Love Your Neighbor

I know I haven't written a post in a million-jillion blogging years, but I've been mulling something over, and I think this is the right place to share it.

The week that the Texas Heartbeat Bill took effect, I sat in a balcony in my new church home and heard a message preached on Luke 10:25-37--the Good Samaritan. I do not think this was a coincidence for me. Here's the story of the Samaritain:

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” “What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?” He answered, “ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’” “You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.” But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’ “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”(NIV)

Now before I start doing my thing, I need y'all to know how personal this is going to be for me and how vulnerable this *already* makes me feel. Everything I say, I say in love. Please remember that.

So about this parable...

Let's start with the beginning piece of information, which tells us that a man was attacked, exposed, beaten, and left..

Should the man have been travelling by himself? Was he going down a sketchy road at the wrong time of night? Was he foolishly parading around his goods, making him more of a target to robbers? We don't get to know that, nor does it matter. What matters is what happened. He was attacked and beaten and left to die.

Now, I am also going to try to approach recent events from an angle of what has happened. Not whether or not abortion should be legal, not whether or not a bill should have been made into law, but simply looking at what is. In Texas, abortions are now off the table to women who are more than six weeks pregnant. The oppositions to block this bill have all been beaten. And now we are left with these women.

Church, you need to see these beaten women. I'm seeing a lot of commentary about how these women are selfish, horrible, weak, baby-hating murderers. Can I tell you from personal experience what they really are?

Scared. Ashamed. Lost. Desparate. Alone.

The burden of an unplanned pregnancy is painfully heavy. And even though it takes more than one person for that pregnancy to occur, it's the woman that bears the brunt of it. I don't mean to suggest that the father's load is especially easy--not at all. But societally speaking, if the father decides to walk away, then nobody really hounds him. If the father decides to stay, then he's a hero. In contrast, the mother can't walk away from it..it walks with her. If she chooses to terminate, she's a killer. If she chooses to keep the baby, well...we all know the word she's called.

I'm also not saying that these babies aren't still worth celebrating. But I know that choosing to keep the baby in this situation comes with a sort of solemn celebration. That belly will be the scarlet letter a mother wears for a while. Everyone will eventually notice, and everyone gets to know what she did. Telling families is more hard than happy. Some families feel like they have to share with a bit of embarassment. Feeling like you let people down is terrible, and it lingers with you.

I am a mother who had support from so many loving people in my circumstance. A lot of the women who would choose abortion and now can't, do not. I cannot imagine doing what I did all alone.

We've got to get ourselves there together, Church. We have to see these broken women. And seeing broken people should break your heart, not harden it.

The next part of the parable was almost too painful for me to piece together with this, but here we go.

A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.

Friends, I don't think it was an accident that Jesus chose priests and Levites to be the "ignorers" in His parable. I do think it would be an accident to skim over what this might mean for us. The question we have to ask is why would a priest and a Levite ignore a man who needed help?

Too busy? Too apathetic? Perhaps. But what I worry is actually true isn't what the priest and Levite might have been, but what they thought the beaten man was: Too messy.

The priest and the Levite had duties to the temple to remain ceremonially "clean." They couldn't do what they needed to do in the temple if they chose to help this man--they would have been forbidden to, actually. The man's blood literally could not be on their hands if they wanted to don their robes and go to their stations.

I don't want to have to say it, but you know where I'm going here...

We cannot pass these mothers off, Church. We cannot turn people aside because we might get their "dirt" on us. We cannot avoid their messy-ness. The mess is already here, and it isn't going anywhere. (And guys, unless you're reading a different Bible than I am, it is just going to get messier.)

Can tell you a broken-hearted truth? I have never felt lonelier in my life than when I went inside a church with a baby and no wedding ring. Everybody has something that they're struggling with, but most people try to mask it somehow. I couldn't hide the baby, and it made me a pariah in the pews.

Now, is it fair to those people to put the burden of my shame on them? Nope.

But was it fair to Christ to put the burden of your shame on Him?...

Praise God that Christ was not afraid to come down into our mess and bear our sin and shame, because this is the gospel of grace and love and redemption! He did it first. It's what we're supposed to do, too.

The next part of the parable says a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. If it's not an accident that the priests ignored, then it's also no accident that the Samaritan saw. In Biblical times, Samaritans were not highly regarded amongst the Israelite nation. They were the lesser-thans. The not-so-holies.

Father, help us. The "not-so-holies" are coming to Your people. (Spoiler: they are His people, too.)

In what might be a wonderful mercy of God *TO US,* these women are going to start showing up in droves at the church doors, because they have no place left to go. In desparation and holy irony, they are going to come to the finger-pointers and name-callers and ask for help. If it feels harsh, then embrace the sting a little with me. They know what we've been saying. They can read memes, too.

Have pity, Church, because the in the next part of the parable, we see the cost.

He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him.

The Samaritan tended to the man's wounds. Gave him medicine. Gave him transport. Gave him lodging. Gave him rest. Took care of him.

These mamas are going to need more than a billboard on the side of the road. They're going to need more than beautifully crafted digital file about how we are fearfully and wonderfully made. They're going to need care. Medicine. Transport. Lodging. Rest. Clothing. Food... They need hands and feet, not words. (Please hear this blogger: I struggle with this part a lot. Every day.)

After the Samaritan makes sure the man is settled, he pays an innkeeper with this promise:‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’ This Samaritan wasn't a fly-by Superman. He was coming back again--in it for the long haul. He was invested.

That's going to have to be our story, too. First the mamas, getting them through the pregnancy...Then the babies, making sure they're equipped for a healthy start...Then the mamas again with postpartum recoveries and lives with new babies...then their babies again as they continue to grow...

We have to keep showing up. We have stick with them. Raising children and taking care of people is an investment. It takes time to mature. (And just so we're tracking, there's going to be some extra expense.)

Like I said, this feels personal to me, and I'm about wiped from it all. But I'd be remiss if I did not mention that many of the people who'd click on this link to read my thoughts are the very same ones who've invested in me: in my family and in my faith. I love you so much and I'm thankful for you.

The last part of this story ends in direction from Jesus. Go and do.

I hope we will. In Jesus' Name. Amen.

Ax Heads and Armies

I thought I was going to pick up a sad little boy from school today. Have you ever been there, mamas? It's the absolute worst--thinking that the happy face he had in the morning would be exchanged for disappointment at pickup.

You see, he was scheduled to have a play date with one of his buddies after school. The boys had been arranging it for a while now, and it was pretty cute. They had each of us moms meet the other in the school parking lot several days prior to exchange numbers. Plans were discussed at recess by the boys. Arrangements were made by the moms last night. So this morning he skipped sweetly away, thinking his buddy was going to be riding home with us after the bell rang to play.

Not five minutes after drop off, though, my phone lit up with a message:
I'm so sorry. My son said he wasn't feeling up for the play date today.

My heart sank.
I told her it was okay, because of course it was!--after all, I've said yes to things that I've had to reluctantly back out of after realizing it was just going to be too much for me to handle that day. But respecting the mental and physical needs of another little boy didn't take away the fact that mine was going to be so let down if his buddy couldn't come over, and knowing that made me ache inside.

I spent a good portion of the next parts of my morning worrying about this hiccup in my boy's "best laid plans." There was nothing I could do, I decided. I would just have to cross that teary bridge with him when we got there this afternoon.

I started my morning Bible study, but couldn't focus. I just kept thinking about what his poor little face would look like when I saw him next.
Oh Lord. I'm so sad for him. Help me focus on Your Word today.

I reread the verses that seemed blurred by my busy brain with no better luck.

I'm sorry. I'm still distracted.

Reread. No dice.

(In defeat.) Help me focus... and then in a flash of clarity... Help me remember to pray for my son after this reading.

BOOM. It was like a magic bullet. Reading completed. Prayer said. Onslaught of peace and gratitude--not because everything was immediately fixed or even remotely changed, but simply because of the realization that I have the freedom to talk to an all-powerful God about something as trivial as my son's botched play date plans, and He loves us enough to listen.

It reminded me of an account I read in 2 Kings only a few days before. The kingdom of Israel is in conflict with Aram, and tensions are heating and raids are taking place throughout the land. And yet, in the middle of this war story, we see a scene squeezed right dab in the middle about a prophet named Elisha and his students building themselves a newer, bigger house:

So he [Elisha] went with them. They came to the Jordan River and began to cut down trees.

As one of them was cutting down a tree, the ax head fell into the water. He cried out, “Oh no, master! It was borrowed!”

The man of God asked, “Where did it fall?” When he showed Elisha the place, Elisha cut off a piece of wood. He threw it into the water at that place and made the ax head float. Elisha said, “Pick it up.” The disciple reached for it and picked it up.
(2 Kings 6:4-7)

That's it. End of the whole house scene.

I'll be honest. I kind of glossed over this story when I originally read it, because immediately following this 'random' ax story, the rest of the chapter covers the miraculous "big time" account of the prophet and his men escaping certain doom at the hand of the warriors of Aram.
Like so many little things, the ax head story kind of faded into the background of the big story for me. But if I've learned anything at all in my years, it's this:
God faithfully shows big love in the little things, too.
And so the "little ax head story" came back into big-time view for me today.


I wondered, how many times have I not brought some of my issues to God in prayer because they didn't seem worthy of His attention? Because they weren't "big time" issues? Because I didn't think it would matter to Him?--the very same God who found it worthwhile to concern Himself with knowing the number of hairs on my head.

1 Peter 5:7 says to "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you."
Y'all. All of it!
It doesn't say cast your big ticket items on Him for that's all He cares about. He wants us to bring Him all of it.
The things that seem big and scary and impossible, yes, but also the things that we excuse as small or unworthy. He wants to be the Lord of those things in our lives just as much.
All your heart. All your mind. All your soul. All your strength.
All your anxieties.
He cares about all of you.
Because He loves us.

Isn't that crazy?
He's in control of ax heads and armies.
New houses and old wars.
Number of hairs and number of days.

And you guys. Our big God will even help us out with our little boy's play dates ❤️
He's Lord over all of it!

Counting Stars

I can be a bit of a Clark Griswold during the holiday season.

I'm assuming this is due in part to my childhood Christmases. My father worked for a large interior decorating company, and so whenever Christmastime rolled around, he acquired a lot of extra holiday stuff. Like, A LOT of stuff. During the month of December, there was not a nook or cranny of our house that remained untouched. It didn't matter if the decor was not practical or "kid-friendly" or in the way. You just made room for it.
"Find a new place to hang your backpack, kids, because Jingle Bell Santa lives there right now."
"Dry your hands on your pants, because those are decorative Christmas towels." (Soaps... Toilet seat covers...)
(Love you, Mom and Dad!)

I remember my sister and I running around the house shaking and twirling the music boxes to our snow globes so they'd all play at the same time. We must have had a dozen of them. I can guess that my parents probably don't remember that activity as fondly as I do.

The excess of decorations just became a part of Christmas for me--and really, truly, I loved it. That's why I tried to incorporate those happy memories in my own home.

**Enter Pinterest, and apparently, my doom.**

Now Christmas decorations weren't just something I pulled out and fawned over each December, but they were something I planned and obsessed over throughout the year. I was looking at frosted front porch ideas when it was still 100 degrees outside. I had more Christmas mantle ideas pinned than I had opportunities to light my fireplace. I researched different ideas to hand-make my Christmas gift tags as soon as Hobby Lobby put out their Christmas displays--in August. I was a crazy person.

I remember feeling especially proud of this one design I tried out a few Christmases ago. I lined my beautiful nativity set up with a big, bold Texas star flanked to the side of it and a sign I made that read, "We have seen his star in the east..." Yes, I included the ellipses. It was like I knew there was more to that story, but didn't think it was necessary to include.

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, magi from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying, “Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him.” (Matthew 2:1-2)

You guys. I literally left out the part where they came to worship Him.

A while back, my husband was deployed overseas in Afghanistan, and his brigade posted this picture for families to view of their night sky.

Photo courtesy of 3rd Brigade, 1st Armored Division

Breathtaking, isn't it?
Though I can't be totally sure, I assume it would have taken a special kind of star for the magi to have taken notice of that night--Bright and beautiful. And I could safely guess that they would not have been the only ones to have noticed such a star. In fact, I'm sure a star that was able to stand out in a night sky like the one pictured above probably got a lot of attention and praise.

But it wasn't about the star, no matter how bright and beautiful it was. The star was pointing to something much more important.


I still love my twinkle lights and my snow globes, and even my Texas stars. I hope my children always do, too. But may they be the bright and beautiful things that point them to the more important thing:

His Name is Jesus.

Taking Notice

When my family moved to Alaska, I just assumed that it would be nonstop adventures every day.
Chopping wood, scaling mountains, fighting off bears, hanging out with Jewel and her family on the homestead...you know, all completely reasonable expectations.

But if hopping around from place to place every two years has taught me anything, it's that "real life" looks pretty consistent no matter where in the world you are. The basic needs of our family stay pretty much the same: Food, house, school, church, clubs and activities.
(Sorry, Jewel. I'll catch you next time.)

So other than letting my dogs inside to keep them from barking at the occasional moose, (because Alaska does have its unique features after all,) my morning routine is the same here as it was everywhere. I wake up, pack lunches, help serve breakfast, get the kids out the door, and tidy up.
(It's all super glamorous, I know.)

However, this morning after the kids had left for school and I began my usual tidying, I felt an unusual amount of alertness in the mundane tasks I was doing. Cleaning morning dishes, wiping away breakfast crumbs, putting away items that were out of place, and remaking beds that needed a little extra attention aren't things that require a lot of deep thinking, but there I was--really concentrating--very aware of every item that was being brought back to order and every tick of the clock that I was spending to make it so.

My husband makes the kids their breakfasts most days, which is, believe me, a real treat for all of us. But he usually leaves a trail of ingredients out on the counter in the mad dash to get out of the door on time.
I put the forgotten food away and write down items we need restocked on the grocery list.

My kids eat their daddy's meal and put their dishes in the sink, but they always leave behind a pile of crumbs and smear of saucy fingerprints on the counter.
I load the dishes and clean the crumbs and wipe the fingerprints and sweep the floors.

My kids love to read and leave books everywhere: on the staircase, at the breakfast counter, in their beds, on the hallway floors. There is always a pile of shoes in the mudroom. The kids still aren't great with hangers, so there's a mountain of coats on the closet floor.
Television remotes are scattered. Laundry hampers were missed. Jewelry boxes were neglected and there are random earring pieces on the floor. A plastic toy dinosaur is lodged inside the heating vent. Nerf bullets hide out in every dark crevice of my house.
Piece by piece, I put everything back in its place.

The kids are supposed to make their beds each morning, but they have been struggling with the larger comforters. (And if I'm being completely honest, I'm just crazy particular about how bedding is supposed to look and everyone else in my family does it wrong.)
I tear apart their beds, smooth the sheets, draw the up covers, fluff the pillows--making sure it's smooth and lovely for everyone to climb into after a hard day.

As I stood there fluffing my son's pillow, I wondered to myself if my family even noticed all the things were being done for them on the sly.
Surely they had to see that the beds were better.
Surely they had to notice that their items were all lined perfectly back in their rightful places.
Surely they were aware that the counters were no longer sticky. Or dishes dirty. Or cabinets magically restocked.

And right about the time I wanted to get discouraged, I felt something whisper in my heart,
"But do you notice what's done for you, Liz?"
I thought about that question for a minute.
Was I not noticing the help I was also getting each and everyday? Did I not even see the things that I was undoing again and again that were being put back together for me each morning?

In the brief moment I took to pause and look around, it took me a hot mili-second to notice all the "tidying up" that was being done for me, too.

I have a hard time seeing that even though I am being helpful, I still need a supplier and some backup--like my husband does with his meals.
Sometimes I go about my business completely unaware that I'm making a sticky mess--like my children and their crumbs.
Sometimes I am putting forth a good effort, but could still be shown a better way--like I generously do with everyone's beds ;)
And other times I am just overwhelmed, or outright negligent, and grace puts things back where they belong for me.

In an effort to make tomorrow super glamorous...

I plan to wake up in the morning and pack lunches, help serve breakfast, get the kids out the door, and tidy up.

Only this time, I hope to do it with my newfound awareness, eyes that take notice, and a more grateful heart.

Great is Thy faithfulness; Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand has provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness,
Lord, unto me.

The Dumping Ground

For the past several weeks I have been watching a friend’s young daughter after school. Each day I pick her up from school, drive her to the house, open the door,
…and watch her dump out the rocks from her shoes all over the front porch.

Then she’ll stack her shoes in the entryway next to her backpack and start working on a craft I have set out for her to do while I sweep up the mounds of pebbles.
Every.single.day.

At first I didn’t think too much of it. She was just a little girl starting a new routine in a new place. We’d figure out a better way soon enough. But after the third straight week of sweeping up those rocks, I felt myself start to get a little frustrated.

She had walked around the majority of the day with those rocks in her shoes. Why didn’t she empty them on the playground? Why not in her classroom trashcan? What was it about stepping foot on my front porch that gave her the instantaneous desire to empty them? Right in the doorway! Why was she waiting to empty the rocks at my house?

As soon as I thought those last words to myself, I felt a small voice whisper in my heart:
“Liz, a six-year-old girl walked around all day with rocks in her shoes. This home is the first place that gives her a chance to dump those rocks out. Let your home be a place where people are able to dump out all of their rocks.”

I continued sweeping up all the pebbles on the stoop and thought about how uncomfortable they must have been for her to walk on all day. I thought about how heavy they must have made her little footsteps. I thought about how the moment she walked inside my door she would slip around on her little socks down my hallway like she was on ice skates—happy and free.

In a matter of moments, the pile of rocks in my dustpan made the switch from minor annoyance to major calling card.
I don't want my house to be a rigid place where people feel they have to act presentable and perfect all the time.
My house is the place where you come to dump your rocks out.



About a half hour later, I watched my own children come through the door and greet their young house guest. As I went through their daily folders they complained about the amount of homework that they had, how they miss their old teachers, how they are still having some issues acclimating to their new school…and I listened to them as they “dumped their rocks out.”
I served them a snack and reset their backpacks for the next day and helped them with their homework—sweeping up whatever piles I could.

A few hours later my friend came to pick up her daughter and, exasperated, told me about the hard day she’d just had at work. I listened as she “dumped her rocks” right there inside the entryway, and I gathered up her daughter’s belongings, organized the loose pieces scattered around the floor into neat piles, and helped them carry some of the load to the car.

My husband and I sat around the fire later that evening, leaving our own little piles of rocks at each other’s feet; letting ourselves feel a little lighter than we were before; entering our home again happy and free.



The next morning, I placed an order for something with my little house guest in mind. When it arrived, I eagerly situated it out front and left to pick up the little girl from school. Then I drove her to my house, opened up the front door, and watched her take off her shoes to dump the rocks out.

She looked up at me from the new door mat and commented, “Oooh! This feels really soft on my feet!”
Then she skated down the hallway on her socks towards her craft while I grabbed the broom and swept her little pile of rocks away.

And it made my heart so glad.

p.s.
Texas Forever ;)

Wasting Sunshine

When we first moved to Alaska and were waiting for all of our stuff to arrive, our family decided to begin each Saturday morning scoping out and visiting yard sales--something that we had never done a single time before in our ten years together.

The yard sales were beneficial for many reasons. They helped us find great deals on "real winter gear--(because apparently Texas only sells "fake gear" for that weird white stuff that falls out of the sky.) They helped us familiarize ourselves with the roads, neighborhoods, parks, and other surroundings near our new home. They helped us find a $2 game of Boggle, circa 1968 and a $15 electric keyboard to keep my kiddos occupied and myself a little more sane.
And very importantly, they gave us an excuse to get out of an empty house.

But perhaps the best thing I scored at any of those yard sales was an unexpected conversation with one of the locals in her yard.
She was so informative, telling us about all of the youth leagues in the area, and the restaurants, the weather, the road conditions, and the schools. I honestly think I talked to that stranger for a solid thirty minutes. When we got ready to move on to the next yard, she said something that really stuck:

"Just wait 'til winter. You'll love it! Everyone stops going so crazy trying to capitalize on the sunshine--worrying that if we sit still, then we're wasting the day. "

The only thing was, the piece of her parting words that stuck with me was probably not the part she intended, and that just made everything...sticky.
Instead of hearing"You'll love it! Just wait." I only heard the words
"You're wasting the sunshine."


Immediately I became restless. What in the world was I doing in ALASKA wasting my fleeting sun and summer days on YARD SALES?! Surely, this activity wasn't big and adventuresome enough!
Why didn't I research a hike?
Why didn't I reserve a boat?
Why didn't I schedule a cruise?
Seriously, Liz? A Saturday morning yard sale?! When did I get so boring and old?! GAH!


During the next several weeks, I went full-on crazy person.


If it was inside, I didn't want to do it. My kids would start making requests for specific activities and I would tell them "No, let's save that for the winter." I don't want to waste my sunshine on being inside, thank you.
If it was at all related to anything that I could get/do in the lower 48, I didn't want to do it. I don't want to waste my sunshine on anything that is not uber-Alaskan, thank you.
I started scheduling us activities that had us up and out the door at 7:00 on the weekends. Even if everyone looked exhausted, I didn't want to stop. I don't want to waste my sunshine sleeping in, thank you.
When my family finally did get all of our stuff, I had a hard time letting them play with it. Why do you want to build that puzzle and read that book when there are only so many more sunny days outside? Don't waste them!!
My poor husband would come home after a full day of work and I would shoo us right out the door again --just staring at him until he figured out that meant we were going on a family bike ride or to a restaurant on the river. I don't want to waste my sunshine on family time at home, thank you.

(See? That chick is whack.)


Then, the most glorious thing ever happened.
My kids went back to school.
Something about this beautifully obligatory, ordinary routine brought me back from the brink.

We didn't have time for constant adventures. We had homework and early bedtimes and morning chores and breakfasts at the counter at 7:15...
And family suppers... Man, I love family suppers around our table. Probably even more than picnics.
That library that I didn't really want to go to for the past month sure was a fun treat on a Thursday evening... Just as fun on a Saturday, too.
That 1,000 piece puzzle? She finished it in three afternoons!
...And I just love watching her swim. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it.
And that boy had begged and begged for a karate class. His sweet face when he saw that I finally signed him up was as thrilling for my heart as any outdoor hike.
Evenings on the couch with my husband have been just as restful as any of our weekend getaways.
Boggle, circa 1968? Still fun.

Finally, my yard sale stranger's words resonated with me as they should have all along.


I may have come to Alaska looking for adventure, but it turns out the sun can shine as brightly through the windows in my house as it can outside. I don't have to chase new things to light me up. I just need to remember to linger in the things that already do.
Because where there is sunshine, there is warmth--and warmth is never wasted.

Falling Behind

Well friends, another week has come and gone in interior Alaska.
---and apparently it took about half of our fall season with it.

This week's forecast has both rain in it and a 30 degree low. Now it's been a while since I've been in school, so I may be a bit rusty--- but I'm pretty sure that 30 degrees makes water no longer be "rain."

I've hardly had a chance to break out my fall scarves and it's almost time for coats. My summer wreath is still on the front door. I haven't bought pumpkin-flavored anything.
I sent my poor son to school in a short sleeve shirt!!!

In the span of seven short days, I've watched the leaves in my backyard take on a slight yellow hue, then turn to bright gold, and now they've started dropping with every slight movement of the breeze. I'm starting to feel like the Beast watching his magical rose petals fall one by one under the glass.
I'm running out of time.

I waited all summer to get moving again in the fall. Now fall is ending before I could even start anything.
It's only the first week of fall and I'm already falling further behind.
See what I did there? Fall...Falling...? (These are the jokes, guys.)


I know that I'm probably freaking out about this more than is required---and I partially blame this on being a misplaced Texan who is used to Septembers being "Summertime, the Sequel."
But I also think it has me spinning, because lately I've been feeling behind in more ways than one.

The magic of social media has kept me connected with so many of my friends from all around the country, and some in Europe. We may be the first ones to jump into the fall season, but do you know where Alaska is in the time zone map? Dead last.
In the mornings I'll start my day with a Bible study and a cup of coffee. I get children ready and shoo everyone off to school in thirty-degree weather wearing short sleeve t-shirts. Then I clean up the kiddo's breakfast dishes, serve myself some scraps from the table, and I take a short break while I'm eating to check in and see how everyone's doing.
And guess what you've already done? EVERYTHING! You're crushing it, friends!!!

Here I am in my pajamas, still eating the leftover bits of my kids' cereal and counting it as breakfast, looking at images of your healthy lunch. Or your stats from your awesome workout. Or your images from chaperoning your kid's field trip. Or the cute outfit you picked out for date night with your husband.
(Or your sweet fall decor, because you are just so on top of things!)


And while my brain rationally knows that I shouldn't have been able to do all of those things already, I start every day feeling tremendously behind.

I know! I'm completely crazy!

There is something about looking at everyone else's life that makes you think you are supposed to be keeping the pace somehow. But that's just not true.

We are all given work, but we're not all given the same job. We are all given gifts, but with different amounts of resources. We might have similar assignments, but we are not in similar environments.
And we are all given 24 hours, but we are certainly not all given the same timing.

We are each responsible for working well in the season that we've been given--- and this looks different ALL THE TIME.
Sometimes your work looks like studying. Sometimes it looks like spending your day in an office and earning a paycheck.
Sometimes it looks like waking up at night and nursing a baby. Sometimes it looks like rocking a sick child at home when people were counting on you to be somewhere else. Sometimes it looks like skipping an after-school activity to help mend a broken heart.
Sometimes it looks like doing some laundry and mopping the floors. Sometimes it looks like updating the weekly family calendar... and driving everyone to all the places... and volunteering to bring too many cupcakes to school.
Sometimes it looks like putting on some lipstick, and cooking a favorite meal, and chatting in the living room with your spouse.

None of these jobs is more important than the others.
You do not have to be doing them at the same time as other people.
*Or on as grand of a scale.
*Or in the same order.
*Or even for as long. (Or as quickly...)


You just have to do them purposefully and gratefully when it's your time.

So here's to being more intentional with our own seasons and less crazy trying to keep up!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go change a wreath real quick ;)

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)

The Caboose

One of the highlights of moving to Alaska in the summertime is that our little family gets to live outside. I honestly think we all prefer to be outdoors.

(And I know you've heard me complain a lot about how long it took us to get our household items from Texas, so maybe this seems like conflicting information. I don't know what to tell you. I guess I'm a girl who would rather be outside, and then if she's inside she wants all of her stuff.)

But liking outside isn't necessarily a new thing for us. We've always enjoyed being outside together. Camping, hiking, and bike riding are some of our best and favorite things. Honestly, since my kids could walk we've been taking them on hikes.

I remember my youngest being only two trekking up the rocky slopes of the Franklin Mountains.

And I remember my young daughter walking her dog through dirt paths in the Ozarks.

I remember them discovering the utility of a walking stick in the Texas Hill Country---

---and that Daddy's shoulders are better than your own feet on the granite trails of Enchanted Rock.

I remember them eagerly walking through the marshy Canadian wilderness towards the stinky smell of sulfur.

And just last week, they were curiously following the path of a glacial river in Alaska.

Now I'm sure at this point you've picked up on a theme.
You've likely noticed that ALL of my pictures of my kids in motion are from behind. There's a reason for that---and no, it's not because I'm slow. ;)

A long time ago when we started our family hikes, we came up with a walking order: Dad, sister, brother, and mom. Dad would be in front to lead the way, set the pace, and make sure everything was safe moving forward. Brother and sister followed closely behind Dad. And Mom brought in the rear with the purpose of making sure that no man wandered off the trail or was left behind. My children have long since lovingly called me "the caboose."

Now I don't mind being "the caboose" on our family hikes. It feels purposeful and essential.
But sometimes, I can feel like the caboose in our "everyday walk"--and that's always not so great.

The caboose is a position of humility. Always letting everyone else go in front. Always placing yourself at the tail end. Always watching everyone else push out in front while you trail behind.
I've found that when I've got a heavier load, it's always easiest to put my own stuff at the back.
Things that matter {kids' school, kids' activities, husband's work schedule, house chores, family errands} get put at the front of the line, while the "things that don't matter" {writing, crafting, reading, getting my hair cut, painting my nails, scheduling appointments for myself, going out to lunch with a friend, going back to school, starting a career, etc.} get pushed to the back burner.

And for a while, I'm okay with that.
After all, that's what a caboose is for. It's job is to provide a place for the crew to rest so they can operate full steam ahead. It serves as a lookout to make sure that everything stays on track, nothing breaks, and that everything is making it to the destination safely. And if things do happen to get really out of control, the caboose can help apply the brakes.


But that caboose is good for one more thing.
Sometimes it switches directions and takes the lead.
On a train, couplings are loosed and the caboose will pull one or two cars along with it to link up on a different track. And not to sound like a too much of a train nerd (because I really don't understand a whole lot,) but I'm pretty sure that cabooses would have been made altogether obsolete if not for this one feature. A good caboose requires the ability to switch.

That's the part I have trouble with--The part that puts me in the front and pulls everyone else behind me; the part that is able to switch gears and take a new path.
Whether it be from fear or complacency, if you've been the caboose long enough it's just easier just to ride in the back. You get really good at it, even.

But that's not all we're meant to do, friends. We were made for more!
Yes, we are to be servants. Yes, we are to be lookouts. Yes, we are to be shelters. Yes, we are to be a safety net.
Be we are also meant to be leaders.
We are meant to be guides. We are meant to be teachers. We are meant to be trailblazers and way-makers.

We can't do one part of our job and not the other.
It's time to be the "whole caboose." ;)

So if you're at all like me and you've been spending a little bit too much time in the back
Let's switch it up!

That little black dot in the front is yours truly leading her most precious freight.

Minding the Gap

I completed a half marathon run on the first week of June.
Today, I ran for the very first time since moving to Alaska.

In other words, I ran 13.1 miles and then didn't run again--even a little, even at all--for TEN WEEKS.



Moving from Texas to Alaska this summer has kept me really busy. Between the 4,000+ mile relocation, the two entire months that our stuff was M.I.A., battling the normal summer-break-lack-of-schedule element in a brand new place, and trying to keep up with everyday, ordinary life has kept me from hitting the pavement.
Well, all of that, and the fear of getting stomped on by a moose.

As you can imagine, there is not a whole heck of a lot here in interior Alaska. In fact, that is kind of its whole charm. But this lack of infrastructure can cause quite a snag in the training schedule of a girl who is used to running the beautifully manicured, lighted, and well-marked trails of the Austin parks system. No matter how much I missed it, I just couldn't psych myself up to go for a run out here.
What if I get hurt in the middle of nowhere? (There's actually no emergency services where I live.)
What if I get lost?
What if I get too fatigued?
Seriously, THE MOOSE THING!!

Today was the first time I ran in ten weeks, yes. But because the questions above had me chickening out, it was also the first time I ran on a treadmill in five years. Five.

(I'll let you guess how it went...)


I don't know why I'm wired the way I am, but I have a really hard time remembering that we are allowed to have gaps.
Maybe I'm the only one, I don't know. But often I carry around this really unrealistic and unhealthy expectation that I should be able to tackle everything excellently, no matter if it's my first time or my fiftieth--but especially if it's my fiftieth. That's not how life works, though.
In a perfect world, we'd all be able to balance faith, fitness, marriage, parenthood, household, career, friendships, finances, self-care, and leisure. But life is always tipping the scales and changing the dynamics.
Sometimes extra attention is needed in a certain area for a certain amount of time, and this is going to create a gap in consistency AND performance for the other ones. Not everything in life can be like riding a bike--where you leave it for a season and then return to it just the same when you're ready.
(And if you could see how I struggle to climb onto my bike to ride with the kids these days, you'd understand why I question the validity of this statement even in the literal sense.)

Having a gap doesn't make you a failure. Having to start over doesn't make you a failure. Having to struggle back to a previous level of achievement doesn't make you a failure. Having things that you are not good at does not make you a failure.

Friends, we *have* to start giving ourselves grace in the gaps.
Change is normal.
Struggle is normal.
Imbalance is normal.
IMPERFECTION is normal.

It's why Jesus came: to fill ALL the gaps. (Ephesians 1:22-23)
You don't have to be perfect, because He already is.

Busy mama, His grace is sufficient to cover down for you when you're too tired to wake up for your morning Bible time.
Lovely woman, His grace is sufficient remind you of the most beautiful parts of you, even when the mirror lies.
Wife, He loves you.
Parent, He guides you.
Homemaker, He blesses you.
Professional, He establishes the work of your hands.
Friend, He is with you always.
Warrior, He is your strength.

(Crazy lady, He is your protection from the moose.)



So here's to your gaps. Today we celebrate them.

May we always seek to fill them with Grace.

Building Blocks

This past week, my family began our big move from Texas to Alaska. In four short days, we've blazed through six states--just shy of 1,900 miles.  (And friends, that's a lot of miles!!)

It's possible that we are a bit nuts to take on such a big road trip. We didn't have to do it--the Army would have flown us all to our next home just as readily. But I guess I've always been the type of person who needs the journey. I enjoy feeling like I've "earned" my destination, you know? Four thousand miles of roads I'd yet to travel seemed like way too many to simply bypass by plane. I've yet to decide whether I have a gypsy soul or just a fear of missing out.
(Either way, we're committed to the craziness now!)

Luckily for me, I married a fellow-adventurer and quite possibly birthed the two best car riders in the history of mankind. No one ever complains when we hit the road, and even the dogs get excited to load in the back of the truck. We always try to make sure that the road trip is an adventure for everyone, so we break up our travels with little day trips along the way. Yesterday, we took a short detour from our move route so the kids could see Mount Rushmore.

It was my second time to see the impressive stone carving. (But I was only ten the first time, so I remembered very little of my first experience.) As I looked up at the mountain with my children, I tried my best to imagine what it would have been like almost 100 years ago, dangling from the precipice and blasting off chunks of granite, chiseling and chipping away in such fine detail, manipulating the artistic concepts of shadow and light on such a massive scale.
I wondered what on Earth would spur these men to risk their lives for a rock. Why did they choose to put this monument here in the Black Hills? Why did they choose these faces? How hard was it to keep this funded? What were they hoping to achieve here?

President Franklin D Roosevelt, standing at the monument in 1936, said this:
"I think that we can perhaps meditate a little on those Americans ten thousand years from now, when the weathering on the faces of Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln shall have proceeded to perhaps the depth of a tenth of an inch...

Let us hope that at least they will give us the benefit of the doubt, that they will believe we have honestly striven every day and generation to preserve for our descendants a decent land to live in and a decent form of government to operate under."

Why did they put the rock there? So that when "children" like me looked on their weathered faces and wondered why, I would be looking at the building blocks of my nation: principle, progress, preservation, and liberty. It was put there so that I could remember what I have been given, and what I should strive to pass on.

Looking at those rocks and thinking about those men made me think of another story I had heard with a similar message:

"And Joshua said to them, “Pass on before the ark of the Lord your God into the midst of the Jordan, and take up each of you a stone upon his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the people of Israel, that this may be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, ‘What do those stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord." (Joshua 4:5-7a)

Why did they put the rocks there? So their children could look on those stacks and remember what the LORD had given them; so their children would strive to pass that blessing on to future generations.

I love that the Bible specifies here "when your children ask"--not if. Anyone who has ever even been around a child knows that they are wired to ask Why? How come? What for? They are wired to watch us. They are wired to wonder at what we've built for them.

It all begs the question, What "stones" are we leaving for our children to look at?-- Because they are watching and they are wondering. What is it that we're building? Is it something they would be grateful for? Is it something they would strive to preserve and pass on?

I have no idea if my children will choose to take giant road trips with their families when they get older. I have no idea if they'll remember all the miles they've traveled and all the sights they've seen. I have no idea if they'll fully appreciate the historical battlegrounds and monuments and experiences and adventures.

But I'll keep stacking the stones anyway, piling them high in hopeful anticipation that years from now they will be staring at the building blocks of a happy childhood--Something they'll be grateful to have been given and that they'll strive to pass on.

Filling the Gap

During the Easter season, this crazy lady did something that she's never done before. I participated in a Lenten fast.
I have been a church attender for the vast majority of my life, but none of my churches have ever participated in Lent as a congregation. I'm pretty sure that I'd never even heard the term "liturgical calendar" until this past year. And it wasn't until after I started the fast that I realized it was supposed to last for forty days and not a month like I had originally presumed. (Is it socially acceptable to bless one's own heart? Asking for a friend.)
Nevertheless, as I did more personal study into the concepts behind feasting and fasting seasons, I felt a pulling on my heart that I should use this particular season in my own life to recalibrate and recenter--and I knew the exact instrument I was supposed to remeasure.

My relationship with alcohol has been a seemingly innocent one by most accounts. Of course there were younger versions of myself that probably needed full-out interventions, but as I matured the rest of my practices changed with me. I was fairly certain that I had a pretty good handle on this particular subject.
So I have to tell you, I was really confused by how bothered I had become about my beverages.

For several months prior I had been reading articles about people who had quit drinking and talked to people who had chosen to abstain. I respected their decisions. I supported their efforts. I was *possibly* a little bit shallow as I wondered what cutting out alcohol might do for one's abdominal muscles, or a little bit cheap as I wondered what cutting out alcohol might do for one's pocket book. But I didn't choose to follow them, because I didn't quite struggle like they did.

But what I did struggle with was worrying how I'd been coming across lately: as Liz, the jolly lush.


(And to be fair to those people, I probably wasn't helping myself.)





Two of these three examples were school-related. Seriously, y'all. Bless my heart. (I've made it a thing now.)

It wasn't just the images I was putting out there, but images that people--out of nothing but their good intentions--were sending to me. These funny pictures and videos and memes all shared a common theme: the drink. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy the fact that people were thinking of me and sharing with me and laughing with me, but I did worry that somehow I had led people to believe that I took pleasure and amusement in just that one thing; or worse, I worried that I was connecting to people in just that one way.

For a person who "wasn't struggling," I had a weightiness when I considered these things that I just didn't like. So for the next 30--then 40 days, I killed the beast at the source.

You want to know a lesson I learned right out the gate?
What we think is "the beast" is hardly ever the source.

Alcohol was not the bad thing. The bad thing was all the "tools" I had made alcohol become.

It was my tool for helping me unwind.
Most every night my husband and I have a drink with a show. Every time the t.v. comes on, the drink goes in hand. When my husband would turn on our show and I would sit next to him, my desire for a beverage was triggered. I realized that the drink came with a reward center in my brain that said "Yes Liz. Good job today. Snuggle up next to your honey and relax." More than a habit, my evening drink had become a signal to myself that it was time to rest.

It was a tool for helping me treat my ailments.
I have struggled with anxiety. A glass of red can help with that. My family has struggled with high blood pressure. A glass of red can help with that. I have a uterus. A glass of red wine can help with that.

It was a tool for helping me deal with difficult things.
I also blame this on the tricky reward center. Because alcohol is a depressant, and it helps with blood flow, and it relaxes your muscles, it does help you calm down. When the kids are fighting all day and my stressed shoulders are up by my ears, a drink can help bring me back down. When my two-year-old son was in a terrifying accident, my husband had to give me a tequila shot to help me stop shaking from the shock. Or sometimes, as the picture above illustrates, things break and having a drink makes it feel a little less like work.

It was a tool for helping me celebrate.
The first day of Lent this year began on Valentine's Day. This proved to be difficult, because I wanted to celebrate my sweetheart and somehow iced tea just didn't send the message I wanted. My family came down during the first week of Lent to celebrate my birthday, and I burned my mouth on all of the extra citrus wedges I was putting in my drinks to make them feel more "fancy." We received some good news as a family during this Lenten season, and I rang in the news with sparkling cider and felt twelve. I went to concerts and sports events and got a soda and was sad.

Which led me to this humbling realization:
Alcohol was my treat of choice.
I don't have much of a sweet tooth at all, but I ate SO MANY desserts during these past 40 days. I ate things I would typically never choose just because I was searching for something that felt right for the occasion...a substitute... Anything to help "fill the gap" so to speak.

I had a fair idea before I started this journey of what my triggers might be. I bought hot tea for nighttime t.v. viewing, Tylenol for my uterus, got a massage for my stress, bought citrus and sparkling ciders for fun news, bought a ridiculous amount of treats for no reason...but those things didn't work for long, because they were just different choices--not better ones.

For rest:
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)

For health:
My son, be attentive to my words; incline your ear to my sayings. Let them not escape from your sight; keep them within your heart. For they are life to those who find them, and healing to all their flesh. (Proverbs 4:20-22)

To de-stress:
Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you. (1 Peter 5:7)

For celebrating:
So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. (1 Corinthians 10:31)

To treat:
I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward. (Genesis 15:1)

All of the other choices I was making to fill my gap during the Lenten season had left me thirsty. But now I also knew that filling up so many spaces with alcohol had left me longing too--it was cheap wine when I knew what the good stuff tasted like. This is not to say that one drink is evil and one is not. It is to say that there is a thing that's better--and it should always be my source.

The season is over, but the choices are still going to be there every day. Our hearts can't stay empty. Something is going to fill the gap.

What are you really thirsty for?

Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. (Isaiah 55:1)


Cheers!

Beauty Marks

When I was a little girl, my mom did a really fabulous job of making me feel beautiful. Every morning I would go into her bathroom and she would brush and style my hair according to my requests: curly, straight, crimped. High pony, topsy-turvy, "half up-half down." Finish with a bow and some Aqua Net. She had these really awesome vanity bulbs lining her mirror that made me feel like a movie star.
(Ahhhhh, the '90's!)

She called our little skin imperfections "beauty marks." I counted each one of them with pride. I honestly remember my younger self feeling concerned about the fact that my little sister had a beauty mark on her foot and I didn't. Every time I found another one, I was excited and not ashamed.

I remembered thinking it didn't matter that I had crooked teeth, because I still had a nice smile. It didn't matter if my hands were a little bit sweaty, because that meant I worked hard. It didn't matter if my elbows twisted out all double jointed-like, because that was just a neat trick I could do. It didn't matter if my arms and legs were too gangly for the rest of my body. That meant I was going to be really graceful one day.

My mama might have been a little too good at her job.
She once put me in an etiquette class at the mall, but I was convinced it was only because she wanted me to be in the fashion show at the end. I didn't pay much attention to the instructions about table manners or speaking quietly or walking down the stairs without looking at your feet. I was more concerned about rocking that sequined star baseball cap with my red tank top and denim skort. (Seriously, y'all. The '90's were the very best.)

My teenage years were as awkward as anyone's, but I didn't know it. These days I can't even fully describe how much I appreciate the fact that we didn't have Internet tutorials to show us the proper way to do things. I'm forever grateful I didn't have to master the smoky eye or painting on my eyebrows. I didn't have to have a clue what haircut was right for my face shape or what in the world highlighter did. In fact, I didn't have to know anything save "that's what Rachel from Friends did."
If I could gift that kind of freedom to teenage girls, I would have spent all of my money on presents by now. I firmly believe that every teenage girl should make the mistake of wearing a shade of eyeliner solely because it is your favorite color. (Lime green, and I wish I was kidding...)

A chronicle of me through the years. Top left: please note the wooden skewer holding up my hair. Bottom left: because nobody told me perms were a bad idea. Right: ombre before it was cool. I had bleached my hair completely blonde, and this was the final stage of that catastrophe.
Also 1. vest, 2. overalls, 3. That 70s Show.

But back to my mama.

I'm not sure if it was the deployments or my genetics, but I started going noticeably grayer in my late twenties. My mom had dyed her hair for as long as I could remember, but I had sworn it all away after the blonde fiasco. When I went to my mom for advice, she did what she had always done so well: she made me feel beautiful. Then she told me to consider letting nature take its course. (All these years later, it is still like mama is fixing my hair.)

At first going gray was exciting. I honestly didn't know a lot of people in my circle who were doing it, and so it felt like a special thing---like my double-jointed elbows! But after a while, the gray hairs kept coming in and I started to feel more...I don't know...alone?
What started out special began to feel like a blemish. People started commenting on it. A lot.
"Are you going to dye it?"
"You look so young! Are you sure?"
"Good for you! I would, but I'm afraid I'll look like a hag."
One time a complete stranger came to my door to try to sell me something, stopped mid-sales pitch and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't help asking. Are those gray hairs real?"

Boy, you best get yourself off the porch step!

I don't know what it is about going gray, but people find it confusing. Why would you want to look old? Why would you let your flaws show if you could fix it? And to their benefit, we really don't have many examples of people who choose to just let their hair alone. I figure I'm about as weird as a person with unicorn hair would have been to me in the '90's. I get it. It's different.

But letting nature take its course isn't giving up on beauty.
And aging isn't a blemish that has to be covered up.

The funny thing about feeling alone is that you almost never are.
So to all of my friends that may be feeling flawed:

Your gray hairs glitter just as much as any highlight.
Those wrinkles? Some of the best ones are the laugh lines that you earned. The furrows on your brow are from caring about things.
Those sun spots are there because you've spent days in the sun!
Your hands will start to show some wear, because you've done some good things with those hands.
Those marks on your belly are evidence of the life it held.
The scars on your body declare the battles you've won.
Your tired feet are carrying you through a life well lived.

Those things you think are imperfections are really just your beauty marks.
Number them, and be proud.

Sick Days

Today I got to stay home with a sweet little sick person, and I've never been so grateful for a sick child in my life.

(He photographs so well, though, he totally makes me look like the sick one here. *sigh*)


Can I be transparent with y'all?
I've been struggling lately, friends.

I struggle with placing too much importance on achievement and performance. I "need" the respected position. I really want the recognition and the gold star.  Motherhood doesn't give that to you. It just gives you a bunch of self-doubt. And laundry.

I realize that being a mom is an incredible job, but I struggle A LOT--almost daily--with trying to find value in what I do, especially as my children grow and start to 'need me less.'

But this lowly feeling is a total lie.

My value is not found in a profession, a title, or how much money I make.
It's not found in how smart, or funny, or qualified other people think I am.
Or how clean and well-decorated my house is.
Or how well-behaved or high-achieving my children are.
Or how fancy the food in their lunchboxes is or how many home cooked meals I make.
Or how successful or doting my husband is.
Or how trendy my clothes are, or how fit I am, or how pretty a picture I take.

Or even how many people like me or like what I say...

It is found in Christ alone and His love for me.

Today, I realized how selfish my ambitions can make me. I would be lying if I said I didn't have a twinge of disappointment surge through me when I discovered I was staying home with a sick kid. I had places to be. I had other things I thought I needed to do. I had "gold stars" I thought I needed to earn elsewhere.
But none of the things on my to-do list were what my heart really needed to feel worthwhile. Turns out, all I needed to do was snuggle up with my child and serve him.
I needed to watch the Captain Underpants movie with his tired head on my lap and hear him giggle at the stupid jokes.
I needed to read him his favorite Berenstain Bears books and help him put flower stickers on deserving characters in the stories. (Mama Bear got a lot of flowers,y'all-- because he's being raised right 😉)
I needed to let my boy teach me how to dance "the floss" so I could cheer on his imaginary football team. (Watch out, world, cuz I'ma do it everywhere now.)

But most importantly, I needed to look with loving eyes on my sweet child and remember that I'm being looked at the same way by my Father in heaven.

Are you tired, mama? Are you doubtful?
Do you feel unimportant? Unnecessary? Underwhelming?

You aren't. You are ridiculously valuable to a most high God. He created you ESPECIALLY! He loves you fiercely and forever. Breathe in that truth. Exhale out every stupid thought that says otherwise and makes your heart unwell..

Let us know His love.
Let us make it known.

(Then let's all dance, because I have a cool new move to try out. 😉)

Tough Breaks

I'm just going to say some things here that probably won't make me sound like Mom of the Year. In fact, I'm not even sure that "good moms" are supposed to admit these things to people, but here it goes...

I love back-to-school time. A lot.

I love having my home to myself. I love every blissful moment of quiet. The empty-house hours of 7am to 3pm are MY JAM.
While I do enjoy spending every waking minute with my kids, doing so sure can make it hard to get other things done (and therefore, they usually don't.)

There are mothers who seem to thrive in the summertime. They claim that they love every minute of summer and that it goes by too fast. They weep when their children stroll through the front doors of school, and they anxiously count down the minutes until their children's return.

Let me just say, I absolutely love those moms. I totally understand most of the things that they say.

I just am not one of them.

Even when my kids were small, I looked forward to them being old enough to go to school. I didn't look forward to them growing up super fast. I didn't look forward to them not needing me as much. I didn't even necessarily look forward to them being away from me.
I just looked forward to a time when I could be productive without feeling so scattered. I looked forward to a time when I could complete tasks without pre-school shows playing noisily in the background. I looked forward to being able to finish a project without being interrupted every few minutes by cries or spills or "potty emergencies."

Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, it happened. Both of my kids were in school, and I was living the dream.
I have to admit, this whole school-aged kid thing is pretty much as sweet a gig as I figured it would be.

This is certainly not to say that I don't look forward to summertime, or summer vacations, or all of the precious memories we are sure to make. Those sweet moments are not lost on me--no no!

In fact, this summer was an incredibly special time for my family, (and there's not any way to write that sentence and not have it be a huge understatement.) Because of my husband's unique "job" right now, we got to spend the entire summer together. No deployments, no training exercises, no all-day workdays, no late nights, no work emergencies, no middle-of-the-night phone calls. Just us, every day. Our family had worked and sacrificed so much for this time, and I felt like we had totally earned this break.
We literally put all other responsibilities aside. Togetherness was the #1 priority. This summer was an absolute treat, and I was so thankful to have been given that time.

And yet, I still was ready for it to be over and for school to start. It is inevitable with me. Sometime between July and August, I feel a strong sense of longing for backpacks and carpools and extracurricular activities and normalcy. I felt so bad about it--like maybe something was wrong with me. One night as I sat around the family calendar and pondered how on earth we were going to entertain ourselves for the X remaining days until everyone went back to school, I felt a nudge in my soul. Maybe I'm not wrong to feel this way, because we're not made for summer breaks and endless leisure and no responsibilities.
We were made for the harvest.

For we are God’s fellow workers; you are God’s field, God’s building.
1 Corinthians 3:9

Breaks are absolutely necessary and encouraged. My children needed this time with their dad; I know that. My husband needed this time with us. My heart needed this season of togetherness for us.
And then I needed to get back to work.

You see, I have been guilty of letting my fields lie fallow all summer. I took the term "summer break" too literally. I took breaks from working out like I should have. I took breaks from keeping up with housework like I should have. I took breaks from cooking my family proper meals like I should have. I took breaks from doing my morning Bible studies like I should have.

I put my personal projects and my tasks on hold so I could hold my babies; and while I am not for one hot minute saying that is a bad thing, I've got to tell you, moms---that is only one of our jobs!
Our babies will grow up to be fellow workers, too.

They need to see us relishing in our work and not just yearning for our breaks.

((Insert the sound of truth bombs exploding everywhere.))

We live in a world that sings "Summertime and the livin' is easy," but we serve a God that made the summertime; and He says "Wake up and look around! The fields are already ripe for harvest.."

Break time is over, thank goodness. The work is here. I am ready for it, because I was born for it. We all were, my friends.

Hooray for back-to-school. Hooray for getting back to business.

The Santa Letter

A little less than decade ago I became a parent. Not too long afterward her first Christmas rolled around, so I hung up a little stocking and put a little gift from Santa under the tree because that's what you do when you have a kid. (No matter if she couldn't even eat solid food at the time. Santa Claus was coming to town, by golly!) I literally never thought about anything less in my life before acting. I just did it.
Then repeated it the next year, even though I could have easily passed and it wouldn't have hurt any feelings. But when I did a third time, it sealed the deal for me and all my future babies, and I was now stuck being a jolly red elf each and every December. Ho Ho Ho.

(Now, this is not a blog to discuss whether or not I think you should do Santa Claus for your kids. I just need you to know that I repeatedly do things without thinking about the aftermath.)

So now knowing this, you should not be surprised to learn that I also didn't think too hard about becoming the tooth fairy.
You know what's fun and exciting? Being the tooth fairy the first time your child loses a tooth. You know what's not fun and exciting? When your kids loses her 12th tooth one afternoon at school, and you are totally bamboozled by it because it is happening so often that she doesn't even tell you when she's got wigglers anymore. And you're rushing so fast between after-school activities and homework and life that when bedtime rolls around you check on your sleeping child, and you don't even notice that little piece of detached bone in a cup on her desk.

You know what's not fun for a child? Jumping up out of bed expecting a dollar and just finding a piece of bone instead.

This time of year, the magic is all around us. But somewhere, someone's baby is finding the receipt from Target that has all the gifts Santa will "magically" make appear under the tree..
or seeing a parent moving a creepy elf in the middle of the night...
or finding a bone instead of a dollar...

So I wanted to leave my friends an early Christmas present, just in case. Ho Ho Ho.

Years ago when my daughter was still quite small I found a letter circulating the Internet that a mom had written to explain Santa to her kid. (I realize this is not the original draft or credit, so forgive me. I'm late picking up my kids from school, because I started this blog without thinking through the aftermath.) Anyway, I read it, I loved it, and I used it as a skeleton to write my own letter. I saved it for a couple years until the right moment--which apparently was a couple weeks ago during the Tooth Fairy Debacle of 2016. And I have to say, it was so well received that it made me proud to be this kid's parent (and a little bit gracious with myself, because what may have started without much thought gave me lots to think about and perfect along the way.)

Without further ado, here it is.
Read it, love it, steal it, and make it your own.

Daughter,
Today we want to tell you the truth about Santa Claus.
I know you’ve wondered about the answer to this question before, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say and when to say it.
The answer is no. There is no one Santa.
There was a real person named St. Nicholas who loved to give gifts to the needy in secret, often leaving them in their shoes or “stockings”(socks) and that is who most people model their idea of Santa Claus after.
Daddy and I are the people who fill your stockings with gifts and leave your presents under the tree. Not because you need them—but because we love you and we want to give you good gifts. The reasons we chose to be your Santa Claus are very important.

Santa Claus teaches us about hope and anticipation. We know how exciting it is to wait for something good. We felt that excitement when you were growing in Mommy’s tummy—you were the gift we knew was coming. We love seeing you get excited on Christmas Eve, knowing good things will happen while you sleep. We want you to always hope for good things in your life.
God wants you to hope for good things, too! (Romans 8:28) “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him.”

Santa Claus teaches us to believe in things we can’t see or touch. The magic of Santa Claus at Christmastime is fun, but it helps prepare us for times when we need to have faith and can’t see. When things seem tough, you can remember to look for the God’s beauty all around you.
God wants you to remember He is there, even when you cannot see Him. (John 20:29) “Then Jesus told him, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’”

Santa Claus teaches us the joy of giving. You have always been so good about this. You know that there are some people who do not have enough—enough food, enough clothes, enough medicine, or enough money for toys or other fun activities. We are blessed to be able to give to those in need, and we should. When we give our good gifts, in service and in secret, it is almost like we are Santa Claus to those in need!
God wants us to share our blessings with others. (Deuteronomy 16:17) “Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the LORD your God which He has given you.”

Santa Claus teaches us to be grateful in receiving. We are all going to mess up and be naughty sometimes. We are all human, and we all make mistakes. Daddy and I don’t give you gifts because you’re good. We give you gifts because we love you. We hope that you notice all the good things God gives you and tell Him how thankful you are for them—especially the greatest gift of all, Jesus.
(John 3:16) “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

Because these lessons are so important, “Santa” will always come to our house on Christmas. And we hope that whenever you find your stocking and present under the tree, you think about the importance of these lessons and recall these verses in your heart.

Remember to keep the secret of Santa to yourself so other mommies and daddies can tell their kids whenever they are ready. It is all of our jobs to help keep the magic of Santa Claus alive for them so they can learn these important lessons too!

We love you so much, Baby Girl.

Mommy and Daddy

Merry Christmas, y'all. (And good luck to Santas everywhere!)

Me, MySelfie, and I

Hello, dear friends.

Have I ever told you how I come up with the random content for my blogs? No?
Only a tiny percent are born from true issues that lay heavy on my heart and beg to be written down. A vast majority--like almost all of my posts--are things that I randomly think about while I'm running, doing the dishes, cooking dinner, mopping the floors... (Yes, my life is super glamorous. Thanks for asking.) But a very lucky few come from Facebook posts that I feel like are embarrassing left up there on their own and need additional explanation to be validated.

This will be one of those lucky few.

This morning my wonderful "On this Day" app told me that I had a sweet memory from a two-year-old son. He had asked if he, his sister, and I counted as three kids. And my answer was yes. Yes, we do. And I laughed thinking to myself that we still do, because I just might be the female version of Peter Pan. So I commented such things on my page, and then I posted this picture as photographic evidence:



...And then it sat there...


...And then I kept looking at it...


...And then it finally dawned on me what a hot mess of a picture I had posted of myself to the interwebs.

There I was, my big, crooked grin wedged makeup-less-ly between somebody's princess-like bridal portrait and a chick in a bikini who gave herself a magical butterfly crown as an added bonus.

I panicked. Do I take it down? Do I make an excuse for it? Do I own my hot mess proudly? Is it too late to try and fix it by downloading that blasted butterfly crown filter?!

I decided to post another picture of myself under the first one with the witty caption: "Also, here's proof that I do wear makeup (because we can't all be Alicia Keys.)"
(I know. I'm hilarious.)
Here it is:


...And then it sat there...


...And then I kept looking at it...


...And then it dawned on me that I had just posted two selfies in a row--as comments to my own post, no less--and that I might be the saddest person in the world and I'm fairly certain I will have no friends after this.

So I took that sucker down in order to save a little face.
(Or so I could show you a lot more of my face, apparently. Sorry in advance.)

It really bothered me that I cared so much how I looked to everyone in my newsfeed. Over the past decade especially, I have worked so hard to be content with who I am. I've learned to embrace crooked teeth and stretch marks and gray hair with an amount of grace that, quite frankly, surprised me. I've been told over and again how getting older helps you embrace who you are, what you're capable of, and how you process other people's opinions of you--but at this moment, I went full-out Peter Pan. I cared very much what every one thought I looked like and that they didn't think I was a sad, crazy person.

But y'all, I am a crazy person. (Ahem. It says so right in the title.)
I don't filter anything. Talk to me for any amount of time north of five minutes, and I cannot censor my inner-dork. I will never use photo filters, because I simply don't know how. (I will be a faithful client for life, photog friends.)

I finally realized what had bothered me in the first place. It was that in the very first moment, when I looked at the first picture of the real, blessed life I was living and questioned whether or not it was worthy to share as candidly as I had, I had balked on myself--and that was maybe more lame than posting two selfies in a row. So let's get real.

The last picture I posted of myself wasn't a fair representation. Originally I had picked that one because it was blurry and it hid a bit of the age that is starting to show in my face. That's not who I am, though. I am a person that has laughed too hard and smiled too much over the last three decades for anything other than plastic surgery to save me now. (And we can't all be Kardashians---yep, still hilarious ;) )
Here's what I really look like:


And even then, that's only what I look like to people who I've just met. Again, if I've known you anywhere north of five minutes, I probably look more like this:




The inner-dork is strong with this one.

Happy, wrinkly, crazy dork though I may be, I am my very best self when I have these faces smooshed up against me:



Real life is not all butterfly crowns and rainbow sparkles...it's better than that.
I think what I'm finally beginning to realize is that growing older will not make you fully immune to other people's opinions, but your attitude will. There are still going to be days where we feel less-than, but that doesn't make it true. My hope is that you read this silly post, forgive me for sharing an incessant amount of pictures of myself, and know that you are so wonderfully made. Be you, unapologetically, friends--because I think you will own the mess out of it.

Love,
Liz