On Parenting

Wild Roses at the Witte.

In all the inadequacies of parenting, to try is the most elemental.

All the other skills that one must learn to raise up other humans come after the trying.

If we try, the motivation behind that is innately loving and positive.

It we try, there is little chance that the thing will go horribly wrong and fail.

Putting those feet one in front of the other is all that is required to get the train to leave the station and move those tiny babies along the track of human development that we all magically believe in.

My children's father and I could be could be kind to one another. So, we did that.

We were kind.

(Side note and advice from me to you: being nice to one another will not a marriage make.)

I tried to be a firm and controlling type of trainer of humans.

My little humans, however, never were mold-able in the traditional sense.
They always required logical answers to the why questions and the explanations that took lots of words to describe.

I always did try to answer those hard questions. Still do.

But these little humans that the hospital kept allowing me to bring home just kept pushing me further and further away from the mold that I was trying to fit myself into among the fundamentalist crowd.

My Kai. My guy.

My children often reminded me of the ways that my family had fallen short in meeting my needs as a highly sensitive and gifted child.

I had longed to be understood. I had wanted questions answered and solutions found, and curiosities explored when I was younger.

I did not want to keep telling my children, “no.”

Poverty always kept us on the brink of calamity.

(Talk about additional strain on a marriage, amiright?)

When I stopped spanking the kids, I didn’t discuss that with their father. I made the decision and explained to him the reasons why I had done so.

I have found satisfaction and fulfillment in finding my own opinions and means of doing things.

I think that having genius friends in my circle helped, but I did try and find solutions to the things that irked me about whatever thought system I was navigating at the time.

Getting dirty at the San Antonio Zoo.

In Christianity, at least in the Christianity variety that I was a part of, there was little room for questions and seeking answers.

There were rote answers to all the questions and if there were no answers, then the asker was wrong for asking the question in the first place. That tiny box of rote answers was the undoing to my love affair with the fundamental's Jesus.

Knowing all of this, and the winding road to raising four kids and still being humbled and molded by them and experience, I've put down some of my current thoughts on parenting.

How to parent and raise up humans that don’t suck:

Humans do suck, however, and they will be a source of great heartbreak and disappointment if you don’t come into this parenting life with that soberly and completely understood in the first place.

Lovies at the downtown San Antonio Library.

Tiny humans do not cry to attack your person-hood.

I believe that was one of the ugliest things that I used to believe about children, babies, and toddlers.
I used to think that they were all evil sinners and that they were displaying their sin nature when they cried out from their cribs to be held and loved on.

I naively accepted as canon the lie that babies should be allowed to, “cry it out.”
I am so deeply ashamed of how I treated my baby boys when they were in cribs. I’ve apologized to them now that they are older, but that doesn’t erase those harmful years.
I sucked.

I’m now actively avoiding writing any further on this topic because I’m ashamed of my past.



Hold your babies when they cry. They have no selfish ambition. Their developing neurons need human touch and voices and movement to develop in all the correct ways. They are not attempting to sabotage your life; they are seeking connection with you so that years from now they will associate your voice with safety and security and love and warmth.

Tiny baby Adia.

Don’t.

Make.

Them.

Cry.

It.

Out.

They need you.

They need you when they whine.

They don’t have the words to use to vocalize their needs for you. You have to use your problem-solving skills to meet their unspoken needs.

They don’t have words.

They need you when they fall.

They need you when they are afraid of the dark and the hallway light isn’t enough for them to be satisfied.

They need you in the morning before you’ve had your coffee and you can’t think straight.

They need you when your depression is keeping you glued to your bed in clothes you put on three days ago.

They need you when their best friend calls them a dickhead.

They need you when they can’t reach the cups in the cabinet.

They need you when they are lonely for friends in a three-state-away place.

Tiny Bella and her buddy, Aidan, in Kansas.

They need you.

You were put on this earth to create a world of safety and love for that little person. You were put on this earth to love the shit out of those teenage turds when they break your heart with rejection.

Let them rebel. You won’t reject them.

Let them rant and rave about the latest opinion they are trying on from some mouth breather they read on reddit. Listen intently and ask probing questions about how and why they are thinking the way that they do.

Eisenhower Park trails.

They need to know that what they talk about matters to you.

That stupid game that they can’t stop playing? You need to care about that as well. You were intended to bend down and join them in their land of make-believe, even if in this modern age it is made up of pixels.

When they tell you about a video game you’ve never heard of that is consuming them from the inside out, figure out what it is that they are talking about. You can try. You can try to understand what it is that they are talking about.

When they need space, you give it to them. You don’t push past their boundaries, but rather, you make every attempt to respect and reinforce them.

You don’t make fun of them for their idiosyncrasies, but rather celebrate them.

Unschooling days

When they need a cuddle, you give it.

When they want to play with your belly fat in public, let them.

You are teaching them that the human body is good and that a little belly fat is nothing to be ashamed of.

When they want to own their bodies and do wild and crazy things with their hair, let them.

Really.

Getting started on her buzz cut.

New look for 12 year old Bella. Her hair, her choice.

Red tips and Jamin hold-me's at on of Kai's basketball games.

When you have a kid sitting in the front seat on a drive, let them choose the music you listen to. Enjoy it and criticize it together. Ask them what they like about it. Ask them why they prefer that artist over another.

When they fall in love ask them what it is that they like about the person they are interested in. DO NOT tease them about their choice. This will cause shame on their part and they will close off a part of themselves to you that will be difficult to recover.

When you talk about sex, use the proper names for body parts. There’s nothing sadder than a grown man that can’t say the word penis without cringing.

Photo shoot during Kai's bball game.

Talk about safe sex. Talk about different types of sex. Talk about the LGBTQ community and their rights to acceptance. Talk about good and healthy sex.

Talk about religion. 

Question the heaven and hell out of religion with them.

Let them know that you don’t have all the answers. Let them know what you do know and allow them to figure things out on their own as well. Look up answers to questions together.

Don’t be shocked when they have condoms.

Don’t rage at them when they screw up because they most definitely will screw up.

Don’t consider yourself an expert on them. Allow them the common courtesy of discovering for themselves who they are.

Allow them to feel. 

You allow whatever waves of emotion it is that is crashing over them at any given time to fall upon them without judgement.

If they are pissed at you, check yourself. Maybe you’ve screwed up and you owe them an apology.

Humble yourself and apologize for whatever it is you’ve done to offend them.

Become their safe place if you aren’t already.

I have no idea where this one came from.

Their interests will not always be the same as yours.

You didn’t have children to be raised up in your image, but rather, to raise them up into the people they were always meant to be.

Let them be bored. Let them be mad at you when you set up boundaries. Let them be selfish. Let them be wild. Let them be free.

Let them be annoying and vicious and goofy.

Give them the benefit of the doubt that the world never will.

Your goal is to let them go into a dark and cynical world with a safety net of love and acceptance that will always be there to love them back to health.

One of the Xmases.

Those demons in your closet? The ones that you don’t want the rest of the world to see? Let those kids see that. Let them know that you have imperfections and that you are wrestling with things that are big and overwhelming and that you don’t fully understand.

Humble yourself enough to let them see your humanity. Those little buggers are going to know that something is up without you saying anything anyways.

Let them get dirty or else let them hate being dirty and carry around wipes with you if they can’t stomach having sticky hands…ever.

Smile at them. Laugh with them over the obscene and ridiculous things they say.

Let them know that you are proud of every hard decision they make and that their perseverance is rewarded.

Bella and her lizard, Charlie.

Tell them out loud what it is that you like about them.

Talk about money and politics and social justice and race. Talk about different cultures and history and wars and kingdoms. Talk about science and literature and mechanics and nature. Talk about languages and music and prisons and crimes. Talk about food and drinks and molecules and sociopaths. Talk about socialism and bias and feminism and capitalism. Talk about astronomy and fiction, poetry and physics.

Talk about what matters to you. Let them know about that thing that you’ve been trying to understand. Ask them about what matters to them and talk about that.

Chew on what they say and bring it up again later with more insight or perspective or a new fact.
Let them see you struggle. Let them see you fail. Let them see you conquer and be rewarded and celebrated as well. If they tell you that you are beautiful or smart or strong or an asshole, hear that. Take it to heart. They live with you day in and day out and they are well-equipped to be judges of your character.

My silly girls.

Make up songs about eggs and dance like a lunatic in the kitchen. Laugh at their jokes and laugh at your own absurdity when necessary.

Jamin and I at his first concert. Thanks Tip!

If you don’t know what matters to you, find out and get passionate about that shit. Don’t just melt into being a parent now that these little people exist. You are still valuable in this messy world y’all exist in.

Be a person. Be your own person. Be a person that loves yourself and respects yourself. Be a person that you like; that you can be proud of being.

Be proud of your people. Be proud of the stupid times they are so stubborn that you want to scream.

Their stubbornness is a virtue and it will lead to a strong adult human one day.

See, a capable adult is your end goal.

So smile with those little ones, even the big ones that break your heart with their interpretation of the truth.

SAMA with my minions.

You allow them the freedom to be human and love them and love them.

...and love them.

One Year Since SAB

This time last year I was in a behavioral health hospital. I was working lackadaisically to get back to a healthy place mentally. I had struggled with suicidal thoughts and decided to seek help by being admitted to a facility where I could be monitored safely by caring professionals free of judgement and pity.
Surrounded by other mentally broken people, I knew that I made the right decision. I had to swallow my pride to make that call to my mother to drive me to the facility. I had to put aside my compulsive need to put the needs of my kids ahead of my own. I missed Halloween. I missed trick-or-treating. They didn’t even carve their jack-o-lanterns last year. Their huge carving pumpkins sat and rotted until they had to be thrown away.
But that’s okay.
I gained myself again in that hospital. Unbelievably, I found smiling faces of people I trusted in places far away and long ago. A leader from the amazing non-profit group NAMI. A youth from an ancient youth group I once helped lead.
In that safe space of unstable humans, I remembered that I could make others smile. I remembered that I am more than the labels and judgements pushed upon me by those in disagreement with my life decisions. I remembered that I had an intelligence I hardly ever tapped any more. I found that I was still ‘me.’
I had forgotten all the good things that He placed inside of me. They had been shoved down under the surface by stress and prying eyes. They’d been hidden and calloused over by the words thrown at me in a frenzy to win me over to a side of thinking that I’d outgrown long ago. They’d been calloused over by my compulsive need to gain the approval of those who had pushed me aside when my decisions to value myself over dying inside to myself blindsided them.
What happened: I wanted to die. I had wanted to hurt myself and the need to stop the negative thoughts had stopped being stronger than the negative thoughts themselves. I didn’t try to power through this time. I didn’t run to a friend and ask them to babysit me until the wave passed and the negative thoughts were drowned out in positivity. I ran to help. I put my life on hold to run to the place sick people go to find healing. It was as I sought this healing, that God met me. He met me in the kindness of the other patients. He met me in the encouraging and empowering words of the therapists. He met me in the passing of the cigarettes and the empathy of the aides in the smoky nook where I stared at the tops of trees.
He met me in the laughter we shared at Everybody Loves Raymond. He met me in the meals we shared in the cafeteria. He met me in the encouragement we shared with the “new ones” as we welcomed them into our dysfunctional fold.
In this 20-25 percent of the population that suffers mental health disorders, we found strength in understanding that we were not alone.
And in understanding, once again, that I was not alone and that my story reverberated with so many others, I found my will to fight again. I found my will to try again. I found some strength to get back up and make school my bitch again.
He met me in the times I’ve stepped forward to ask for prayer in the church I now call home; In the kind words of all the others that speak to me about the ways that they suffer mental health issues like me. The prayers of so many have carried me.
In the year since I humbled myself to the care of an enclosed space without shoelaces or wired bras, I have, indeed, made school my bitch. I have A’s in the three classes I’m currently taking, and I have chosen my major: psychology. I have a part-time job and I begin training for my first ever full-time job in two weeks. I have a relationship with my children, and I am seeking what is best for each of them. I am carrying on with my path for what I believe is in the best interests of myself and these amazing kids that I love so much. I am allowing those broken people around me enough grace for them to walk their walk without inhibiting mine.
I will still find a way out of this mess of a marriage and I will continue to try and learn all I can about why I failed and how to improve myself so that I don’t make the same mistakes again. I am trying to not blame others for my failures. I am learning to take responsibility for my past and my future and to keep within my grasp only the things that I have control over.
I take my medication religiously and I never do guilt over that. Medication and therapy saved my life and I am thankful for the professionals and the humans alongside me that fought so hard and worked and prayed with and laughed and cried alongside me on this journey. Their stories and their words stay with me and have become a well of strength that I stand upon. I continue to fight because I’m not alone.
And the past, and the pain, and the falling down, and falling apart are trophies of a life I’m fighting to live well. Those broken places allow the light to shine through in radiant glory.
 I turn them over like stones in my hands and look to learn everything I can from them.
May the next year be added as a gem.

Sunlight Good Friday

There was a house I lived in once in which the master bedroom sat at such an angle that I could lay in the bed in that bedroom throughout the entire day and watch the sunlight filtered through the horizontal blinds that covered the single window slowly crawl up the wall adjacent to the dining room.  I remember photographing it with my phone thinking that I didn’t want to forget about the days that I would spend watching the sunlight crawl up and down the wall. I was chained to that bed in a sense. I was depressed and lain out and ostracized by my mental illness. I think I emailed those photos to myself.

I sit now not in a bedroom, but in a playroom in which I have lain upon the floor a thin full-sized mattress. This is the small bit of space in this house that I allow myself to think of as my own space. I’m not sure if it actually is, however, because in this upside-down space individuals cannot agree on reality. We cannot agree on the same reality as I sit upon this mattress with my lap covered in an unfurled sleeping bag and an uncased lumpy body pillow propping up the laptop I am typing into. As I sit upon this mattress that I once laid my toddler sons to nap on, sang to them, prayed with and for them upon. This mattress that they once shared with their baby sister when I slept them all in the same room at another house that was a duplex that now sits two states away, so that the children (and I) could have a play room.

I never finished putting the clean sheets upon this mattress in my maybe own space from the last time I washed them. I stopped cleaning this play room when I arrived at the point of vacuuming. It seems that was the end of the line for my self-drive at the time.

So, the linens and the raggedy comforter, the very first comforter I purchased of my own free will over seven years ago, sit piled up unfolded on top of the toy chest a second cousin handed down to the children. My sons still sleep upon the bed frames that match the chest. Each one has placed their bed against a far side of their bedroom, and they’ve shared space in the dresser for over four years now. They use a drum stick that was given to their father by an old church friend to prop their door closed at night and when they want some privacy because it won’t stay shut on its own.

I remember that it is Good Friday. It is the day that Jesus, supposedly, was beaten and led to the cross to be hung like a villain of the state and as a common criminal or thief. I had fooled myself into thinking that I would make it to the Good Friday Eucharist service that my new church is holding tonight. Instead I sit here on my bare island of a mattress alone. I tell myself that it is because the children aren’t home and aren’t available to go with me that I am choosing to stay home and be alone on my imagined piece of property. I don’t want to show up to a service alone what is really think it is.

There is no agreement on reality when the mystery of faith is used as a weapon. There is no power in faith when it is a black and white dogma to condemn.

There was a time when I worked myself ragged to round up my tiny children to numerous services a week. We attended a tiny church that sat innocently in an inconspicuous strip mall. I met Jesus and fell in love with Him there. I found community as a troubled teen in a youth group culture that was alien to me before a teenage boyfriend and his family invited me to a couple of services. I wanted the healed heart and community and cleanliness the pastor called holiness desperately. Everything inside me was broken, it felt like. I was spiraling into some dark things that I didn’t want to find out too much about. I was in pain from abandonment and dysfunction and I wanted the healing that this Good Doctor preached to me had to offer. I remember raising my hand as well as walking down the church aisle a couple of times just to make sure that the saving really took. To make sure that I was really and truly sealed with the blessing of the Holy Spirit.

I was held up as a trophy for a while. I was doted upon by staff and leadership as a shining testimony of the power of conversion by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.

But I digress.

It’s Good Friday and the churched world around me is celebrating the Sunday that’s gonna happen in two days. They are getting pumped up for Resurrection Sunday and I am sitting in a play room with one window looking out at the roof that covers my sons room and one of the branches of a huge oak tree that lives in the front yard of this house. I can see a sliver of the baby blue sky, but I can tell by how dark it is getting in this room, how the daylight isn’t as powerful, that the sun is starting to fall.

I realize that I didn’t nap today.

That churched world is out there celebrating. They are using this day to reflect on their sins and the things that they need to maybe nail onto the cross and allow Jesus to take care of. They are thinking of the hope that will be witnessed when the tomb is found empty and Jesus’ body gone. They are looking forward to fresh starts and reflection and renewal.

My daughters left the light on in their bedroom, the doorway of which I can see from the place I sit upon my mattress on the floor. They chose to go with their father to celebrate this Holy Day. They have gone with him to partake in this celebration. Earlier, my youngest daughter begged me to go with them to her father’s church function.

There was a time when her father and I were equals in our zeal for a faith that we shared. It was the single cord of a thing that was intended to be triune and permanent. When I realized that the deity that held me intimately in times of deepest distress and the God that was being presented by these churches I was attending, from the perspective of the Bible College that I graduated from, and from the life lived by the father of my children, the love of my life and rock of a woman best friend, that God that they preached and worshiped and adored and prayed to…That was not the same healing and extravagant love that I experienced when I was broken down by everything that should be a comfort in one’s life. When I was broken down beyond recognition and I was acting the part of all aspects of life, when my honest questions and struggles and reality was not lining up with the reality that was being presented to me in black and white. When all of these things happened there was a collapse of all things. There was no foundation. There was no blue sky to smile back at me. There was no help.

When you present a problem that differs from the norms of a social group, that doesn’t bother the group so much as opens your eyes up to the limitations of that group. There were limitations to their tolerance of honesty. There were limitations to their tolerance of questioning. There were limitations to their ability to handle situations that presented problems. There were limitations to their ability to handle problem people.

More often than not, it seems to be convenient for groups to place anomalies of their norms outside of themselves and set them there to be dealt with by some other person from some other group.

Upon the cross that Jesus was hung there were no limitations to the amount of sneering and mockery that was made of the Holy life that He lived. There was no end to the spectacle it created. He was, after all, led as a lamb to the slaughter.

I remember that I am held. I am held in the hands of a God who held me in my shameful nakedness. I am loved with the strength that powered the Resurrection. I think about the strength that He has shown throughout these twenty years that I’ve waked with Him. It occurs to me that I’m once again like that sixteen-year-old child that innocuously walked into the unlimited mystery of unceasing mercy when I walked into that strip mall church.

In my brokenness and in this version of reality, I am held, still, as the pearl of great price. In my brokenness and inability to accept the inconsistencies I reject and oppose and protest, yes, even in this outside place, I am not beyond the reach of that savage death of the Lamb.

Luna, my chocolate brown mutt lays on the bed I found in the As-Is section of our city’s new Ikea. She’s most at home with me. She knows me as her person.

There was a CD I had once, given to me by an old church and Bible College friend. On that CD was a song in which the singer (Ramsie Schiek, I think) compared herself to a dog on a porch begging the house owner to let her in.

I find that metaphor fits me perfectly.

I will stay on the outside with the riff raff and the “others” and the misfits until He calls me home. I will settle into His extravagant love for me once again and accept that He still calls me His own.

It is Good Friday and my children are at a church function with their father and I just didn’t have the courage to worship in community without them.

wash shin ton talk

That keeps me away from painful blood love

It's the people that build the place and the place is empty without the building that the love people create

It's the people that are the place

Places are empty without the ones that fill in the memories with shared laughter, tears, and love.

And the love in the people that draws the prodigal back to dusty dirty, cramped highways

and the love that pains in loss of love in the blood bound people

and the fear of seeing the blood bound faces in goodbyes

wraps around this not being home

and preference is a choice in a big open space

but love is a coagulating agent in the get-out-of-Dodge highway calling

and my eyes may open to the space to improve that thick dreary heat blanket

that thick black out curtain hung up to keep out

and

And your black out curtains are me screening my calls

and your heat aversion is my blocking out social media

and your desire for mild weather is me sweating out the heat

and getting lost in wondering what is out there is forgetting that the place is nothing without the people

and the people put meaning into the place and all of the exploring is meaningless without the quality of life breathed into it among the acceptance of those that are in the inner circle

because what is an adventure worth if the wisdom and experience gained from it is never shared at all?

Just don't leave out the coagulating love.
that nuisance of a thing holding onto in the blooming of the bluebonnets and the thick humid heat blanket

1/2014

2014

January

Kai turned eight yesterday. 

"...The angel of the Lord found Hagar beside a desert spring along the road...Return...the Lord has heard about your misery."

"Therefore after Hagar referred to the Lord, who had spoken to her, as El-roi (the God who sees me) for she said, 'I have seen the One who sees me!'"

Will I allow You to? I'm jaded. I flaunt. I'm free and I'm giddy with freedom. I'm going back to Texas. I'm leaving this - island - for the humid stale big city.

'It takes so long to get places.'

"So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today." Matthew 6:34

But I do worry about not having enough money. Just scraping by. We just scrape by. 

"Stop judging others, and you will not be judged...Do for others what you would like them to do for you." Matthew 7:1, 12

I judge. I judge often. I dislike those who offend me. I'm so consumingly critical. But I've had to be. My cynicism has kept me afloat. I criticize because I have to keep a tally of what's real and isn't. In being wise to let go of the mold, am I being careless? Structure and faith kept me in compliance; now freedom, thought, self-discovery, move me to move. Gonna move out and on and, someday, up. 

2013 is over.

I'll love my kids.

I've been delaying feeling something. Even now I pick at my nails and focus on that instead of writing. I'm realizing that there are those in my life who add nothing to it- just stress. 

I got my first thumb wrinkles last week- like Granny's. 

Jesus loves me - the Bible tells me so. 

    I'm loved. I'm loved. I'm loved.

Jesus completes me - I'm filled, resolved, not lacking.

   Jesus has made me a new creation. 

Old things have passed away.
    All things have passed away. 

You give me the desires of my heart. You put them there. 

To want 'just normal' feels dirty.

Remind me of how to love without holding anything back. Immaturely. Embarrassingly. 

"The Lord replies, 'I have seen violence done to the helpless, and I have heard the groans of the poor. Now I will rise up to rescue them, as they have longed for me to do.' The Lord's promises are pure, like silver refined in a furnace, purified seven times over." Psalms 12:5-6

Make me long for You to rescue me. Right now I must have that longing. I'm going into this with the support of family and close friends only. No church first. My legalistic training tells me this is wrong. My intelligence tells me this is freedom. Normal. Normal to live without boundaries. But I know that my growth process, my movement, is far from over. I have to love like You. But I can't fix my heart. I can't heal all the years of abandonment. You can. You can make me into a whole person; or show me that I already am one as long as I am in You and You in me. The older I get the less I know. 

  

Abandonment breeds unease. Resentment. Panic. Low self esteem.

I have forgotten You complete me. I have relaxed my grip on You and Your perfecting perfect love. I have searched myself and scrutinized myself until nothing isn't revealed, at least for now. But to let You back in?!!! To let You heal me?! To let You be You?! Can I just please be sure of one thing? Can my longing be put on the back burner to Your loving-kindness? Can I accept myself and that You love me? All of my shattered conceptions of the church and religion need You to fill in the brokenness. Yes, just You. Before I get too far away. 

And we're leaving Kansas. And I couldn't be happier. 

Abandonment breeds dependency.

Breaking the destructive cycle of dependency is chaos before it is freedom.

Being unparented is chaos. That chaos returns when that dependency starts to be broken. 

So I gave the church authority over me in valuing their approval above Jesus' and my own. 

Why it's so hard to just accept who He says I am in Him and how He says He loves me.

If I'm rejected by one, I'm rejected by all.

But that's not how You value.

In giving away my value I open myself up to panic.

I'm not rejected any more.

"But I trust in Your unfailing love. I will rejoice because You have rescued me. I will sing to the Lord because He has been so good to me." Psalm 13:5-6

You stay the same through the ages. 
    Your love never changes. 
There may be pain in the night, 
    but joy comes in the morning. 
And when the oceans rage, 
    I don't have to be afraid. 
Because I know that You love me, 
    And Your love never fails.

Every little thing gonna be alright.

Maybe it would be a wonderful thing to move back into that neighborhood…

Remember all the comforts you lacked? -painfully so

That’s how you are equipped to love. -help me with my disbelief. I doubt every solid thing in my body.

Here we are good. Growing up slowly with plenty of tales. Pen still moving passionately against empty paper lines.

What’s life gonna look like from here on out? What are You gonna look like from here on out? My inner battles. Will You conquer me? Conquer me to defeat me and release me?

Just know you’re not alone.

These five. These five precious ones. Where my heart is. Where my investment is. Principally. Wonderfully. Amazingly.

Help me to be still. Quiet my soul.

Every little thing gonna be alright.

I'm always afraid to write on first pages. Always wanting to skip it and come back to it later when there’s a better thought to share. Red gave me this pen and journal for Christmas.

Lawrence has been a time of self-discovery. A time of becoming a singular family. Of new birth and stumbling and relearning to think. I think. I feel. I stumble. I fall. I get angry. I stay angry. You prevail. You reimagine my faults to Your glory. You reshape my jiggle to put faith to feet. Lawrence was my escape from a cultish mindset I created within myself. For myself. I don't think it’s right to be so self-serving. I don't think it’s right to sacrifice so much to bless the blessed. I thought that way a long, long time ago. But now I feel it in my bones with conviction.

I may not be completely healed from the havoc wreaked on my infantile family, but I see direction toward it. Maybe now I understand a bit. A bit to make it better. Make it better to put faith to feet. All the pent up-ness, put it to use. Challenge my challenged self to be out of the box and used to be useful. To be (cheesy) Your hands and feet. How can I be Your light if all I do is be enlightened with the enlightened? This is better. This is good. This is my itch being scratched. Yes. And I'll read Interrupted again and see again what’s for me. Get my thoughts together and questions and ask. I’ll ask and dig deeper. I’ll ask and get answers and know that there’s a growing light, apparently, that I'll join and not be a radical among radicals with empty zeal, but a tempered vehicle to be used to overflowing.

“Will You not revive us again? That Your people may rejoice in You? Show us Your mercy, Lord, and grant us Your salvation. I will hear what the Lord will speak, for He will speak peace to His people and to His saints; but let them not turn back to folly. Surely His salvation is near to those who fear Him that glory may dwell in our land. Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed. Truth shall spring out of the earth, and righteousness shall look down from heaven. Yes, the Lord will give what is good; and our land will yield its’ increase. Righteousness will go before Him, and shall make His footsteps our pathway.” Psalm 85:6-13

Somewhere in there is the answer to my fear. To my self-doubt. It’s there. So what’s obviously seen there in my bleeding heart? Pain? The bleeding? The hurt? Fear. Deep founded fear. Fear rooted in every scary thing that’s ever happened to me. A scaredy cat. But a deeply caring one. Concerned with being genuine and also guarded against further injury. Strong.

You are strong for being who you are despite all that you've lived through. Mercy and truth. No judgment. No punishment for you, Denise. No joke. In all seriousness, I've got you covered. In MY righteousness, a soft electrifying kiss of peace.

That stillness. That which surpasses all understanding. Everywhere. Truth springing up from the ground and righteousness looking down on me. As You give what is good. The land, my land. My heart. My soul. It yields its increase. You. Mercy, truth, peace, righteousness. It yields You. My depths are yielding You. Despite my irrational logic. You are coming out. Despite my bleeding heart. You are springing forth. Therein lies my boldness. The ability to stand on firm ground and allow my words to be spoken to be heard. That glorious freedom that I am not my own but was bought at a price. I am not my own, but am a pearl of great price. You sold everything to own me. Radical churnings of my heart aren't hidden away sins against You, against humanity, but rather, You pouring out revealing Yourself hidden there tucked away in all those years of blindly tucking away Biblical devotions, studies, quiet times. You speak directly, profoundly. Loudly at times. Because. Because I am Yours. My small bleeding heart is the fertile ground of the parable of the soils. And out of Your tireless efforts You are calling out the dead seeds to spring forth life. The life abundant to love. Abundant to move. To lead. To step into Your footsteps because You step before me. You are my pathway. My deep rooted desire to please You is an open door to your movement in my life. Despite me! Despite my blindness. Despite my stubbornness. Despite my temper. Oh, my temper!!!

No, Denise, it’s not just others who are blessed to be handcrafted. You were painstakingly created. This tiny you is a product of a perfect Creator. In His image you were made. Not an image of fear and self-loathing, but of bold righteousness to love despite obvious rejection. No matter the response. Radical creator or radical things.

I’ve nothing to fear.

Thankfulness breeds contentment. Contempt of self breeds isolation in bitter mistrust.

No, Denise. The blessed life isn't reserved for ‘the Others.’ You are a dear beloved ‘Other!’ A member of the elite creation able to stand toe to toe to insurmountable foe not for vain glory, but eternal purpose. Rejoice! Again I say rejoice! And let your gentleness be known for the Lord is at hand. Therein lies your peace. Therein lies your validity. Therein is your access card to the elite society of value. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. These bleeding wounds bleed this righteous truth. This intangible peace. Accessible by faith poured out on the cross. Tiny heart of infinite value chosen to be loved and healed and respected by Masterful Craftsman eternal.

To be bold to be enough to be myself. Painstakingly, priceless, mighty me.

-but oh, to live that!

Someday it will resolve. Someday it will get better. Some imagined moment when all the stars align to bless us one with spontaneous combustion. Then all will be well. All is well in the someday imagined. Meanwhile we pine. I pine. With you all is well.

The little children brought to Jesus. Little tiny holding up a broom singing to Jesus how much she loved Him. Placing her hand over the televangelists to pray accept Christ. Precious.

Did she hate me? That was what I saw in her eyes that middle of the night. Hate. Contempt. She despised me that night. For complaining. For nagging. Trying to get her to stop drinking and go to bed. She hated me for telling her what the right thing to do was. She shamed me. Rejected me then. Broke my self-esteem in one fell swoop. Never recovered. No, I never did.

“Don’t stop the children. No, let them come to Me. For such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Would you get over it already! Years!!! It’s been years!

Then you don’t, can’t, understand this feeling- the experience of being cursed by safe haven-creator-all-powerful-source-of-life-nurturer-mother. Turned from beautiful love serenity into confusing battlefield. Minefield! She was never safe again. No, never.

But I got to You.

“But among you it should be quite different. Whoever wants to be a leader among you must also be your servant. And whoever wants to be first must become your slave. For even I, the Son of Man, came here not to be served, but to serve others, and to give my life as a ransom for many.” Matthew 20:26-28

Serve others. Serve others and don't get angry. Serve others and don't get angry and love them. Serve others and don't get angry and respect them. Respect their motives. Respect their desires. Respect their boundaries. Respect their preferences. Respect their limitations. Respect their gifts. Respect their wishes. Searching out motive is a form of control. Because if I know what makes you tick I can set off your hot spots and reopen wounds not yet closed.

Like a problem or a work in progress. Every small piece of me I give to her she fails to know what to do with. Maybe she panics even.

with the windows open

and there was all of that time and it was all used up
and there were all of those beautiful beating hearts added to the we
and then there was the shock of the great sad loss
and then there were us we
and the quiet
and sitting in the quiet
and leaning into the quiet
because the crazy noise of to dos and shoulds had gone
all gone
far away gone
like two states away gone
and then just like that the crazy noise was three doors down
and there was the crazy half dozen we
and we were standing
and we were thriving
and we are still
 and we are still

If Then And Now

Being near tears at times during the day because all those experts in all those books I've spent hours reading prove true. That these little minds do want to learn and do teach themselves when left to it. They invent games. They ask for help when teaching themselves to sew. They make art. They teach themselves computer programming. They create worlds in pixels. They learn to cook. They learn to help. They mirror compassion. They mirror frustration. They seek out companionship. They plan ahead. They pool their resources together and set goals. They ask hard questions. They teach me to not feel guilty to ask questions. They absorb my every ounce of energy to think and hinder housework. They are excellent chore doers. They are worth it. They are gifts. They remind me to be kind. They remind me to practice mercy. They remind me to smile. They make messes. They make big messes. But so do I. They have freedom to play at the sewing machine for hours. It's not nonsense time wasting. They have freedom to play with water guns and soak themselves. It's not foolishness. They have freedom to spend hours on Scratch creating a computer game. They have freedom to run outside to play in the minute long end of the summer showers. To collect their drops in cans and bottles and canisters. To absorb the change of temperature as the big sun sets into night. To watch the bats fly out at dusk. To visit with family and to greatly appreciate all that is beautiful and unique about each member. They have freedom to write letters to friends, to cousins, to whomever however many letters however long. They have freedom to paint. To value what they paint. To value what others paint. They can make messes with vinegar and food coloring and baking soda and glitter and cornstarch and make big messes. They are learning to not ever feel like the creative and the fun and the silly are luxuries reserved for some other time. Reserved for some other people. They are learning to be cooperative. To be considerate. To be creative. They are learning the mechanics of the sewing machine. The workings of game programming. The value of plenty of good books on hand to read. To not feel guilty for being curious about what doesn't fit in the classroom.

And once upon a time I sat in a living room and pulled out second hand encyclopedias and read for the fun of it, and I sat in the shade of decades old pecan trees and observed the ant lions for hours, and I swang on a sun bleached yellow plastic swing and sang my heart out, and I walked around Granny's yard as she pointed out all of the different herbs she grew. Smelled them. Pinched them. Tasted them. Observed her ingenuity. The reused scraps of fabric she tied the stalks of the plants back with. Memorized the shape of her disfigured pinky nail and the story of how it got that way. The plastic milk jugs she reused to collect rain water. Observed the mosquito larvae wriggling in their pools. I memorized the cracks in the sidewalk as I explored to the end of the thousandth Kayton Ave. block. Memorized the coo of the turtle doves. Made potions with the pollen of the pecan trees. Laid on my back on the still hot summer sidewalks to observe the stars. Observed mollies give birth to live young. Memorized what my aquarium fish book taught me about bettas. Spent hours watching my betta flare his gills at my finger poking the glass of his bowl. Watched him jump out of the bowl to grab his ball-pellet of food stuck to the tip of my finger. Spent hours watching wild life documentaries. Watching educational videos from the library. Sign language. Reading lips. How to draw. How to belly dance. Knowing what shelf in the library had my favorite books on how to draw animals. Books about fish. Goosebumps. Science experiments at home. Pulling apart the flowers of the crepe myrtle trees. Squeezing their soft petals out of their buds. Dissecting the seed pods of the mesquite tree and remembering that it leaves hands sticky. Those racing ants that speed over its' often horizontal trunks. Races in class to see who could write the most in a minute. Reading and reading and reading. And staying up all night to finish my newest Goosebumps book. Catching tadpoles in the Frio. Catching minnows in plastic cups. Scooping up algae from the nasty bottom and sides of a circular plastic pool with aquarium nets. Picking up pecans to eat fresh; the only way they should be eaten - cracked open against another. The acidic nastiness of accidentally eating a piece of the not-soft wall of the inside. Melting ice cubes with table salt. Often being the last one to get the joke, but the first to understand why.

These days with these littles brings my little days up to the surface. But I was an alien in my tardy after the bell school attending. Forced to push out of mind the trauma of mean words in alcohol drenched late nights. That little me was never safe it seemed. The learning institutions said education was a way out. They said I had a ticket out of the pain because of above average test scores. That didn't solve the dependent maternal child. Didn't solve the loss of fraternal lucid guidance. And the cool security of these little four smiles sits in stark contrast always to that lost little me one. That frizzy haired too skinny one. That one who sat in adults' presence at times for only their criticism for not eating enough. For not focusing enough on school. For not being able to shake off the weight of the trauma of the beer binging induced fear. Insecurity. King David said, 'My sin is always before me.' So it was with the lack of coordination of the little me. The continued insecurity. The broken loss of fraternal lucidity. That saintly fraternal hole. Always it sits before me. Then just as weakly now. And I grieve for what was lost. And I am lost for what could have been. If only the joy I found in getting lost in long walks was nourished. Valued. If only that curiosity for all things biological had been encouraged. Not by mere words. Words of encouragement by adults older and wiser couldn't touch the surface of the daily sadness, the daily weight of everything not being okay. They were empty words of encouragement then and they continue to be empty shells of encouragement still. And teachers' eyes would light up at little me's immediate understanding of ideals and equations and themes and formulas and theories and mechanics and definitions. And teachers and counselors would hold little me up on a pedestal with stars in their eyes with all powerful hope of my home life not being triumphant over my above average test scores. They said, I think, that those tests would be a way out of the broken home. Of the pain of the broken home. And little me wanted desperately to believe them. Desperately to have hope. But even little me knew better. The hope of the future with the above average test scores was a false hope. Saint Paul's description of a hope that doesn't disappoint was absent in those test scores. How could a high test score erase the pressure of the maternal child in need of care? Still in need of care. Her glory and mantle of pain never failing to eclipse the achievements of that smaller than average little me.

More sensitive than most. For the slight and small nuances of life and facial expressions and tones in speech and choice of words do not go unnoticed by my hyper-sensitive eyes. So I say that had another person gone through that slightly-rougher-than-what-most-go-through childhood, they would have fared far better. All of the offensive glares at me. The look on supposed to be mother's face as she shot me the finger when I whined about not being in bed late on a school night. When she looked at me with dislike, hate even, in her eyes, I could never shake the pain of that rejection because for me the pain was far greater. I felt it deeper. Longer than most others. And drunk adults would tell me how I was an old soul. They would tell me their secrets because they considered me an equal. I was intelligent and observant and slow to speak. So they took advantage of my innate wisdom by confiding in me the pain of those secrets. And I was left in charge of the groceries. And I was trusted to take little sister to school. To discipline her even. And I was just a broken little girl. And I was just a broken sensitive intelligent little girl. And I hurt more than most. And I understood more than most. And I thought more than most. So I was more vicious in my pain than most. I was more free with my venomous tongue than most. Deep hurt and lack of nurturing led to justification for disrespecting the hearts of others, even myself, more than most.

And with hot tears welling up in the soft pockets of my not-quite-hazel-mom-eyes I say never. Never to allow the needs of little me to eclipse the glory of these four littles. Never to allow the shine and hope in their eyes at the wonder of the ant lion to fade. To never put out the joy they have when they seek to create a cape for puppy stuffed animal. I say never to be a child in need of them ever. I say never to be unwilling to treat my mental illness. To always be lucid and present in their lives. To be present and to answer the phone when they call. To never leave them waiting long after the dismissal bell has rung. To never pass out drunk and leave them to fend for themselves. To never sear images in their minds of me being lost in an illusionary reality. To never quench their dreams. To allow them the freedom to dream. Not wanting them to remain children dependent on me for life. My mom heart asks, "Why?" and "How?" How could a maternal heart allow it's needs to selfishly swallow whatever light of potential found in their sweet sensitive child's eye? How?

But not 'how' and 'why.' No. Just the determination that it will end here. That it won't continue and spread it's filth past me. No matter my awkwardness and insensitivity to the nuances for the deeper understanding of the whole. No matter the pain of the past their present joy conjures. No matter the dependance on heavenly grace to treat the pain. My pain will be treated that their light and life of curiosity will thrive and not be quenched. And I will not put the weight of my pain on their shoulders ever. And I will defend their right to innocence as long as I'm able. And I will be open and honest with myself and my God that I will never prove to be too big a hypocrite to bear any clout. And my heart will break alongside theirs. Not to shame them.

And the pain of the lost potential of the past is a reminder always for the need of empathy. For never being able to understand the situation of another in its' entirety. Never having the audacity to say to another person to, "Get over it." To never think that. To never say to another, "You shouldn't let that bother you." To never assume to have all of the answers to another's questions. No never. The pain behind eyes forged in the complexity of the broken home is a mystery to those aliens eating three square meals a day. Foreign to those, even my littles, who say, 'Good-night Mom and Dad," every night. Never, no never, assume quaint platitudes will ease the pain of the untreated mental illness. Ask the children of those ill. They suffer for the ignorance. Never assume as a sitter-in-central-air-conditioned-home to have the answer to rampant poverty evident in overgrown lawns and broken down cars in lawns and second hand ill-fitting clothes. I don't know. I could never know. I will never assume that my ignorance of the struggle of the lesser is great enough. I can't know. The weight behind the eyes of the child awed by the luxury of buying name brand food. That's untouchable by my privilege. So the pain of my past, may it never cloud my ability to empathise. I can not know. I can not ever assume to know the situation of the other. Of the struggling. Of the less than. Of those who could now benefit from my charity. No above average test score or extravagant gift will heal the pain of the little one lost in their broken home. No legislation will solve the injustice of little being in need of home.

And my past is a foundation for the now comfortable present. And my past is a scar fire branded into my flesh. And my past and my pain are untouchable by your words. But I will not have that past mire littles' present. That their hearts will never bear the weight of mine. But where does said perfect love deity fit into these seared scars? For all of the pain that He endured it seems illogical to assume that my pasts' present pain is above His understanding. Yet so I feel. I push away His comfort in the guise of being too hurt to heal. Give these pains to Him, He asks. And so I attempt to do. To give to Him all the remnants of the hurt, but as I attempt to do this, the pain surges up to the surface again, and I have to halt the surrender. Can it hurt too much to have it heal? Can said clouded deity bring awkward hypersensitive then-little into the healing comfort of His said perfect love's heart? Questionable, says the learned cynic. I doubt it. Said master engineer of all things natural and physical. Master builder. Master Maker. Master creative heart behind the colors in the feathers of the birds of paradise. You, You say, to come to You all who labor and are heavy laden and You will give rest for our souls. You say You hear me. You say You are near me. I look into the eyes of my miracles of littles and I think I touch a tiny piece of what it must be to be Father Creator You, only slightly. But this small taste of the pride You must feel at the sight of Your miraculous creation is fleeting and I wonder if, at all, it is possible for You to ever wonder at me. That the tiny mind, broken in youth, mastering skill after skill of said assessment test of youth, that that is a miracle and a marvel You made that You have the right to be proud of. That you are proud of what You made when You made me. Them, my littles, it's true, I can not question the miracle of them, but me? Mighty Deity, how could broken and pained me be the apple of Your eye? Could You possibly sit above me and receive joy at my keen observation? At my ability to turn things, thoughts, observations over and over in my mind until at last maybe a glimmer of greater understanding of the whole is eeked out? Is that something You love?

It is easy to accept these four for being fearfully and wonderfully made. But me? No, I'm just little. I'm just alien tardy after the school bell.

And I never feel that the time for complete comprehension occurs ever. I never find that I have had time to think everything that I wish to think out to it's completion. Never enough because it's never compete. And does it matter that those journal pages are full? And does it matter that my littles are free to discover and be safe? And does it matter that righteous me has...