sure right away exactly what it was.

And, then I remembered.

The fight. My shouting. Our first argument. The bed that usually brought us together separating us like an ocean between two continents.

I felt the tears start to well up in my already puffy eyes, again, and I moved the blankets aside to head down to our bedroom to find my husband and ask him to forgive me.

I opened our guest room door, and there it was.

Forgiveness.

It was laying on a pillow on the floor in the hallway. Right outside our guest room door. Covered in a way-too-small blanket, and sleeping.

It was my husband.

I knelt down next to him, and he opened the blanket and I crawled under and as close to him as I could get. We talked about what had happened, and I asked for forgiveness. The sweep of his fingers across my cheeks as I wept was just one of the many signs of his true and heartfelt forgiveness I felt that morning. He forgave me without hesitation.

I asked my husband why he slept outside my door. "To be as close to you as I could", he responded.

He was the offended. I was the offender. His love for me, his love for Christ, his desire for restoration and healing caused him to pursue me when he would have been justified in waiting for me to come begging for forgiveness.

And, I laid there in the hallway feeling utterly forgiven, grace-lended, and more loved by God than I had in a very, very long time. God's presence swelled into a glorious forgiveness song that filled our home and relationship with His peace and love.

This picture of forgiveness plays over and over in my mind as I walk through life. It was such a powerful tool in teaching me that repentance and forgiveness are at the cornerstone of every successful relationship - marriage, friendship, siblings, parent/child.

For the forgiver, what an opportunity to extend God's love and grace to someone who doesn't deserve it.

It could change someone's life. It changed mine.

As my young sons grow into men, they will be hurt, offended and betrayed more times than I can bear to think about. And, most frequently, by those close to them.

It is how they respond to those offenses that will reveal the true depth of their character.

My hope for them is that they learn to respond in love, servanthood, forgiveness, and grace.

Their father modeled this for me early on in our marriage. It was something I didn't understand, but the night he slept outside our bedroom door showed me a beautiful picture of what true, Christ-like forgiveness looks like.

After almost 20 years of marriage, I'm still learning. But, I pray that I can model for my young daughter a life and marriage characterized by a willingness to forgive - as I teach her how to be a pursuer of forgiveness as well.

Why Good Friday Matters For Our Messy Hearts & Lives

2018-03-28T09:05:00.000-04:00

I have ALWAYS had a hard time finishing ANYTHING.

I'm easily distracted, I fly by the seat of my pants, I'm a professional procrastinator, I'll get to it sometime is my life-long motto.

If it weren't for Good Friday, I'd say I'm a quitter.

Good Friday? What's that got to do with it?

I have this distinct childhood memory of my sister and I staring at the disaster that was our bedroom after being told we had to clean it up or we'd get no supper. We both flopped on our side-by-side twin beds and plotted for an hour (or hours - who was counting? We weren't.) about how we might go about cleaning the mess before us.

We wrote out our plan on little wooden chalkboards. Erased it. Then wrote a new plan when we realized Plan A would mean we'd have to get up and actually do something. Then we were so worn out from all the planning that we sat down on the floor amidst the mess and created a lavish Barbie wedding with a roll of toilet paper.

I'm sure hours passed before either of us ever gave a thought to the fact that all the planning, the chalkboard lists, and the really, really good intentions would mean the eminent banishment to our bedroom for the rest of our lives.

Sometimes I think I was just never taught. I didn't have organized parents. I didn't grow up in an organized house. When my mother said, "Clean under your bed", I threw everything in the closet. When she said, "Clean out your closet" - (worst scenario EVER for a kid who was told last week to clean under the bed), I shoved everything under the bed.

I'm a wife and mom of five kids now. But, wow - I am still that eight year-old shoving messes from one place to another. When I clean out my closet - now, as a grown-up, a mother of FIVE children - I put everything in my bedroom. If I need to clean my bedroom, everything goes back in the closet.

Mess shuffler? Does that sound right?

Sometimes I feel like I'm a prisoner of what I can't be, don't know how to be, wasn't taught to be. And in today’s world, we get to put on an instant, public, filtered, snapshot-worthy display of ALL the things we are and ALL the things that we do well. We never have to expose or allow others to see all that we are not. It's easy to share successes, right? Take pic, edit, filter, post. Repeat.

Repeat, again.

But, behind that perfect photo, we’re all full of doubts about who we really are, aren’t we? I am. I'm scared and overwhelmed by all that I'm not. I look around and see what is unfinished in my life and all that is unworthy and unwelcome about me in this Pinterest world we live in. I see the secret closets and the drawers full of yesterday, yestermonth, yesteryear. I see a mess of stuff I shuffle around in my head - things I want to do, to be, to actually complete.

But, more than ANY of that, I know the secret places in my heart. The places that are dirtier, messier, and unlovelier than any bedroom, any closet, any drawer.

Can I tell you why Good Friday matters to a messy sinner like me? Why it matters deep down - in the places that define me?

Because of Good Friday, because of the cross - when God looks at me, He doesn't see all that I am not. God sees Jesus on the cross. The one who died instead of me. The one who bore my shame, carried the messes of my heart on his beaten and bloody back, and I live free of judgment and shame because he died in my place.

When I feel like a quitter who just. can't. get. it. together, I cling to the message of hope the cross of Jesus declares for me: God gave his only son for sinners. Like me. Like you.

Because of the cross, I have THIS promise:

And I am sure of this, that he who began

a good work in you will bring it to completion

at the day of Jesus Christ.

Philippians 1:6

God is not a quitter. He carried his own cross on his back and died for me in the most glorious finish in history. My life is his work. And, he doesn't give up.

He isn't giving up on me. He isn't giving up on you.

I may not be organized. My bedroom might be messy. And, the drawers and closets and secret places in my heart that I don't want anyone to see scream out, "You are not good enough." And you know what? I'm not.

But, the cross of Jesus is. I have God's promise - that he began something marvelous in me when he made me his, and until I fly through the ribbon at the end of my life and finish this race, I will cling to the grace and promise of knowing that I am his project, his plan, his girl.

And, He's not finished with me yet.

So as Good Friday approaches, it matters to my messy heart and life because the cross is where Jesus declared that that my sin and my failures and my “not enoughs” and the work I could NEVER do for myself no longer define me. The righteousness of Jesus is my victory cry.

He finished what I never could.

The cross for secret closets.
The cross for messy hearts.
The cross for quitters.
The cross for little girls with chalkboard plans.
The cross for mamas who can't get it together.

The cross of Jesus – the hope of Good Friday for me.
The hope of Good Friday for you.

To My Teenager (As We Walk This Rocky Road Together).

2018-01-29T09:02:00.000-05:00

I remember the first time I was DEEPLY afraid for you.

We were coming out of a restaurant and your wild, two year-old body couldn’t escape to freedom fast enough. You bolted right off the sidewalk and into the parking lot towards an onslaught of cars. Your Daddy – he ran after you and scooped you up in his arms and carried you back to safety. I stood there with my hands over my mouth in disbelief at what had just unfolded before me as I watched helplessly and in that moment I found MY LIFE VERSE:

I AM NEVER LETTING GO OF YOU, AGAIN!

Can I confess something to you? Now that you are a teenager, I’m afraid, again. I’m afraid to let you go. I see you growing and changing and ITCHING to let your fingers slip out of mine and RUN TO FREEDOM. I see you pulling away, and my not-so-little one, you should. I know you should. You were meant for an adventure designed just for you. You were created to be SO MUCH MORE than just my son.

I know you think I just don’t get it. You don’t feel known and you feel deeply misunderstood and all of these rules are ruining your life and you have so many questions about everything around here and why it is the way it is. I’m so “old-fashioned” and “You just don’t get it, Mom” and you know what? Maybe I don't get it.

But you know what? I get you.

I know you. I have been your mama through your every joy and sorrow. I know HOW MUCH you want to be seen and loved and LIKED. I know how much you love Pop Tarts and how much hair product you use and that the swoosh in your hair with pristinely buzzed sides is TOP DOG right now. I know that your friends can be BIG FAT JERKS and you don’t know whether to join them or stand up for what you know in your heart is right. I know HOW HARD it is to reconcile being a follower of Christ and a kid who the world sees as cool.

I know because I know you.

I cannot protect you from all of these hard things, even though most days I would if given the choice. I can guard you for a season, but only God can protect you. His hand is the one that will hold tight when mine isn’t the one you want to hold anymore. And I know that day is here. I wish I could answer all of your questions the way you want me to answer them, but I would be robbing you of the ONE THING YOU NEED MOST:

A broken, confused heart that runs to Jesus.

Here's what you'll find in him:

- When you feel misunderstood, Jesus knows JUST how you feel.
- When you feel afraid, Jesus will be your light.
- When you feel like you just wanna do what you wanna do, Jesus tells you to come when you’re weary and he will give you rest.
- When you wonder if your friends are really your friends, Jesus knows this all too well and he will be the TRUE friend you have ALWAYS wanted.

I am such a broken example of ALL of this for you. I am a desperate sinner who needs the grace of Jesus EVERY SINGLE DAY, and running to him is the ONLY hope I have for me and for you. I wish you could see him better in me, but instead, you get a MIXED UP, MESSED UP sinner and the BEST thing I can do for you is try to point you to the one who will love both of us through it all.

SO here’s what I do:

I pray God’s word over you. Because no matter how much I want to protect you or what my dreams and wants are for you, when I pray God’s word over you, I know I’m praying what HE wants for you:

A loving and patient heart. (1 Corinthians 13:4)
A man who runs to Him. (Psalm 31)
A faithful warrior of prayer. (Psalm 55:17)
A true and kind friend. (Mark 12:31)
A man who loves God’s word. (Psalm 1:2)

The Lord. He is your shepherd.
Your shield.
Your refuge.

He will never leave you, even after we survive this crazy we're in and you leave to discover the world without me. He will walk with you through every trial, through every heartache and He will DELIGHT over you as you run to Him with any and EVERYTHING. He wants to know your failures. He wants to know your joys.

He will forever be your Father. And He will love you for every single day through every single thing when you put your trust in Him.

As we walk through the rest of your teenager years together, if you remember nothing else as we shout across the hallway at each other - trying to find our way through all of this, remember that your mama is a sinner who needs God’s grace, just like you do.

We’re in this together, you know? We are more alike than we are different: We BOTH need a Savior.

So when I cry when you go to the dance this spring and say “no” to some things I know you really, really want and yell at you over stupid stuff we can’t agree on and you feel like I’m just a BIG OL' DUMMY who doesn’t get it, know in your heart how much I love you.

That I am for you.

And, that above all else, I want you to know the love of Jesus that will NEVER let you go.

Let's Give Up The Hustle [And Trade It For What We Really Want]

2018-01-05T10:34:00.001-05:00

Last year, I made a New Year’s resolution: Read through the entire Bible AND journal it in my brand new journaling Bible.

I suppose I thought it would honor God (and I still know it would), but honestly, my motivation was ALL SHADES of wrong. I thought the promise of praise by the people around me at the completion would be all the motivation I’d need to really finish it. Sadly, that's why I set the goal in the first place.

So I posted about it: Look what I'm doing, y'all! SEE! I AM A HUSTLER.

NEW GOALS.
Fresh start.
Go tell it on the mountain of social media: I am someone who GETS IT DONE.

Do you know how far I made it? TWO DAYS. Two. To put that into context, Adam was still blissfully running around the garden nekked.

I was rolling my eyes at myself and lamenting that I JUST CAN'T GET CRAP DONE, when THIS truth began pressing itself on my heart:

There is nothing, Nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING I can do that will make God love me more. NOTHING.

I didn’t really understand this at all until I had children. The five faces that look up (and now down 😭) at me everyday? There is NOTHING they can do to make me love them more. Not a SINGLE thing. Am I somehow a wiser, more loving parent than God? I doubt it.

So why? Why was I hustling?

I thought your approval would motivate me. I put it out there, and if you saw me as a hustler, as a goal-setter with a mountainous task ahead, the promise of YOUR praise at the end would be all the motivation I’d need. The praise of others, man. It’s POWERFUL stuff.

This last year, I learned that the hustle is a big time FRAUD. All the trying, all the grasping, all the scheming to somehow manufacture contentment through approval of others by a whole lot of DOING doesn’t work. The dividends are ZERO. Hustling for approval NEVER pays.

A few days into the New Year, I asked my hustler self this question:

What if my ONLY goal this year was to rest in the goodness of the Lord and look for ways to display that goodness to others?

What if I became more vulnerable, less prideful about what I know, and became a better listener instead? What if I wrote when I wanted, NOT to get paid or get YOUR approval or AMENS or accolades, but simply because I enjoy it? What if I slowed down, honed in at home and fostered a handful of DEEP friendships instead of “managing” a host of acquaintances?

What if I said “yes” to things that would build others up and love them well, and “no” to things that would do that for me?

It wasn’t perfect. In fact, it was a perfectly messy, perfectly scrambled, all over the place emotionally year. Approval is like a drug, and detox is BRUTAL. I failed a WHOLE bunch because I know I’m hard-wired to seek approval.

But this last year? I FINALLY gave up the hustle and traded it for a deep contentment I’d never known.

A friend looked across the room at me a couple of weeks ago as we recounted what we’ve seen in each other this last year and said, “I saw a vulnerability in you I’ve never seen before.” I not only adore her, but I fought back tears that she saw what God had been secretly doing in me. You see? This kind of year was a work inside of me. Not a work to put on display.

BYE-BYE hustle. HELLO contentment.

Friend...

- You are not more loved because you become thinner.
- You are not more accepted because you've read more books.
- You are not more worthy as a friend because your schedule is packed full of lunch dates.

And you will NOT be more content. I can promise you that.

As we set up goals, make resolutions, determine to DO THAT THING, can I just throw out there that maybe, JUST MAYBE, this year might be YOUR year for resting? A year for waving goodbye to all the manufacturing and maneuvering and stressing over the DO THIS AND THAT so that others will love/accept/think more highly of you. But instead, focusing on finding contentment where it can be found - giving up the hustle and resting in the deep contentment that is found by fostering deep, close community and resting in the goodness of the life God has set before you.

And discovering ways (within your newfound RESTED self) to show that love to your people.

This just might be your year, friend.

How I Found My Place (And My People) at a Megachurch

2017-04-10T09:08:00.000-04:00

I used to wonder why people would attend a megachurch.

I mean, THOUSANDS on THOUSANDS of people streaming into a building on any given weekend? Is that ANYONE'S idea of a good time? I actually wondered what people were thinking in CHOOSING a church so large as their place of worship when they could attend a smaller church down the street with easy parking, good ol' fashioned potlucks, and a small community of people who all know each other.

I've had several friends over the years who attended some of the biggest and most well-known churches in the country, and the reasons I was CERTAIN they attended them are the SAME reasons people assume I attend one now.

- It's because of the GREAT programming: children's activities, women's ministries, a totally TURNT UP VBS, opportunities galore laid out right before you. Well, let me tell you, that ain't it. While that stuff can be great in ANY size church, I'm not gonna choose a church based on programs and activities that could come and go.

- Or maybe it's the amazing worship band covered in smoky awesomeness wearing hipster glasses and weathered plaid button downs? Annnnd ... a big fat NOPE. Not it either. I can fire up iTunes and hear the originals anytime, anywhere.

- Maybe it's that I don't really want to be known - you know, you can sneak in and out of a megachurch and NO ONE will notice you, right? The pastor doesn't know you, the people don't know you - come on in, get a little pumped up for the week, and go right on out. It's Dreamland for Anonymous-Wanna-Bes. Yeah well, if you know ANYTHING about me, I ain't trying to be anonymous, y'all. ANYWHERE. I want to be known and loved. Deep down, don't we all?

- It's probably that megachurches are BIG and RICH and FANCY. Which OF COURSE means I now have a big and rich and fancy life. Well, my church meets in a warehouse/strip mall of sorts - and has YET to write me a big, fat check from the tithing pool. And based on the number of straight up broke college students rolling in and the number of clunky, barely hanging on minivans I see in the parking lot each week, I highly doubt anyone else is gettin' one either.

So WHY then? If it's none of those reasons... then WHY?

Well, here's how it went down for us: My family moved into the area and went searching for a church where the gospel was preached EVERY week and the people loved Jesus and had hearts for the lost people he came to save - not just each other. And, when we found that in a church TWENTY times the size of what we might've considered ideal, we stayed.

We've been at our church, a church of over 10,000 people, for six years. We have grown in our relationship with Jesus and in our passion to love people well in ways we never could've imagined. And as I sat down to think about WHY we've stayed and WHAT we love about our church, I wanted to share with you how we found our place and our people here.

If you want true, rich, deep community within a larger (not just mega) church:

1. You MUST join and be part of a smaller group of people within the church. At our church, we call them... well, small groups. (SEE? We fancy.) If you're in an church of 10,000 plus people, you NEED people within the church who know your stuff. I mean, your REAL LIFE STUFF. They don't have to be your BFFs, but they NEED to know HOW to pray for you. They bring meals, they hold the baby, and they laugh and cry with you through your hot mess of a life. These are people who KNOW you, walk everyday life with you, open their Bibles with you, hold you accountable, and are committed to praying for you. They rally around you, help you when you're sick, laugh with you and celebrate your victories, and they hurt with you when you are hurting. And, you will know TRUE JOY in getting to do and be that for them.

The only way to be truly known within a very large church is to have a core of people, WITHIN the church, who know you, love you, care for you, and are walking closely through life with you. This group may change as seasons change and people move or you branch out to start new groups as you grow, but they are IN IT with you for the season you're together. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE, y'all. They effectively take a large church, and make it smaller - so that within the larger community of your church as a whole, you are known, cared for, prayed for, and loved.

2. You HAVE to serve in some capacity within the church. You can't come in, sit down, be entertained by the band, get pumped up with a God pep-talk for the week ahead, and leave. If you don't serve inside your church, you are not only missing out on being known by the people you regularly serve with, but you are depriving the rest of the church of your specific, God-given gifts and talents. At a large church, there are no small amount of opportunities to serve - volunteers and servant leaders and people willing to give of their time and talents are needed ALL OVER the place. In serving, the larger church gets to be blessed by you, and YOU get to experience the collective joy of ALL serving God together - ALL for His glory and for the eternal work of seeing others come to know Jesus.

This next one is a BIG one. I've heard people say that if you go to a megachurch, the pastor doesn't really know what's going on in your daily life, what you're struggling with, and well, "he just can't possibly know ALL those people."

They are ABSOLUTELY right. He does not and cannot. But because of my small group, and the people I serve with, I don't need him to be that. I've already got it.

So this is an IMPORTANT one:

3. You don't need your pastor to know you and all the details of your life. A pastor COULD NOT do this for even THIRTY people. So if you go to a church of more than that, megachurches aside, a pastor cannot be that for you. NOTHING and NO ONE can replace the role of God's people in your life. One man most DEFINITELY cannot. I don't care how charismatic or godly you think he is.

Here is what I do need from my pastor:

A. I need him to personally love Jesus and have an urgency about unsaved people. But how can you know this when you rarely, if ever, interact with him? Well, because he is transparent about it when he preaches each week. My pastor talks about his time in the Word and what specifically that looks like for him and he helps us become better at it. He shares with us various everyday encounters he has with people and how he strikes up gospel conversations with them - and challenges us to do that as well. {I pity the fool who sits next to my pastor on an airplane. They don't even know what's comin'.} And, he not only INSISTS that we go on missions trips (short or long term) to spread the gospel to unreached people groups, but he has modeled that by taking his family and going himself.

But most importantly, I will see and know his worldview and his basis for it because...

B. I need him to faithfully preach God's word every week. Straight up. Not some watered down version of the Bible or some alliterated, hokey thoughts he's thinking on it, but the straight up, reading right from the text, WORD FOR WORD, chapter by chapter, book by book Word of God. If what he preaches from the stage each week is DIRECTLY coming from God's word, and he stands on THAT as the truth in his life (and points me there in mine), then I trust that he is leaning on the word of God and faithfully preaching it to us as well.

It took me some time to understand this one, but hear me on this:

C. I need my pastor to love and pray for HIS family and HIS neighbor, not mine. I don't need him to know the details of MY life. I want my pastor to be living out in HIS life and family the same call God has given to all of us as believers - "Go and make disciples." Yes, he is a pastor by vocation, but he is also a husband, a Dad, and a neighbor. I would rather have a pastor who is praying for HIS family and for the salvation of HIS kids and HIS lost neighbor than have a pastor who knows all of my family's junk and is praying for me.

Further, I would rather worship alongside a room full of one thousand people on a Sunday morning who are sharing the gospel with and LOVING HARD the lost people God has put in their lives than a room of one hundred whose primary purpose at church is to know and love me.

4. Going to a megachurch means setting aside your preferences - ALL the time. We didn't find the "perfect" church when we found ours, contrary to what some might believe about people who attend big churches. Quite frankly, it wouldn't take me long to write out a nice, hefty list of things I don't like about it or wish were done differently. But, I have come to see setting aside my preferences as a way of LOVING people well and celebrating the diverse makeup of the Kingdom of God. Of saying, "There are 9,999 other people here and there are thousands of others in my city who might consider coming through these doors, many of whom are VERY different from me, and I don't need to have things my way." If I don't like the worship music, it ain't changing because I throw a fit to the pastor, anyway. And, if I determine the VBS theme is terrible this year, I can march up to the kids pastor and tell him, but he will surely be able to point me to hundreds if other families who LOVE it. So week by week, I lay down how I might want things to be because it ISN'T about me. It's about Jesus - and I yield to the wisdom of the leaders in my church to determine how we can best reach people to know him.

So, here I am.
Known and loved.
Serving in a megachurch, a place I NEVER thought I'd be.

I've found my place here and I've found my people. REAL people with REAL problems and I've found deep and true relationships.

I need to say this: I could leave my church of 10,000 and attend a church of 20 people tomorrow. Why? Because what I've come to value about my church has NOTHING to do with its size - and EVERYTHING to do with its mission: To see lost, unsaved people come to know Jesus. I've seen people that I love and respect be sent out by my church in the name of that SAME mission. People I've grown to dearly love have left to go plant new churches, to serve overseas - to reach lost people ALL over the world. I am NOT saying that a megachuch is the place for everyone. I want to make that clear. But I AM saying that it is absolutely possible to find real, true, gospel-centered community in one.

I love the hearts of the people in my church - who lay down their preferences EVERY week in a thousand different ways to see the lost come to know Jesus.

I love the heart of my pastor - who boldly proclaims the gospel of Jesus every week.

And I love that church used to feel like it was for "me" - but, now I walk through those doors each weekend and see faces I don't recognize and people who don't know me and I see ALL of it, everything we do as a way to reach people, love them well, make them feel welcome and wanted, and make much of Jesus.

And my hope each week is that when I look around at ALL these people, they know Jesus. That they hear the gospel preached from the stage, that they see people loving them and serving them and each other and that their lives are changed - right inside my big ol' megachurch.

And, that they find their place and their people.

Just like I have.

The {Annoyingly} Awesome Life of 'The Best Day Evers'

2017-04-05T10:34:00.000-04:00

I have this disease. At least I think much of the world sees it as a disease.

What do I mean by that?

Well, I am an optimist. And, I have the worst case of it, y'all. Not only am I one of those glass half full kinda people (henceforth referred to as 'The Best Day Evers'), but it's overflowing and spilling out all over tarnation and landing on whomever is before me.

It isn't particularly welcome in the world we live in. I'd say it's more of a social leprosy these days.

My husband will tell you - it's annoying and endearing and annoying and endearing and annoying and ... AND HE"S the one that's stuck with me for all his days. Sometimes I bring him up along with me. Other times - it drives him STRAIGHT BATTY.

Oh, look. We ran out of gas. Well, BLESS - let's make out!
We're way over budget this month. I just found two quarters under the bed and THERE IS A REESE'S EGG CALLING MY NAME, YO!
The kids drew on the walls, again. Eh, I've been wanting to paint.

I was born with this optimistic spirit. I don't know how or why I have it, but it's here. And, let me clarify: I'm not talking about joy - the deep-seeded foundation of knowing who we are and WHOSE we are that guides us through life. That is a different post for a different day. I'm talking about optimism - a way of seeing little annoyances and interruptions as having some SHRED of positive in them.

It's also categorically NOT naivety. It's not head in the clouds, don't wanna face real life, living in a dream world, sugar-coated bliss. It's not I haven't been through any of life's HARD things and it is NOT turning a blind eye to the REAL problems and issues we are facing.

It is instead an inner resolve to NOT let cynicism get a hold of me. I resist cynicism with everything in me.

Surely you know some Best Day Evers, right? (BLESS if you are actually one of my real life people and have to put up with me.) Or, maybe you're a Best Day Ever, too. From the moment you were born, you've had it. Maybe you have kids or a husband or best friends like this. They are generally optimistic people. And, FOR THE LOVE, we can be the most annoying creatures to be around - especially when THE DOO OF LIFE hits the fan. We have birthed a hundred sayings and song lyrics:

"Looking on the bright side of things."
"The sun'll come out, Tomorrow...tomorrow...I love ya'..."
"Don't worry about a thing..."

We are annoyingly ... annoying with all this mess. But, I don't know that we can help it. And we wouldn't want to.

Optimism: I think it's most often hard-wired.

And, the world will do everything it can to snuff it out.. I have seen people look at something shining so bright and literally STARE down the bright so hard that it becomes dark.

We live in a world where we give our best standing ovations to the person who stands up and says, "LIFE SUCKS and here's why." Find the bright side? You're Pollyanna playing The Glad Game and living in a bubble.

I've seen how my optimism grates on people. I see it on their faces and I hear it in their voices and I feel it in the air when we're talking.

Best Day Evers: "...and so we made out like teenagers past curfew for like 15 minutes while we waited for AAA."
"Yeah, but, running out of gas on date night really sucks."

Best Day Evers: "...and since Reese's eggs were fifty cents at the Walmarts, BEST DAY EVER."
"Oh, are y'all having financial problems?"

Best Day Evers: "...and this light shade of gray is PERFECT for their room."
"UGH. But, painting!"

But, I've also seen it DO SO MUCH GOOD to take someone by the hand and lead them out of Funksville and into the land of "We got this, right? We do. We got it."

Life's interruptions? They're really just a matter of perspective to The Best Day Evers. Circumstances don't change when you look at things through a more optimistic lens. YOU change.

And while I think optimism is generally hard-wired, I ABSOLUTELY believe some version of it CAN be installed. I have seen people do it - friends who are naturally inclined to boo/hiss, TURN IT AROUND and head towards "It ain't so bad." All of us can choose to see little annoyances and our batch of "first world problems" as reasons to be in a perpetual funk (to each other, on social media - which ALL THE CAN'T EVENS, and towards anything in our path) or we can choose to find some shred of light in them.

It might be easier for some of us, harder for others. But, aren't most things in life that way?

There is SO much to grumble about, y'all:

Politics.
Him/her.
Ungrateful kids.
Traffic.
Moral decline.
Long lines.
Naggy bosses.
Change of plans.

And, there are a whole lot of people taking the microphone to grumble about them. It takes ZERO effort to find the "pain in the ass" in just about every situation.

But, to my fellow Best Day Evers:

Fight for it.
Don't let the world snuff it out of you.
Keep finding the good where it's hidden.
Let them stare.
Let them grumble.

Instead:

Make out.
Reese's your way through.
Paint.

The world needs us, too.

Iron Tribe, One Year Later: "Mommy, When Are You Gonna Use A Big Girl Box?" + #whyiSTILLtribe

2017-02-08T10:57:00.000-05:00

I walked into Iron Tribe, my gym, with my three year-old daughter a couple of months ago, set down my water bottle, and struck up a conversation with Phil - my favorite 12:15pm-er because he will ALWAYS engage me in some sort of "THIS IS GONNA BE AWFUL" talk, and I inevitably feel better knowing he is suffering as much as I am.

Box jumps were on that day's menu, as were burpees and some sort of "get the bar off the ground" + "hoist it over your head in any manner possible" kind of cocktail. I gave a cheesy grin to my coach as I made my way to the back, and in his usual manner, Josh quipped, "Come on, Sarah. This is gonna be fun." He is one of THOSE, y'all.

After a "quick" (#LIES) warm up, also known as A FULL ON WORKOUT TO ANY SANE INDIVIDUAL, I set up my box and bar, pulled my workout pants up over the "I've had five babies here" section of my body, and got to it. I finished somewhere near the bottom of our class (read: DEAD LAST), died DEAD on the floor, and laid there going through the list of treats I'd reward myself with for making it through another day at Tribe - because, as it turns out, I AM A DOG. Will burpee for treats.

I was laying on the ground stretching, and my daughter whispered in my ear, "Mommy, when are you gonna use a big girl box?" I looked over at my 12" box, set up next to 20" and 24" boxes and leaned into her, "You know, that IS a big girl box. It doesn't matter what KIND of box you use, just that you're using one and working hard." I love that I get to teach her this, and that she is watching her mama fight like the DICKENS to be stronger.

Today, it's been one year. ONE YEAR since I first walked through the doors of Iron Tribe. ONE YEAR since I first laced up my ratty old "tennis shoes", pulled an old pair of "lounge pants" from the bottom of my drawer, and bought my first "this actually fits me" sports bra. (Y'all. The struggle was so very real to get me there.) I walked into the gym at 6:30am on a freezing cold February 8th morning and I've now walked through that door over a hundred times since.

I suppose I could tell you my successes at Tribe - the triumphs, the PR's, and the way my body looks and feels NOW compared to how it looked and felt a year ago. But, I won't. Because like with anything we stick to, those physical successes always follow hard work and determination and resolve. But, these successes? They are absolute treasures to me. They are sacred victories - won with sweat and TEARS and a WHOLE LOT of hauling ass.

But, I will tell you this: My FAILURES this year at Iron Tribe are the things I hold as most valuable.

I've learned that my body, the ONLY one God has given me - I honor Him when I take care of it, even when it fails me. When I hustle through a workout - determined to be a stronger, healthier, BETTER physical version of myself, it's an act of worship. It's me saying to God: Thank you for giving me this body, when it can and when it can't. Thank you that I can do HARD things, and THANK YOU for the ability to try the things that seem impossibly hard.

It has been in my FAILURES that my mind and spirit have been made better and I've seen the POWER of community in pressing towards a goal.

NONE of it, not a single overhead, not one burpee, not a squat, not ONE SINGLE anything with a barbell or a mat or a box has come easy to me. But, the things that mold and change us, the things of TRUE value and worth - well, they never do. And the people who walk with us through the "Not-Easy" of life, well - THEY are the best reward in achieving our goals.

- When I drop the bar in frustration, Ashley gives me that knowing look from across the room and says, "We got this, Sar. We got it."
- When I'm 200 meters from finishing a wretched, horrible, awful row, Chad walks over (because LORD KNOWS he finished LONG ago) and says, "YOU WILL FINISH THIS. Come on."
- And when the hot tears are falling, because there's just not enough time left to do TWENTY more burpees, Jason (my SWEET, and VERY fit husband) leans in and whispers, "I could NOT be more proud of you."

And, when my tiny girl asks me when I'm gonna use a "big girl box", I can look down the row at all the boxes, see mine sitting there amongst them, teach her that it's all in the TRY, and know that because of the PEOPLE jumping on those bigger boxes, I'm better and stronger.

So here I am - one year after walking through the doors of Iron Tribe and DECIDING to trade the sofa for sit-ups and packs of Oreos for a six-pack. (BAH HAHAHA! Just kidding. Still rocking some sort of, I don't know, bowl of vanilla pudding in the midsection over here.) You won't see me competing in the CrossFit Games or running a marathon or going all pre-Gov Arnold on the world.

BUT. Carrying in those grocery bags sure is easier, and squatting down to kiss the sweaty foreheads of my kids ain't so bad anymore. Man, that is REWARD that changed my life.

Honoring God with my body, pressing on when it's IMPOSSIBLY hard, teaching my only daughter that being strong is WORTH THE FIGHT, and celebrating victory and defeat with a community of THE BEST kind of people.

Well... that's #whyitribe.

That's #whyiSTILLtribe.

When God Says "No". Or "Wait".

2016-08-25T14:10:00.001-04:00

When I was in high school, I had six different operations on my hips and knees. Which landed me in a body cast for months.

For many, many months. Three separate times.

So during all four years of high school, when I wasn't in surgery, staying in the hospital for physical therapy, or home recovering, I walked with crutches. I didn't have a boyfriend. And, though I was just like every other high school girl who longs to be noticed and loved, I didn't really expect to have one.

Because what high school boy wants to date the girl who can't walk?

As God began to heal me - after my third three-month stint in that horrible body cast - I dropped my crutches and learned to walk with a cane. And, the day I graduated from high school, I decided it was time to let go of the security of my cane and walk - and I walked for the first time since the beginning of ninth grade.

But, I would look down at the scars on my legs, or cringe in pain from the arthritis that I would soon learn would never go away, and I couldn't let go of the question:

Who will ever want me?

Less than three years later, I met my husband. The sweet and tender boy who looked past the scars that cover my legs, who walked slowly, hand-in-hand with me when my arthritis kept me steps behind everyone else, and who sat next to my hospital bed, hour upon hour, after my first hip replacement just after college.

The happiest day of my life was that cold, December day when that boyfriend became my husband. And, his love for me made my scars seem to fade.

As we began to think about starting a family, I looked down with freshly doubting eyes at the scars on my legs - the evidence of the trauma of my many surgeries in high school and double hip replacements years later. I could feel the effects of arthritis on my body and I was filled, again, with doubt. Upon doubt.

Will I ever be a mother?

I got pregnant with my first son, this miracle child who surely signified the end of a season of doubt, and four months later, my Dad committed suicide.

God, wasn't I due a season to just ... not wonder what on EARTH you're doing?

We all have them, right? Seasons of questions and doubts about who God is and WHAT He's doing. Doubts upon doubts. Over and over. Wanting. Waiting. And, wondering.

Will I ever get married?
Will I have children?
Will I get the job?
Will I ever stop feeling such pain?
Will my heart ever heal?

I can remember every season I've walked through where I just didn't know what God was doing with me. Some have been LOOOONG, and some - well, not as long. I know how it feels to not know if or when. I know what it means to LONG for and want and JUST. NOT. HAVE. And, for GOOD things I desperately longed to experience and "God, why does it always feel like your answer is 'No'? Or 'Wait'?"

But here's what I've learned:

"No" and "Wait" are the words God uses to teach me to trust Him.

His "Nos" and "Waits" are always the dark tunnels of my life through which I call out, "God, Where are you?" and He says, "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

Friends - He. Will. Never. Leave. You. Not when things are going as you want them, not when He says "No" or "Wait" and DEFINITELY not in that dark tunnel of doubt.

You know, my legs still bear the scars of the trauma from those many years ago. And, I still have doubts, I will ALWAYS have doubts - about new things and old things and the same things. Don't we all? Doubts and wonderings and "Oh, God, you haven't forgotten me, have You?"

But, when I'm doubting His goodness to me now, I cling to this promise:

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.
Isaiah 43:19

I used to think this meant that God was making a way for things to work out the way I wanted. Or work out in a way that I could understand or KNOW that He actually knows what He's doing.

But, friends - when we travel down each new road He's asking us to walk - or crutching, or hobbling, or wheeling, or crawling with tears of doubt falling onto the wasteland below us - we can know that God NEVER wastes our wounds.

These scars? The "Nos" and the "Waits" and the hard seasons? He is using them to draw us near to Him.

And, in time, when we look upon our scars - the ones on our bodies and the ones on our hearts - the evidences of seasons of doubting and waiting and sometimes that really hard "No" - we may not get any answers that satisfy us on this side of heaven. And, man - is that hard.

But. We have a promise that ALL ALONG, always - He is indeed making a way...

Straight into our hearts. His favorite place to be.

Why Every Mother Wears A Crown

2016-07-27T16:49:00.001-04:00

I was checking out at Target today and glancing at magazine covers and I began thinking about Kate Middleton.

I mean, how could I not, right? She's on the cover of almost every news outlet and the world over celebrates every moment of her growing family - a future king and his little sister, a princess in pale pink Mary Janes.

I was imagining what it must be like - to dream of and decorate a nursery and playroom with no budget or limits. No old, builder-grade "just a shade off" carpet or creaky floorboards. To have the very best designers in the world at her disposal ready to create dreamlike, perfect spaces for her prince and princess.

I was imagining what it must be like - to have the world waiting with intense curiosity - eager to know every detail of her labors and who was there and who she called and told first and do they even use telephones for such a thing?

I was imagining what it must be like - to watch her husband, William. A future king himself who lost his mother so young and all of that pressure and all of those memories and expectations and comparisons hovering overhead as he raises his young children.

Their lives seem like a fairy tale. Truly. A real, life fairy tale unfolding right before our eyes and I, for one, just can't help but look and wonder and imagine what it must be like to live in that world.

And, yet - I already know.

Because not long ago, a most majestic title was first bestowed on me.

It is noble and honorable and the jewels on this crown are bought over time with self-sacrifice, patience, long nights, and tears. They are warrior jewels - representing many not-small victories over selfishness and pride. A dying to self. A pressing, ever eager sense of another's needs. In a thousand ways. In a thousand moments.

This crown? It's worn on the heart.

It's worn on every mother's heart.

But, the title?

I love the way it sounds.
I love how it feels.
I love what it means.

So, tonight - as I read the news again and see glimpses into the life of the world's favorite royals, I sit and wonder what life must be like for the future queen. I imagine her favorite title will be the one she's received twice now, in that sweet little boy holding her hand and his tiny sister gripping onto her shoulder.

The noble and honorable title she shares with so many others:

Mum.

First Day of School and HELLO, Kindergarten!

2016-07-18T10:58:00.002-04:00

Somebody started Kindergarten today!

Say WHAT?

No.

Nah to the ah to the no no NOOOOOOO!

I asked him if he wanted to stay home with me.

His response:

NEVER.

Jason: I don't think anyone has ever been more ready for Kindergarten.

I mean. I guess I can't argue with that. He's only been counting down for the last EIGHT months.

"How many more months til Kindergarten, Mom."
"How many more weeks now?"

And, at about for months out, we started on days.

"MOM, Dad said it's only one hundred and seven more days!"

But, the BEST part of starting Kindergarten for our confident, free spirit is that he FINALLY gets to go with his brothers.

No more looking longingly out the car window.
No more I AM SO BORED.
No more NAPS! (Naptime graduation is BIG TIME in our house. Congrats, Whit!)

They're headed off to a new adventure - my four buddies.

That one on the left starting middle school? He's been down this road six times before - this new year thing.

He's the leader of this band of brothers and he stands so tall in that role.

They're so ready to take on the new year. All FOUR of them.

I walked Whit in today - wondering if he'd have ONE shred of pause.

Nope. He never looked back.

He was made to fly.

And, he's gonna soar.

Motherhood: A Thousand Letting Gos

2016-07-11T11:17:00.000-04:00

The day my first son was born, that precious day, my husband placed his tiny body in my arms and his eyes caught mine and I kissed his wrinkled forehead and I whispered the only thing my heart knew: "I'll never let you go."

I'll never let you go.

A few hours later, the nurse came into our hospital room and told us she needed to take him "for just a little bit." But my heart heard, "You'll never see him again."

I didn't want to let go.

That little bit felt like hours and the not-wanting released hot tears down my cheeks as I waited for her to roll him back into our room. Which she did, much to the relief of my husband who just wanted an hour of sleep and a cure for his hyper-emotional wife.

I was learning that ancient tug:

I had to let go.

What no one told me about motherhood, what a new mother's heart is too young, too tender, too new to understand, is that motherhood is a thousand letting gos.

My tiny son. I've been letting go his whole life.

The first day I dropped him off at the nursery at church, screaming and pulling at my shirt. Letting go.
His first time down the big slide. Letting go.
His first day of preschool. Letting go.
His first overnight at Grandma's without me. The hardest letting go.
His first day of Kindergarten. The HEAVING sobs of letting go.
When he turned the corner on his bike. Letting go.
Handing him an iPod and the scary world of technology. Letting go.
And this year, middle school. OMG, middle school. Can I carry him in on my hip?

I still have a thousand more to go.

Letting go.

Over and over and over.

My heart, since the moment I first laid eyes on him, has always beat easiest to every mother's favorite anthem: I'll never let you go.

But I'm learning: He isn't mine to hold onto. He is God's child before he is my child and my holding on would only keep him from his God-designed, made-just-for-him adventure.

That big slide? BEST. DAY. EVER.

Turning the corner on his bike? Breeze-in-his-hair, not looking back, taste of sweet freedom.

And, now - middle school? "I got this, Mom."

Letting go. So I can hold onto God's promises for him:

Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
Isaiah 43: 18-19

The #1 BEST Way To Be A Good Friend To Moms

2016-05-31T11:25:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes a good friend in this season of my life.

This season, with young children running wild in my house and dirty diapers and dirty dishes and dirty clothes scattered about. Running here and there to baseball and birthday parties and screeching into the drive-thru and off to friends' houses and playdates at the park and homework and bedtime battles and cobwebs in the corner.

This season is SO all over the place and SO full of goodness and exhaustion and wonderful things and hard things...

I started out thinking about a particular friend I just spent time with and what makes her so lovely and pleasant and easy-to-be-around. Which then led to comparing her, right or wrong, to the friends I've had that I find to be so ... prickly. And, then I began thinking about what kind of friend I am, what kind of friend I want to be - and all of that led me to this question:

What makes a GOOD friend to moms?

I once had a friend ask me, with utter shock in her voice, "Are you REALLY giving him peanut butter at 10 months?" Ack. Prickly.

I once lost a friend completely because she didn't think I responded to her texts quickly enough. And she told me so. I had four children under the age of six at the time and was pregnant with my fifth and WHO CAN TEXT WITH REESE'S PEANUT BUTTER CUP FALLOUT ON THEIR FINGERS? Honestly, texts would sit on my phone for days sometimes and I just didn't have the mental or emotional capacity to respond to them all.

I felt a lot of hurt from that loss. I just couldn't meet her expectations.

On the contrary, I have a friend who is a neat-freak, but can come over to my house when it's in HURRICANE RECOVERY MODE (which is most of the time) and she laughs with me at my crazy and sits among the squalor and has coffee with me. She loves me so well and I LOVE to be around her.

I bribe my kids with snacks and treats. (#sorrynotsorry) And, one of my FAVORITE people on the planet would never, EVER do that - but she would meet me at the park and pull packs of high-fructose corn syrup fruit snacks out of my bag for my kids in a HOT MINUTE. And, then she'd hug my hyperactive children when they finish the packs in 10 seconds flat.

I have friends who range the entire spectrum of mothering choices:

Some eat ONLY organic food; some buy Krispy Kremes and McD's french fries and call it dinner.
Some don't do social media; some live FULL DAYS/WEEKS on Facebook and Instagram.
Some live in immaculate, organized houses; some haven't seen the vacuum in weeks. (#weownavacuum?)

Being a good friend to the moms in your life is NOT about how you live and what you choose for yourself and your family. And then finding friends who match up to your standards of mothering.

After 11 years at this mom gig, I think I've finally figured out how to be the BEST kind of friend to the moms in my life:

Let her choose her priorities.

Listen - All moms are different. All WOMEN are different. We tick and tock to different rhythms. We come from such different places - such varying sets of values and fears and insecurities and there is NOTHING like parenting to bring those to light.

When it comes to prioritizing what is important to us - WE AREN'T ALL THE SAME. But, how utterly boring would it be if we were?

Our differences, when celebrated in freedom and grace, are a glorious picture of God's creativity. When we allow our friends to choose their priorities, ESPECIALLY when they are different from ours, we become these lovely, love-to-be-around-you, grace-filled friends.

But if I have a friend who doesn't agree with my priorities, and she needs me to know that, we probably aren't going to be friends very long. Do you know who my best friends are? They are the women in my life who agree, along with me, that we're all different and we do not need to be the same to love each other well.

So if you want to be a good friend to a mom - you don't need to be like her. Her kids don't need to be like your kids. You don't need to share values and hobbies and have the same outlook on parenting. In fact, you can be entirely different.

If you want to love another mom well - let her choose her priorities. Let her be free - to be messy or clean, organic or Krispy Kreme, laundry or "no clean socks here, kids."

Let her choose her priorities. And you will become one of those trusted, precious, love-being-around-you friends to her.

And, y'all - those girls are GOLD.

Happy Easter 2016

2016-03-28T08:59:00.001-04:00

My precious ones.

So thankful for Jesus - for the love he poured out to us on the cross. And, that WE live because he couldn't live without us.

Happy Easter, friends.

When Christmas Is Both Joy and Sorrow

2015-12-07T10:18:00.000-05:00

I always feel nostalgic this time of year.

I suppose everyone does. My dreams and daydreams and quiet moments, rare as they may be, are flooded with memories.

SO many memories.

Some so painful I can hardly catch my breath for the remembering.
Some filled with inexpressible joy.

I remember my first Christmas as Jason's wife. Life was new, again. I woke up with my best friend next to me, and yet, he was a stranger. I'd only known him as my husband for 10 days, and I couldn't get enough of how wonderful and new he was to me.

I remember my Dad. Whom I lost just over 10 years ago to suicide. Who loved Christmas and who loved me - just for being me. Over and over, again. I remember my Dad.

I remember the first Christmas I spent with a broken heart. Everyone around me wore happy, plastic faces, and I wore grief. I was an unlikely Grinch, only my heart had been trampled on and refused to grow, and I desperately wanted to sing with the Whos. I couldn't find my song.

I remember the year I got a baby carriage. It's the first Christmas I remember. I wore my blue, polyester "Chatterbox" nightgown - perfect for the "Will she ever stop talking?" little girl who wore it at age six and still appropriate today, for the forty-year old who's never met a microphone she didn't love - as I pushed my new baby doll around our house on Sherman Avenue. It snowed that year.

I remember Christmas 2004 - my first as a mother. My newborn son was my world. He was the baby in every manger I saw, and "For unto us a child is born; a son is given" made my heart cry out a thousand thanks to God every time I heard or sang or read it.

I remember my Playdoh Fun Factory. And, my hand sewn Cabbage Patch Doll because a "real" one couldn't be found. I remember my first pair of Guess jeans and my karaoke machine - which blasted Wilson Phillips back-up music and my sisters and I ROCKED THAT HARMONY, YESPLEASEANDTHANKYOU. I remember the mixed emotions of Mom's new engagement ring and our new Atari and all of it blends together in one big mental montage of Christmases past.

While we decorated our Christmas tree this year, I sat and cried big fat tears for what had been. I wept for my Dad, whom I miss so much. I wept because I now have four sons and a daughter, and they are the best, craziest, most exhaustingly wonderful gifts I've ever gotten. I wept for the beautiful sacrifice my parents made to give us a toy-filled Christmas each year.

I wept for my broken heart 20 years ago. I wept for the broken hearts of those I love today. SO. many. broken. hearts.

I wept because, given the choice, I would never go back to the hurt and pain, but I want to close my eyes and relive the moments and gifts that took my breath away. Wouldn't we all?

As this memory-filled montage plays over and over in my head this morning, this week, this Christmas season - I look back and see how Christmas has been this broken and beautiful mix of joy and sorrow. And, the more I get to know and love people, it seems that's the way it is for most of us.

We are hurting. But, we know - we KNOW there is more.

Here's what I know about Christmas:

I need the baby in that manger.

In the hard things - the ones that have broken and wrecked my heart - I need a Savior.
In the blessings - I need the One True King that brings eternal joy.
In that duplex of hard and blessing - I need the Prince of Peace, whose love never waivers with the sway of my heart.

Jesus. He redeems our past. He redeems today. He is the hope for our future.

Friends - while the world around us grapples with both pain and joy this season - remembering the past, trudging through today, confused about tomorrow - we often forget they are listening and watching. Or we KNOW that they are watching, so we grab a megaphone to shout how our various Christmas traditions differ: Santa or no Santa, real or fake, elf or no elf, Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays, plain ol' red cup OR ONE WITH SNOWMEN ON IT for the love of all that DOES NOT MATTER, one present or ten. We can be so easily lured into launching social grenades to defend our way of celebrating Christmas.

This Christmas, if we can tell anything to the broken, the joy-filled, our children, new mamas holding their newborns, the homeless and orphan, the oppressed and hurting, and every soul who gets to hear, see, and read our voice, can our loudest shout be: to the broken-hearted, the joy-filled, our children, new mamas holding their newborns, victims of violence and abuse and the ones that love them, the oppressed and hurting, and EVERY SINGLE SOUL who gets to hear, see, or read our voice, can our loudest shout be:

"We have GOOD NEWS to share! Do you want to hear it?"

Out of love for the Gospel, that has the power to SAVE and redeem lives, and the hope-filled message of Jesus' birth, let's not squander this season in the name of who is the "rightest" in how we celebrate. We are in the same army. ALL YEAR LONG. Fighting to share with a hurting world the same GOOD NEWS:

• God will never hand you over to despair.
• God is strong and mighty to save and He will never let go of you.
• God is the Hope you are looking for - this Christmas and every day forward.

Our broken and hurting world needs OUR Savior.
Our blessed and indulged country needs THIS King.

Let's fight, together - however we celebrate this time of year - using this Christmas season to tell the world:

Your Hope.
Your Joy.
Your Peace. In all circumstances.

He's here.

Why Disappointments Are Gifts To Our Children

2015-10-07T12:55:00.002-04:00

I heard the pitter patter of not-so-little feet coming up the steps and I knew it was time to grab the pliers and pry open my eyes. I looked over at the clock.

6:18.

Oh, morning. You have no mercy.

I rolled over and saw Jack, my eleven year-old standing next to his Dad's side of the bed.

"Hey, Mom. Is Dad in the shower?"

"No, bud. He left for a trip really early this morning. Just a quick one, though."

"WHAT?", my boy furrowed his brow. "Another trip?"

"Yeah, but just a quick one. He'll be home tomorrow."

"But, it's just...well...it's just that I made him breakfast this morning. I've never done that before."

"You did?"

My eyes popped open. Oh my word, what did this child do? Did he turn on the stove? Is there a HUGE mess down there that somehow in my comatose state of "my husband was up at 4am and I didn't sleep well", I didn't hear a thing.

I rubbed my eyes ready to slide out of bed to go survey the damage and looked up at Jack.

He was crying.

"Oh, buddy. I know it's hard. But, he'll be back tomorrow."

He wiped his eyes and left to go downstairs.

I stumbled out of bed, threw on a sweatshirt, walked past the baby's room - where I heard babbling and singing - and headed to the kitchen.

Jack, Max, and Lincoln were all sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal. I glanced around the room looking for signs of disaster, but found just cereal boxes and the gallon of milk in the middle of the table.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Jack seemed to have recovered and was leading a serious and important discussion about the latest Avengers movie.

I headed over to make a cup of ambition for myself, when I spotted it.

The sweetest "Made for Dad" breakfast ever.

What's a mama to do but cry?

You know, as a mother, this is some of the hardest stuff I do. Processing and handling the things that hurt my children - their disappointments, their fears, the things in life that are such letdowns to them - this is hard stuff on my mama heart.

Isn't it like that for all of us as mothers? Oh, how their hurts slay us.

But, you see, here's what I've learned:

These disappointments are GOLD. Treasures. Priceless gifts in raising children.

Today, when Jack gets home from school and I have time to sit down and talk to him about what that bowl of uneaten Raisin Bran REALLY means, I will have an opportunity to show him what God has taught me.

Our hurts and disappointments really point us to God's love for us.

If we let them.

The love Jack has for his Dad that prompted him to wake up today and pour that bowl of Raisin Bran, the relationship that has been nurtured since the day they laid eyes on each other, the eleven years of bonding, sharing, car-racing, book-reading, bike-riding - this is God's love poured out on my boy.

He has a Dad who loves him, and he loves his Dad.

The love in our family - God has given that to us. And, that we miss each other when we're apart makes us newly aware that God has been so good to us. And, when we choose to focus on that, our sadness turns to joy.

It's taken me thirty years to see this in my own life - to process my own fears and disappointments this way.

When Satan wields the spear of "God doesn't love you because..." and we wield the sword of "But, I'm so grateful for..." against it, well - we find joy in the goodness of God.

Thankfulness. It is the antidote for disappointment.

My children. They will be disappointed again and again. My hope is that they learn to lift their eyes in thankfulness to the One who loves them more than any other, even in the midst of hurt or sadness.

So this afternoon, when I sit down with my Jack, that uneaten bowl of cereal gives me an open door to remind my boy that missing each other when we're apart is a great gift to us.

And, together - he and I will use thankfulness to slay the power of what isn't, what we don't have today, who isn't here today.

And, FIGHT our disappointment by being grateful to God, together, for the joy we have in this great gift He has given us:

The love in our family.

Hot Milk Cupcakes with Vanilla Buttercream Frosting

2015-09-16T08:31:00.000-04:00

When I {sorta, barely sorta} homeschooled Jack and Max when they were little preschoolers, our first lesson was on darkness and light. I took them out for ice cream after our first day to celebrate.

Because I knew how it would go down:

Jack would choose chocolate.
Max would choose vanilla.

Darkenss. Light. Homeschool #winning.

{I made a video of our first day of school those many years ago. I am NOT watching it because it will render me useless, curled up in the corner, weeping for all that's been lost for the rest of the day. You, however, can watch it here if you're so inclined.}

{Also. If you want to make a cheap, massive bulletin board for anywhere in your home, I wrote a picture tutorial for how we made the camo one in the video here.}

Six years later, and my Max will still, always, every time choose vanilla. Vanilla ice cream. Vanilla cookies (i.e Snickerdoodles). Vanilla pudding.

And, ALWAYS, vanilla cupcakes.

After testing, re-testing, playing, dabbling and tweaking, I've finally come up with the PERFECT vanilla cupcake.

The batter, made with warmed milk and butter, a recipe from my husband's grandmother - renders cake that is spongy, not-too-sweet, and SO buttery and soft, but sturdy enough to hold its own. If you have a kitchen, you will ALWAYS have on hand all of the ingredients to make these cupcakes.

The frosting? It's a divine, perfectly sweet, buttery (notice a theme?), magical topper for Grannymom's batter.

These little hands. My tiny helper. Love me some Whit.

Also, you can pipe on this frosting and make it swirly and finished. But, I love the simple, homemade look of just spreading it on with a knife and adding a few sprinkles. (*You can easily color it as well with food coloring.)

Whit: They look like fwuffy cwouds. Totally.

Try these. I know you'll love 'em as much as we do.

Here's the recipe:

Hot Milk Cupcakes

2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 cup milk
2 sticks butter
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Sift together flour and baking powder. Set aside. Cream together sugar and eggs.

In a small pan, heat together milk and butter until butter is melted. Add flour mixture to egg mixture and beat well. Then add hot milk with butter mixture. Beat until smooth. Add vanilla and mix until combined.

Line muffin pans with liners (or grease with cooking spray or butter). Using an ice cream scoop, fill each liner with batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.

Cool. Top with Vanilla Buttercream Frosting.

Yield: 2 dozen cupcakes

Vanilla Buttercream Frosting

1/2 cup butter, softened
2 cups confectioner's sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
Approximately 6 tablespoons milk

Beat butter with mixer. Slowly add confectioners sugar to combine with butter. Add vanilla.

Beat in milk, one tablespoon at a time until you reach desired consistency.

Top cupcakes with frosting.

Do Y'all Like The Ravens Or Something? {Well, since you asked...}

2015-09-14T11:34:00.000-04:00

What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

What can make me blog again?

Well, the Ravens. OBVS.

I was watching my little ones yesterday - as I shot our annual "We are a RAVENS family" photos and STOPPED IN MY TRACKS because I remembered that they were once this:

And, this...

And, then Whit grew the most glorious head of hair. And they became this...

And, OH MY SWEET HEAVENS, we got the surprise of our LIVES and our testosterone laden abode got a tiny, pink, squealing dose of this...

One year later...{AKA The Year of Bad Haircuts and Real Smiles for Miles}

And here we are today.

I pulled out my camera when we got home from church, in which we PAINTED THE TEMPLE purple because SOMEONE HAS GOT TO REPRESENT the purple and black down here. The struggle is REAL living in a city/state where red and black don't mean the Terps, but a pack of wolves. Where Carolina blue is not only the color of the sky, but of cars, t-shirts, flags, flip-flops, and underwear.

So. We proudly represent the Baltimore Ravens - the city and team that we love.

Speaking of love...

How much do I LOVE these tiny creatures?

Holly grabbed the football and took off. Which is indicative of her brothers' normal mantra where she's concerned:

She can do no wrong.

God bless the man that has to make it through these four to win her heart.

I watched the boys playing in the cul-de-sac before I went inside. Gosh, they are awesome kids.

Jason and I? We're exactly the same as we were five years ago when this photo was taken.

No wrinkles. No grey hair. Nada. Exactly the same.

{Ahem.}

The Ravens lost yesterday. In which a very disappointed Jack reminded us that at least Christmas is coming soon.

There's always that.

Perspective. All about perspective, right?

And, really? I was disappointed, too.

But, knowing that this purple-clad quintet calls me "Mama" - I guess I could borrow from Jack and say that looking at these photos, it's kinda like Christmas for me most days - messy, busy, colorful, lots to clean up, Meltdown City, exhausting, over-stimulating, PLEASE PASS THE COOKIES...

But, all that joy.

Isn't that life as "Mama" though? Just a big ol' mix of it all. And, finding the joy scattered about, and choosing to focus on it.

Perspective.

Thankful today for this joy right here.

A Birthday Post: What's In A Name?

2015-04-16T20:44:00.001-04:00

My four-year old asked me this morning, "Mom, are you thirty or one hundred today?"

"Somewhere in there", I told him, patted him on the head, looked in the mirror, and yanked out another grey hair.

THEY ARE TAKING OVER. So, yes. I am losing the war. But, I ain't going down without a FIGHT and a good hairdresser with a stack of trashy magazines and a tub of color me happy.

I always feel this strange mix of emotions on my birthday - about getting older, about days gone by that will never be again, about the life God has given me. Maybe birthdays are really supposed to be for kids and balloons and birthday parties, but truthfully? I LOVE my birthday. I LOVE a reason to celebrate. I LOVE that my husband has a GOOD reason to take off of work and take me to lunch and shopping all day... like he did today. <---- #lovelanguage

I love that he bought me high top polka dot Converse.

And, I LOVE cake.

I love that God has given me another day, another year to live here on earth.

Can I tell you a birthday story?

My mother miscarried a baby before she got pregnant with me.

When she and I talk about it, which we do from time to time - usually on my birthday or when I've had a baby, a certain sadness comes over her followed by a thankful smile, "But, if God had given me that baby, I wouldn't have you."

It always makes me cry. I lost a baby, too.

When I was born, she and my Dad named me Sarah Grace.

When I first asked her, "Why did you name me Sarah?", she responded, "That was your father's choice. He was very adamant about it." A biblical name that he loved. So very Dad to choose Sarah.

But, why "Grace"?

Grace was born from uncertainty. Grace came after loss. Grace was God's gift after sorrow. God loving through and after pain. Grace was God's triumph over hurt.

You see, when my mother lost the baby she was carrying before I came to be, her doctor looked at her and said, "Sharon, you can't have more children."

"Can't?", she asked. "Or shouldn't?"

Her doctor looked at her with stern concern: "Shouldn't."

Here I am. Celebrating another birthday with polka dot high top Converse, five children of my own, and a Chipotle burrito bowl.

A "Shouldn't" that was. A "Shouldn't" that is.

Sarah Grace.

My father's girl. Sarah. And, God's unexpected gift to my mother. Grace. A "Shouldn't" baby who helped heal and stitch new love where loss had left empty arms and hearts.

Today, my heart's song is grace. One of my closest friends once told me, "Sar, you crave grace like chocolate chip cookies."

Don't all of us? God's unmerited favor. God lavishing on us what we don't deserve. Despite all of our screw-ups and selfishness and hurt and pain and loss.

YES, I crave it. I want to bathe in it. And, I desperately want to be grace to others. Extending it - even when it isn't deserved because it's been given to me ten-thousand fold - and I don't deserve it.

God saved me. He saved a "Shouldn't" baby and knit me together in my mother's womb and gave me a perfectly imperfect body. My body bears scars - the outside and the inside. Outside scars that tell even strangers that suffering is part of life. And, heart wounds that tell those closest to me that God never promised easy. To any of us.

But, God has never been short on grace in my life. He has always showered me with it - over and over in every season. Through every trial.

And, here I am. So thankful that He's given me another year.

Here to tell whoever will listen that while my body and my heart bear the wounds of suffering, Jesus died for me in the biggest grace-display in history. He died to give me life - new life as a baby in my mother's arms, and a new life and new heart that gets to spend eternity with Him.

He gave this to you, too.

You may know me as Sarah - wife to Jason, mother of those five disheveled whippersnappers, writer of stories, taker of TOO MANY pictures, and the one laughing too loud at the most inappropriate times.

But, if you know me as no one else, I want you to know me as Sarah Grace - the "Shouldn't" God brought to be, the daughter of Larry and Sharon - God's gift of grace after loss.

Sarah. Who craves grace like chocolate chip cookies and whose great privilege is to live out loud a life of thankfulness, obedience, and joy to the One who brought me to life, saved me, and loves me as His own.

Just a simple girl that God loves and Jesus saved and whose name is written in the great book of Life.

A "Shouldn't" who, by God's grace, is -

...and who wants you to know, today on my birthday and every day in between, that Jesus loves you, He died for you, and His amazing grace is for you, too.

Wonderful grace of Jesus,
Greater than all my sin;
How shall my tongue describe it,
Where shall its praise begin?
Taking away my burden,
Setting my spirit free;
For the wonderful grace of Jesus reaches me.

The One Thing I Want My Children To Know When They Leave Home

2015-04-13T12:39:00.001-04:00

I was watching my kids play together today.

I have so many hopes and dreams for them.

I want them to know love and I want them to succeed.
I want them to be kind and gracious and I want them to love others well.
I want them to be parents someday and know the joy of children and I want them to be givers - of their money, of their time, and of their talents.

Some may come to be. Others may not.

After all, those are my dreams for them. Not theirs.

We get to spend just the first quarter of our children's lives with them. Teaching them and helping them and then they'll spend the rest of their lives away from us. Living their stories and fulfilling their dreams and that one quarter will, so I've been told, be gone in a flash if we so much as blink.

So what do I want my children to know? What do I want them to carry away from their days with me?

Is it how to dress properly?
It is how to behave when we go to someone's house for dinner?
Is it the importance of good grades?
Is it to keep their rooms clean?

It matters what they wear and it matters how they act at dinner and how they talk to their parents and teachers and that they know how to pick up after themselves.

I want them to be respectful of others and hold jobs and thrive in society.

But, do you know what really matters to me?

Their hearts.

I am often tempted to squeeze their little souls into a mold of What Makes Me Look Good and What Makes My Life Easy Now and to base my mothering on all of the external praises that sound like, "What well-behaved and well-dressed and well-mannered children you have." That feels good...for a moment. It feels even better when I get to retell it later to anyone who will listen.

But, that kind of mothering always sends me (and them) on a hamster wheel - striving for some fictitious idea of behavioral perfection that neither I nor they could ever achieve.

But, here's what I've learned. Here's what I KNOW:

I am not trying to raise perfect children. I am trying to raise adults who run to God.

You see, they are little and it is so easy to focus on the now - when spilled Cheerios and temper tantrums and the disapproving looks of strangers are what seem most important.

But, ultimately, they will grow up. They won't be spilling Cheerios or throwing temper tantrums or pulling the batteries off of the rungs in the Target checkout line. (Hopefully. Though I've seen grown adults throw checkout line temper tantrums for the ages...)

So what is the one thing I want my children to know when they leave home?

I want my children to know they can run to God.

I want them to know that God cares about EVERY. SINGLE. THING. going on in their hearts. That He cares deeply about their hurts and successes and hopes and broken dreams and broken hearts and that they can RUN TO HIM with all of that and know that His arms are open wide.

Always. Always open.

They desperately need to see this modeled in me, in my husband, in our everyday life, now and while they're little, as we struggle and forgive and love and mess up. If we're not teaching them to run to God, then manners and politeness and grades and what they wore to church simply do not matter if they walk out the door of our home and don't know that God will carry them through any trial. That He will celebrate every victory.

That He feels their every loss and heartache and will be there for them - just like He was when they were little. Just like He was for Mom and Dad and just like He will be for the friends they meet who don't know Him and if God chooses, for their children, too.

These children, our gifts straight from Heaven, are growing into adults who will lead unique lives and face different struggles and hardships and circumstances that are as different as they are. And they get but one childhood with us and we can focus on all the wrong things, or we can help imprint the truth of who God is on their hearts and they can carry that with them - for every day of their entire lives.

So what is the one thing I want my children to know when they leave home?

That today as children and tomorrow as adults - in every trial, every success, every failure, every heartache, every hurt...

Wherever life takes them.

They can run to the loving arms of God.

Our Family {Easter 2015}

2015-04-06T17:02:00.000-04:00

Can I just tell you how unspeakably grateful I am for these six people?

How much joy they bring to my heart...

How fun and unique and different each one is from the other...

How each face is a precious and sweet reminder to me of God's grace to me...

And, how on Easter, every year, I feel an utter sense of awe that God would give His only son, Jesus, to save and rescue them. When I can't imagine for even one moment giving up one of my children to save anyone else.

God has been so good to me to let me love them.

Happy (belated) Easter, friends.

When You're Just Not Good Enough

2015-03-17T09:20:00.000-04:00

Finishing ANYTHING has never been easy for me.

I'm easily distracted, I fly by the seat of my pants, I'm a professional procrastinator, I'll get to it sometime is my life-long motto. Oh, and I LOVE naps.

If it weren't for grace, I'd say I'm a quitter.

But, Sarah. You have five children. Nope. I've been this way since I was a little girl.

I have this distinct childhood memory of my sister and I staring at the disaster that was our bedroom after being told we had to clean it up or we'd get no supper. We both flopped on our side-by-side twin beds and plotted for an hour (or hours - who was counting? We weren't.) about how we might go about it.

We wrote out our plan on little wooden chalkboards. Erased it. Then wrote a new plan when we realized Plan A would mean we'd have to get up and actually do something.

Then we were so worn out from all the planning that we sat down on the floor amidst the mess and created a lavish Barbie wedding with a roll of toilet paper.

I'm sure hours passed before either of us ever gave a thought to the fact that all the planning, the chalkboard lists, and the really, really good intentions would mean the eminent banishment to our bedroom for the rest of our lives.

Sometimes I think I was just never taught. I didn't have organized parents. I didn't grow up in an organized house. When my mother said, "Clean under your bed", I threw everything in the closet. When she said, "Clean out your closet" - (worst scenario EVER for a kid who was told last week to clean under the bed), I shoved everything under the bed.

I'm thirty {ahem} years-old now. But, wow - I am still that eight year-old shoving messes from one place to another. When I clean out my closet - now, as a grown-up, a mother of FIVE children - I put everything in my bedroom. If I need to clean my bedroom, everything goes back in the closet.

Mess shuffler? Does that sound right?

Sometimes I feel like I'm a prisoner of what I can't be, don't know how to be, wasn't taught to be. You may see me as Sarah - she sings, she cooks, she blogs, she mothers.

But listen: It's easy to share successes. Take pic, edit, filter, post. Repeat. Repeat, again.

But, I am full of doubt about who I am - every day. I'm scared and overwhelmed by all that I'm not. I look around and see what is unfinished and all that is unworthy and unwelcome in this Pinterest world we live in. I see the secret closets and the drawers full of yesterday, yestermonth, yesteryear. A mess of stuff I shuffle around in my head - things I want to do, to be, to actually complete.

And, the mess that sits upstairs in my bedroom AND in my closet is so catastrophic that even if the spirit of transparency hit me like never before in my life, there is no way in tarnation I would let you see a photo of it.

But, more than ANY of that, I know the secret places in my heart. The places that are dirtier, messier, and more unlovely than any bedroom, any closet, any drawer.

But, can I tell you why my soul is not discouraged? Deep down - in the places that define me?

Because when God looks at me, He doesn't see all that I am not. God sees who He is making me.

Because while He is making me new, He has enough grace for me. For ALL OF THIS.

When I feel like a quitter who just. can't. get. it. together, I cling to this grace-filled message of hope that God gave to us because He knew we would need it - and I preach it to myself:

And I am sure of this, that he who began
a good work in you will bring it to completion
at the day of Jesus Christ.

Philippians 1:6

YES. I'm easily distracted.
I fly by the seat of my pants.
I'm a professional procrastinator.
I'll get to it sometime is my life-long motto.
And, YES, I love naps.

But, I have THIS promise:

God is not a quitter. He carried His own cross up a hill and died for me in the most glorious finish in history. My life is His work. He doesn't give up.

He isn't giving up on me. He isn't giving up on you.

I may not be organized. My bedroom might be messy. And, the drawers and closets and secret places in my heart that I don't want anyone to see scream out "You are not good enough, Sar."

But, I have God's promise - that He began something marvelous in me when He made me His, and until I fly through the ribbon at the end of my life and finish this race, I will cling to the grace and promise of knowing that I am His project, His plan, His girl.

And, He's not finished with me yet.

So, today. THIS promise:

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.

Isaiah 43:19

Grace for secret closets.
Grace for messy hearts.
Grace for naps.
Grace for little girls with chalkboard plans.
Grace for their little boys with sticky fingers and muddy shoes.

Grace.
Grace.
Grace.

While He's doing His great work in me.

While He's doing His great work in you.

What Every Messy Mom Should Know

2015-03-10T15:10:00.000-04:00

I am currently buried under weeks of mess.

My kids were out of school for FOUR HUNDERED AND THIRTY YEARS thanks to the recent snow... plus ice plus snow plus ice... that we Southerners CANNOT DEAL WITH, bless our hearts - and the wreckage left behind in my house could rival New York City after Ryan Seacrest and his hair rock in the New Year.

My house is a mess. I am behind on every. single. thing and I'm waiting for some magical kind of "feeling" to bolster me out of the squalor and snap away the mess in a Mary Poppins-esque sing-a-long jubilee.

I am, however, trying to stay on top of the papers. Because the papers show no mercy if you let them go and the process of digging out from underneath them is more than even I, Procrastinator Extraordinaire, can handle.

Several years ago, I was sorting and stacking and filing and lamenting the fact that no matter how fast and furiously I pedal on this bicycle of motherhood, I will never escape all of my messes around here. The laundry will never be done. The dishes will always pile up and even if I do actually pull out the vacuum at a time OTHER than when company is coming, I'll still find cobwebs up high where the walls meet.

Shaking my head, I looked down at this. A paper that Jack brought home from school. Very simply and appropriately titled, "Daddy".

I saved it.

There are a million things I love about it. Not the least of which is that my boy loves his Dad.

As I smiled and read through all that was written on it - the misspelled words, the eraser marks, the "mistakes" in capitalization and punctuation - it was the last line that caused me to pause. It pierced right through me.

"What I love most about my Daddy is that he loves me."

It echoed - over and over.

What I love most about my Daddy ...

...is that He loves me.

I sat there - staring at that paper. Amidst my messes. Looking around at all that I'm not. Staring at my failures and shortcomings as evidenced by my messy house and messy life and messy everything else and in those words - I felt God's love jump right off the page at me.

What I love most about my Daddy is that he's proud of me when I do a really good job.

Yes? NOPE. Never.

What I love most about my Daddy is that he loves me.

Is that He loves me.

Here's what I saw on that paper that day: God loves me. Simply because I am His.

He accepts me. He cherishes me. He has a heart to see me grow, but He is infinitely patient with my struggles because I am His child and I need never doubt, never wonder, never DO anything to earn His favor or grace, but just accept the love that He has for me.

May knowing of God's steadfast love for me be enough for this messy girl today.

May it be enough for you, too.