I have to wake up early every single day and brush my teeth.
I have to put on real clothes and my hair can’t look like a rat’s nest.
I have to remember to get rid of face crustys and eye buggers.
I have to have uniform shirts that are clean and not wrinkled.
And no they can’t be worn inside out *in a pinch.*
I have to make a lunch every single morning.
And it has to come across as “healthy” or I get the stink eye from the teacher.
I have to be on time. Like, it’s not an option. On. Time. Every. Day.
There’s even a bell! It’s judging me! It freaks me out!
I only have 5 excused absences for the entire year.
What about my birthday? Cinco De Mayo? Or snuggle days at home? Five days?!?
Now, I have to make up a fake doctor and a fake illness.
It’s the only way to squeeze a few more days out of this system.
I have to meet new people.
Most of them are too happy, too weird, or don’t follow the rules.

We are going to make it, you and I.

Our hearts grieve the death of our beloved Robin Williams, the helpless and terrified Yazidi people, the senseless death of our young black brothers, the cure-less disease showing no mercy in parts of Africa, the children of Gaza and Israel, the bloodshed in Ukraine, the children on our own borders- without parents, without advocates-

the pain of our own broken pieces of earth.

It all seems a bit cruel right now, doesn’t it?

Roger Cohen for the New York Times recently surmised the seemingly hopeless future of the Israeli/Gaza crisis with this, “Shed a tear, shed a thousand, it makes no difference.”

Although he did not write those words in the context I am applying them to, I can’t help but think they are the sentiment most easily adopted by anyone who has watched the news this week.

Shed a tear. Shed a thousand. It makes no difference.

It feels heavy. Out of control. Frantic, spoiled, hopeless, despairing and fatalistic.

In his brilliant book on the chronic depression of President Abraham Lincoln, Joshua Shenk says, “Hopelessness, in an extreme form, leads people to think that only one thing can break the cycle, and that is suicide.” He goes on to quote Edwin Shneidman, the creator of the field of suicide studies, “The single most dangerous word in all of suicidology, is the four-letter word only.”

Only one way out.

Over to an editor and a copy editor. Over to a designer and a printer. Over to my family who lets me share their story in order that I might more fully share mine. Over to friends whose grace, humor and compassion ebb through the stories that fill the pages. I turn it over.

I have been in the public arena for long enough that I know what comes next. Scrutiny, opinions, criticism, praise and litmus tests by those in the industry who want to predict whether I have created a product that is commercially viable or not. It’s not personal, it’s business. And if I had any business acumen I am quite sure I would run a company the same way. In any case, I have learned over the years that I cannot let the praise or criticism sway me. I must continue to be who I am and do what I am compelled to do. That’s the best gift I can offer.

So when an industry person recently commented to their colleagues that in their opinion, my manuscript felt like, “Wow, my life is really hard,” there were no hard feelings.

I was not that kid.

Sixth grade rolled around and the only team sport I had ever been a part of was Bible drill.
Yes- that is a real thing.

I sang along to Michael W Smith’s Go West Young Man cassette tape on my Karaoke machine at home and wrote my own family newspaper, but I was convinced those things were far less “real” than the extra-curricular activities the other kids my age were a part of.

But then one day I found a team and a talent. It all started when my sixth grade teacher at Daniel Elementary School, Mrs. Isaacs, nominated me to be in the prestigious flag corp.

Nope. Not the kind of flag corp where you dress up in cute spandex leotards and prance around with a all your dance-class-knowledge waving a flag.

Exactly one month ago today I launched a Kickstarter campaign seeking $20,000 to fund the printing and publication of my debut memoir, The Road to Becoming. It was an audacious goal that my husband and I weren’t exactly confidant we could achieve. Never in my wildest dreams or boldest prayers did I imagine I would be writing this letter 29 days later to let you know we have raised $52,160!

I am overwhelmed, humbled, grateful and SO EXCITED!

We have surpassed EVERY goal that we set. And most importantly, 434 people have come together to raise enough funds so that we can publish a book, record new music, and give them away!  Because of the generosity of so many, we have the means to set aside 1,000 copies to give away to women coming out of prison, shelters and recovery programs. Women who most need God’s love, redemption and HOPE sung over them!

So here we are with only 24 hours remaining and it’s not too late to join us. Yes, we have exceeded our goals, but pre-orders on the front end allow us to stretch this money and truly create a book and music with the upmost excellence.

You woke up at 6:30 a.m.

For many parents this is normal— bless their hearts.  Some children wake up at the ungodly hours of 5:30 or 6:00 a.m. Every. Morning.

But you have never woken up that early. I’ve spent most of your five years on earth waking you up at 9:00 a.m. because I cannot bear for you to not be awake and alive and being you for another second.

But last week it happened. 6:30 a.m. and you called my name from your bed. I went into your room groggy–eyed and coffee-less and found a wiry, hyper, smiling from ear-to-ear little girl who was ready to conquer the world.

“Hi baby- you’re up early,” I said to you, still blinking away the sleep from my eyes.

“I know- I can’t help it. I’m just ready to talk, talk, talk!!!” you said with reckless abandon, ” So what do you want to talk about mom?”

“Well- I want to talk about how I need to go downstairs and get some coffee and sit outside on the porch for about five minutes so I can wake up. Then we can talk talk talk.”

Your face fell.