Bruised

“She’s thirteen. She has hormones raging, new emotions swirling. She feels grown up but has so little power to make her own choices. She’s small in a big world. She’s big in a small world. It’s a hard place to be.” I know that. I try to remind myself that. I try to breathe and give her space and grace.

My head can practice all of those thoughts. I can repeat over and over again that it’s not personal. That she doesn’t mean it. That this will pass. And no matter how many times I am able to use those thoughts to form a shield of protection around myself, I’m always surprised by the force of it when one of the thrown punches breaks through my defenses and lands. Ouch. Smack in the heart.

An unkind word that cuts far more than I’d like it to. The tone, that sharp, edgy tone that has so much venom that it seeps through my protective clothing. The darts that are fired from hard set,  soft blue eyes.  Most days I can dodge it like a master. Like a kung fu warrior, I bend so that none of what it coming at me has a chance to touch me. Even if it reaches me, it doesn’t get to stick. Two steps (and thirty years) ahead, I remain safe.

Today was not one of those days.

This morning, there was a break in my shield of protection, and some of the mean got through. All of the knowledge in my head seemed to be unable to protect my heart. My best defenses just weren’t good enough. (I blame it on the gluten- stupid, delicious almond bear claws got my reflexes all slowed down.)

All the way into my heart, I felt the hurt. Shocked that it went that deep, stunned and surprised that I was unable to shake it off, it had me stumbling for my balance. “Breathe in. She’s thirteen. She’s full of raging hormones. She doesn’t mean it. Breathe out.” It seemed no use. The impact was felt, and the bruise begin to develop. Dark purple blue. Colors that, if not slowly shading my heart, would make a beautiful painting. But today the canvas is my heart, and the colors don’t seem quite so beautiful.

“She’s thirteen. This will pass. She doesn’t mean it.” And soon the bruise will fade.

To Love Well

I want to love well. When I am gone, I hope that I will have loved in such a way that my love leaves a mark on people. I want to love with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt – if you are loved by me, you know it. I want my love to be pure of heart and come straight from my soul. I want to love like Jesus.

I want to love with such boldness that it burns bright. I want my love to create a pocket of warmth that people can feel even before they get to me. I want to love so well that my love brings comfort like a soft blanket. I want my love to leave a mark.

When my days here on earth are up, I want to have loved so much and so hard that there is nothing left unused. I want to give away every bit of love that I can muster. I want to have delivered every hug. Held every hand. Said every “I love you.”

Some people leave the world known for their art or their fantastic pie or their hearty laugh. I want the thing I’m remembered for to be “she loved well.”

I Am More

Tonight I am reminding myself that I am more than my teenage daughter’s opinion of me. I am smarter than she believes me to be. Regardless of what she thinks, I am not a heartless ogre whose only desire is to crush her very spirit.

I am more.

Tonight I remind myself that this is only a phase, that it will not last forever. I look in the mirror to verify that I have not, in fact, developed red horns and am not carrying a pitch fork. Nope- still safe! I ask around to make sure that the guidelines requiring her to wear khaki bottoms and a tucked in shirt (insert teenage eye roll) were not written by me just to challenge her sense of style. Nope- safe again.

I am more.

Tonight I search my memory to recall who it was that carried said teenage daughter around, in the rain, to get all of the things she needed for an event at school. Oh, yeah, that was me! How quickly she forgets.

I am more.

I am so much more than the hard-minded, disciplinarian, wrecker-of-all things that she conjures up in her angry hormonal mind.

I am more.

I am the soft place where she’ll land when she comes down hard. I am the open arms of forgiveness when (if ever) she decides to say she’s sorry. I am the one that will still pack her lunch tomorrow and send her off with love. I am the one that will tell her she can do it, that I believe in her, that I’m proud of her. I am the one that will choose to forget that everything is wrong because of me. And I will do it because

I am more.

Making Room

Sometimes my heart gets so full and burdened and heavy that I just need to get rid of some of the “stuff” inside. I need to make room. For me, one of the things that happens when I get too full is that tears come pouring out. Soul water from the depths of my heart. Called forth simply by living life.

My daughter walked in recently during one of those purging cries. As we wrapped our arms around each other she said “don’t cry Mom.” But I reminded her that it’s okay to cry. Sometimes a good cleansing cry is exactly what we need as humans. I explained that it allows us to turn some of the negative stuff into liquid, and we give it a way out. That we can let it melt down into tears, cry it out and make room for good stuff. I told her that’s what I was doing. Letting the dark stuff out to make room for the good.

Sometimes it sneaks up on me, reminding me that I’ve forgotten to check the emotional gauge of my heart. Letting life get too busy, neglecting to do basic self maintenance. Letting the pressure build up without releasing it, it’s bound to come bursting out.

I want her to know that it’s okay. More than that, I want to encourage her to allow herself the occasional cry. It shouldn’t be seen as a bad thing. I think we often spend our lives building a dam to keep the tears inside. As if they are a sign of weakness, a sign of not being able to handle it. I think this can be exactly how we handle it.

Learning to turn the shame and pain and hurt and regret and disappointment that build up inside into liquid so it can make an escape and not continue to weigh us down, take up space and make our hearts heavy- that is a great thing. I think it’s a healthy thing.

So I cautioned her not to be too quick to tell a friend not to cry. You never know, maybe she’s just making room.

Squad

My kids have friends, and I think that’s great. People they hang out with, laugh with, text with. They have a squad. It’s an important thing for them.

But you know what is even greater??! I have a squad!! My squad is filled with ladies that have my back, even in the craziest of scenarios. When you become a woman of “a certain age,” you need a group of ladies that are going to be honest with you and look out for you.

As your eyesight gets bad and your facial hair gets crazy, you need friends that will keep you from having chin hairs that hang down so far they can be seen like fangs hanging past your face. When your mustache becomes so thick that it looks like a permanent shadow, you need a kind friend that’s going to keep you from the shame of strangers taking note. You gotta have a squad!!

You know, the friend that can kindly tell you that the jeans you think are super cute are actually causing a muffin top that would qualify as “super sized.” Or that your new shirt is not exactly age appropriate. But she says it in a way you don’t feel judged, only protected. Talk about #squadgoals!

Even more though, at this age you need a squad that will remind you that you are NOT as awful as your teenage daughter thinks you are. And that your son IS actually old enough to hold hands with a girl and perhaps you should loosen up a bit.

You need women that will support you when you get a call back from your mammogram. Someone that will hold your hand when your husband pulls away and you can’t understand why. A friend that will pray with you and for you when you can’t even come up with the words.

My adult squad can be trusted with my secrets. They can handle the weight of my particular brand of crazy. They share my burdens and celebrate my joys. They speak truth in love, even when it sometimes hurts.

At my age, I’m not leaving all the good stuff to my kids. They shouldn’t have all the fun! I may be old, but I’m cool enough to know that even I deserve a squad.

Christians, the Hypocrites

I recently had a conversation with a friend, and it came up that someone she knows can’t get behind being a Christian because Christians are hypocrites.  My response, as a Christian was, “they’re right!” Unfortunately, it’s true time and again.

See, often we get it wrong. We serve a perfect savior, a loving god, one that lived without sin. He came here, in his perfection, to save us from all of our yuck. In Him, we are made new. We are to take on his qualities. This is where we sometimes get hung up. We forget that we are still broken, flawed humans, saved by perfection. We, ourselves, do not become  perfection. We are still a hot mess. We’re just a hot mess that recognizes we can’t make anything of our mess on our own, and we know someone that wants to help us make something beautiful of that mess.

On the outside looking in, I totally get it. There are so many of us parading around like our lives are perfect, like we have it all together. As if, by discovering salvation, all of our troubles are gone. It can easily come off as superiority, and, let’s face it, sometimes that’s exactly what it is.  It’s all zip-a-dee-doo-dah, mine doesn’t stink.  But, (lean in, I have a secret for you)– We’re ALL a mess. Every single one of us! The nature of humanity is that we’re flawed. We are broken and hurt. Period.

Here’s the part that some miss though. The part that parading, peacocking Christians can often block people from seeing. There is an amazing love, an endless, perfect, healing love that is available for claiming.  A love that calls. A love that sees all of your cracks, all of your lies, all of your hurt, all of your darkest places and still wants you. To pick you up, wipe off the dirt and dust and shame and allow you to begin again. Begin as something new.  Still not perfect, but perfectly loved.

THAT is the great joy of Christianity!!  There is the prize.

As a Christian, I don’t do anyone a service if I walk around pretending that I have it figured out. It’s like dropping a lit candle inside a closed pot. The light can’t be seen. But, if I let my cracks show, if I’m not afraid to admit there are areas of my life where I am broken, and if I’ll let God’s light inside of me- His light shines through! It can illuminate the way for others. He can use it to draw people like my friend’s friend to Him.

As a Christian I am still going to fail. I’m still going to get it wrong and hurt people. Christianity does not make me perfect. It gives me an example of how I want to live. and when I fall short, it teaches me to ask forgiveness. When I fail to do that, I can easily leave people feeling like my friend’s friend. Why would they want any part of the hypocrisy?

Romans 12:3 reminds me not to think more highly of myself than I ought. That keeps me from passing off the works of the Lord, His qualities that I try to take on, as my own. Alone my life is but dust and ash. But in the hands of Christ, he can make beauty of my ashes.

Draw close to Him; see what He will make of your life if you just let him!!