First things first. The fact that I’m writing this doesn’t mean I’m ready for you. Or that she is. It just means I’m a mom and my first-born daughter is having a milestone birthday so I’m super reflective and emotional. But at some point in time you will surely arrive, so here are a few of my thoughts.  

This picture was taken a few weeks ago. When she was still 17. Before she could vote, or get a tattoo without my consent. It’s one of my very favorite pictures of her because, although it doesn’t even begin to show all that she is, it captures a certain something that is uniquely “her.”  And someday you’re going to notice it.

So I want you to know a few things from the perspective of someone who’s seen, known and loved this essence that is “her” from the beginning.

Its not just physical beauty. Although clearly God worked a masterpiece when He fashioned her, and it’s been mentioned a time or two that she’s stunning, the thing at the heart of this photo is not her face. It’s everything radiating from it. If it could be bottled, I’d have stocked my shelves with it. If it could be copied, everybody would have it. If it could be sold, the price would be exorbitant. But it can’t be any of those. Because it’s just her.

This thing, this essence that is so uniquely her, makes her boundlessly joyful. Her smile and her laugh are two of the most powerful things in our house, and in my life. It is a proven fact that the sound of her laughter has healed broken hearts and caused infectious fits of delight to break out and destroy bad moods. So you have to give her lots of reasons to use these things, and you have to bring her home often so I can experience their awesomeness.

This her-ness also causes seemingly endless amounts of energy. A pretty word for it would be exuberance. And she’s been this way from the second she arrived. Although you can’t truly call her a morning person, the fact is that once she’s awake, it’s game on. If for some hilarious yet cruel reason God has allowed you, the man who won her heart, to be an introverted homebody, welcome to my world. And if you don’t drink coffee, start. Like now.

The third thing I’d like you to know is that, despite the fact that she has incredible emotional strength and a ridiculously high tolerance for physical pain, this steadfast rock of a girl is still extremely fragile. It’s hard to know, or even believe this because she doesn’t share her feelings easily, or with much description. So I learned quickly that her pain is most clearly seen in her eyes. Whether she is physically sick or her heart is heavy, the beautiful, bright light of her hazel eyes will dim, and you’ll need to act, gently and sweetly but persistently, until she feels safe  and can formulate her thoughts and tell you what’s going on. Some of my most precious memories are wrapped in moments just like these.

Clearly as her mom (and a girl and a writer) I could spend another week on this blog, or fill an entire journal with descriptive words and stories of this priceless, perfect soul you have come to treasure. I have no doubt we’ll get to know each other well through the years. But for now, as you start your journey with her, know and remember that you have chosen a piece of my heart as your partner. I’ve known and loved her from the second I knew of her existence, and while giving her to you is not easy, it only reminds me that she was never mine to begin with. She was a gift to me from her Creator, entrusted to her father and I to love and nurture until such a time as this. It also reminds me that I have prayed for you, for your heart, for  your life, and the moment your world would collide with hers, with great expectancy and fervor. And you were loved and accepted before we ever knew your name.

Your job is to continue what her dad and I have started – study her. Learn her gifts, and encourage her to use them. Protect her at all costs. Provide for her. Give grace to her shortcomings. Tell her she’s beautiful. Be grateful for her, and tell her you are. Cheer her on. Love her as Jesus does. And every day, pray for her like her life depends on it, because it does.

And finally, know this: You are special. Because to be the one who holds her heart is to be chosen for a destiny you’ve only dared to dream of.

Father in Heaven, thank You for this gift of my daughter. Thank You for choosing me to steward and care for her. Thank You for the Light within her that can only be attributed to Your Spirit and the beauty about her that can only come from Your hand. I want nothing less than all You want for her. On this, her 18th birthday, and for each of her days and years to come, pour out Your grace and favor on her, as well as the man You have made for her. I am overwhelmed on this day by all You have given me through this child.

I make it no secret that I love this season. I’ve been trying to put my finger on why. Why do I have such delight? Why is just being around and taking in the lights and colors so exciting? Why do vanilla candles smell even better in November and December? Why do I go through the chaos of decking my halls when everyone else is still trick or treating? Just when I think I’ve found one word that will wrap it all up for me – expectancy? – I think of 3 more that might say it better. Then I think maybe there just aren’t words for this. Maybe what God did for me is too much for my human vocabulary. That’s certainly true of the Cross and the resurrection, but even still, I don’t get this awe-struck at Easter. As beautiful and heartbreaking and undeserved as Jesus’ death was, there was a point where He had to choose it. And that’s the moment I can’t quite describe and yet love so very much. A moment where His Father must have looked at Him and said, “This is it. It’s time.” And He said ok. He looked around at the throngs of angels and the Throne and the indescribable beauty of Heaven, and still He said ok. He looked ahead to the agonizing future and the years of painful anticipation and still, He said ok. For me. A selfish wreck of a woman. A woman of little faith. Truly the chief of sinners. And He left the most glorious, Holy, perfect place in all of history and went to a stable full of animal excrement, for me. He chose me. That’s beyond words. Beyond description. Beyond understanding. It’s just beyond. And I guess that’s why I get to this place every year. I’m just beyond. Beyond excited. Beyond expectant. His gift, His love, His choice, His suffering. His life for mine. Hallelujah.

https://vimeo.com/55641900

I have a friend, a stay home mom who home schools her children like myself, who said people keep asking her this question as an opener. Like, “Hi! How are you? You staying busy?”

Hmmm. Am I supposed to??

Now if you ask my husband this question with regard to his work, I know you’re asking out of genuine concern, ’cause he needs to be busy or we don’t eat! But that’s not what I’m talking about. I think we’ve become confused about the difference between busy and productive. The former doesn’t necessarily mean the latter. Is it really a badge of honor if I say I haven’t seen my house since last Tuesday?

Rest. Repose. We need it. And not just when the sun goes down. If my days are so full of activity that I don’t connect with my children, who benefits? If my evenings and weekends are so packed that I don’t have any alone time with my husband, how does my marriage survive?

A few weeks ago I woke up feeling anxious. I was so stressed about my day’s schedule, and the fact that it was going to be repeating itself every week until Christmas, that I could hardly function! I was overwhelmed and asking myself, “What have I done? What have I committed myself to and why did I do it?” My man, sensing my anxiety, suggested I was overbooked and asked me to look at what could be excluded from my week. Now I hate to admit this, but I don’t always think his ideas are brilliant and worth an immediate, “Yep, gettin’ right on that.” But once I did figure out that I was over-extended and decided what I could and should give up, and I actually did it, my lungs involuntarily let out the biggest sigh of relief I had heard from myself in quite a while! He was right. Bless his man heart that’s always trying to fix something when I just need him to listen, he was absolutely right. And there was nothing in my weekly schedule that you’d look at and say was frivolous. It was all pretty good stuff, weekly Bible study and all. But I didn’t have a week night at home from Sunday through Thursday. And my husband usually has to work late on Fridays. Something had to go, and when it did, my family had a new woman in the house. And thankfully it was me.

I don’t think we’re supposed to just “stay busy” for the sake of saying we are. What’s wrong with answering, “Not a thing!” when someone asks what you did last night? “I rested! I recuperated from the previous non-stop 24 hours that couldn’t be extracted from my schedule and it. was. great.”

So, feel no guilt over those free evenings! You don’t have to fill them up! Enjoy them! If something gets cancelled, leave the spot on the calendar blank! Take a breather! Buy a t-shirt that says, “I’m NOT staying busy. And I’m awesome.”

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28

“I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint.”
Jeremiah 31:25

I don’t wait well. In fact, it’s safe to say I avoid it at all cost. You know how some people say they have an ugly cry? I have an ugly wait. I said in a blog many moons ago that I started cutting my own hair the day my bangs went rogue and my stylist’s next available appointment was weeks away.  I do my own nails. Because when one breaks while I’m scraping that lint tray on the dryer, I refuse to walk around with a gnarly nail while waiting to get it fixed.  I break out in a sweat when I’ve asked my husband to do something that I can’t do and three days later, that light bulb outside on the 12 foot thing is still out.  And if you really want to see me lose it, just make my computer slow, have my kids keep Snap Chatting rather than answer me, and let somebody remove anything from my bathroom, all on the same day.

I just don’t do waiting. So imagine my panic 17 weeks, 7 hours and 55 minutes in on a broken leg. That hasn’t started healing. Want to know why? Because, as my doctor has said repeatedly, the tibia is the slowest healing bone in the body. And the lower area where my break is located is the slowest healing area of the tibia. So the woman with no patience gets the spiral crack in the one part of the body where all you can do is…wait.

Coincidence? I think not. Genius plan from my Maker who knows what I need when I need it and why I need it that way? I’m going with that. Because to sit and think there’s absolutely no Divine purpose in this at all makes me angry.  Like smoke coming out of my ears, unleash the hounds of hell angry.  I want to walk.  I want to jump.  I want to workout. (Wait, what?) I want to drive my car.  I want to browse Pier 1 for throw pillows.  I want to carry my own purse while I browse Pier 1 for throw pillows.  I want to go to my pantry and pull out chocolatey, sugary things that I have no business eating and then maybe go to the fridge instead and grab an apple.   I want to make potato soup.  Because my husband has earned sainthood for taking care of me for 122 days and counting but he didn’t make it right. Three times. And then I want to actually be able to carry a bowl of that soup to anywhere in my house, sit down, curl my legs up under me and eat it. And then clean the bowl myself. I want to be able to get up from that spot where I sat without leaning on something.  I want to sleep on my right side, all the way, knees fully bent, legs stacked on top of each other. I want to sing standing up. I want to blow dry my hair and put on my makeup standing up.  I even want to vacuum. I want out of this brace and back to normal with all those sayings attached – every fiber of my being, so bad I can taste it, etc. But it’s just not happening.  And I can’t change it.  So I’m digging deep.  I’m going to find purpose and meaning and reason in this freaky little slow healing tibia if it kills me. Because I won’t survive it if there’s nothing to gain. There has to be treasure and Truth and growth I would never have otherwise experienced at the end of this.

And oh the nuggets I have all ready unearthed.

“Patience eliminates worry. The Lord said He would come, and His promise is equal to his presence. Patience eliminates weeping. Why feel sad and discouraged?  He knows your needs better than you do, and His purpose is waiting to receive more glory through it. Patience eliminates self-works. ‘The work of God is this: to believe’ (John 6:29) and once you believe, you may know all is well. Patience eliminates want. Perhaps your desire to get what you want is stronger than your desire for the will of God to be fulfilled. Patience eliminates weakness. Instead of thinking of waiting being wasted time, realize that God is preparing His resources and strengthening you. Patience eliminates wobbling. ‘He touched me and raised me to my feet’ (Daniel 8:18). God’s foundations are steady, and when we have His patience within, we are steady while we wait. Patience yields worship. Sometimes the best part of waiting is ‘experiencing great endurance and patience…JOYFULLY.’ (Colossians 1:11).

While you wait, ‘let all patience have her perfect work’ (James 1:4) and you will be greatly enriched.”

Charles Henry Parkhurst

I used to be terrified to ask God to do His will in me. I would actually say, “God I’m not gonna ask You to do whatever it takes. I can’t go there with You.” Because I had this fear that He would put me through something awful. Something I had seen before. Something in my own house.

My mom was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when I was 5. She was 32. It wasn’t until years later when she had lost the use of both her legs that someone tagged “chronic progressive” on to her diagnosis. Meaning she would never recover, and it would only get worse. For all of my teenage years she rocked along as just Mom. She may have been in a wheelchair but that was our normal. It was just our life. And it was awesome. And aside from the fact that she couldn’t walk, she was incredibly healthy. So when she contracted pneumonia at 56 and was in and out of ICU 3 times, had a feeding tube put in her stomach and an emergency tracheostomy so she could breathe with a ventilator, we were in shock. This was most certainly not our normal. And when she finally lost that battle on August 5, 1998, my view of God and His plans for me took an interesting, unspoken turn.

I was finally able to verbalize my fear about 4 years ago, when I admitted to a close group of friends that I never prayed for God to have His way in me because I was afraid He would put me in a wheelchair like my Mom. Now I realize Mom’s illness was not a punishment for her. I realize God does things for reasons we might never understand, and I saw people’s lives and hearts changed simply because they knew her and Who she clung to. But still, my human heart was afraid. If He allowed it for her, what would make me exempt?

It took time, but after saying it out loud, I started to feel release from that fear. And about a year ago, I said to God, “OK. OK, I trust You. Whatever it takes for me to know You best and become all that You created me to be, I’m in. Even if it means what it meant for her. I want it. Because I just want You.”

Now I have absolutely no authority on which to say I am laying here with a broken leg, wheelchair 10 feet away, because I prayed that prayer.  I have no idea if I’m in such pain as would make me choose childbirth 10 times with no epidural over what I feel when the Tramadol wears off because I prayed that prayer. And I have no idea if being bedridden for at least the next week and a half and feeling like a potato in a microwave when my family has to turn me so I don’t get bedsores is happening in direct relationship to that prayer. But here’s what I do know. I know it’s temporary, unlike the hell on earth my mom endured for 25 years until her body couldn’t take it anymore. I know it’s not coincidence. It is not by some haphazard chance that I’m here. And whether you want to say God caused it, or allowed it, or Satan himself tripped me up on that walk to the bathroom, or that the stars were just not aligned in my favor that night, I cannot waste this.  I know that in addition to my children, I have another audience.  Each realm of the spiritual world is watching my response.  I know I keep picking up my devotional book and reading things like, “If you have been praying to know more of Christ, do not be surprised if He leads you through the desert or a furnace of pain.” And things like, “God selects the best and most notable of His servants for the best and most notable afflictions.” That doesn’t comfort me because I think I’m notable. Far from it.  It comforts me because it says I’m selected. Not a haphazard coincidence. Chosen. Just like my mother was chosen to bear the affliction of MS because God trusted her with it. And she reflected His strength and power with her broken little body more than any other woman I’ve ever known. And if I have an opportunity to seek out like treasure just a fraction of the grace and strength which that woman was tapped into, and this is the only way God could get the attention of my stubborn, prideful, insensitive heart to make me stop and seek and listen and learn, and lean, then I’ll take it.

“It is through our trials and afflictions that God gives us fresh revelations of Himself. In order to receive any benefit from our captivity, we must accept the situation and be determined to make the best of it. Worrying over what has been taken from us will not make things better but will only prevent us from improving what remains. We will only serve to make the rope around us tighter if we rebel against it.  Make this story your own, dear captive, and God will give you “songs in the night” (Job 35:10) and will turn your “blackness into dawn” (Amos 5:8). -Nathaniel William Taylor

The year is 1994. It’s summer, and I’m a newlywed. I’m also a size 4. That last part has no bearing on the story whatsoever. I just want it duly noted.

This was back in the day of good ole’ Sunday night services, followed by something social. In this case, softball.  This was usually a guys-only thing. Until one night, a friend of mine had this great idea. “Let’s get up a girls’ game next week!”

The next week we stood on the field and waited to be chosen. It was 6th grade kick-ball all over again.

On the car ride over, my new hubby thought it prudent to share his thoughts on the matter. “This is not a good idea. You don’t need to do this. Somebody is gonna get hurt.” I was perplexed. What am I, 5? It’s softball. Granted I’d never played and was not athletically inclined, but the youthfulness of my 26 year old brain was wondering what in the world could possibly go wrong in a silly game. So not a big deal.

I’m not sure in what order I was chosen, but I know it had to be close to last, if not dead last. The captain, or whatever her title was, said it was because I didn’t have a glove. “Sorry, guys, if you don’t have a glove, I’m not gonna pick you!” Awesome. Off to a good start.

My time at bat had come, and lo and behold, I actually hit the ball. I was ecstatic. I took off for first base with glee and confidence. I could see my best friend Cristi in that space out ahead of me – right field? Anyway, I knew I hadn’t hit it that far and somebody was bound to be throwing the ball at any second. So I sped up. The breeze in my hair is feeling great. This is actually fun! I am an athlete! It was somewhere around this onset of euphoria that I realized I had a problem. Something in my lower extremities is not right. I think…..am I?….yep…Houston, we have a problem. My legs were moving too fast. Much faster than I knew was possible, and seemingly faster than the rest of me. And I can’t catch up to them. I just knew I looked like one of those cartoon characters with a head, a body, and nothing but a swirling cloud of air below. It had to be Mach 2. And while this felt great at first, things had started to get out of hand.  This would need to come to an end, and for the life of me I could not figure out how to make that happen. Maybe I should tell somebody. Can they not see I’m in trouble here? I’m so fast it can’t be normal. Maybe I should just scream out that I can’t stop. I mean, they’re girls. We talk about stuff. Maybe they can help. It was around 3 nanoseconds later that God must’ve thought it would be funny to solve this problem of excessive speed with a little swiftness of His own. I’m still not sure exactly what happened. I just know it was over in a flash. Bam. Everything hit the deck at once. I was on the ground, spread eagle, face firmly planted in red dust. I looked up as people started to rush over. I spotted Cristi, doubled over in her spot. The laughing pose. (More like the I’m actually crying and about to pee my pants pose). Amid the murmers I hear the voice of my hair stylist. “Wh…??…was she….was she diving? To first base?” For half a second I think I might have a brilliant cover story, and once I spit this dirt out of my mouth, I’ll tell them that’s exactly what I was doing. But the brutal reality was revealed to me as I looked dead ahead. I’m like 30 feet away from the base. I have no idea how this is possible because I was booking.  We’re talking warp speed. My legs were on fire. There has to be smoke. And yet, here I am, barely half way. Maybe not even half way. I start wondering how in the world I’m going to explain this.

Trying to ignore the sting of pain, I stand up with some assistance (although not from the captain, who apparently saw this coming, me being without the proper equipment and all). I start to dust myself off, which seems pointless since I don’t carry a ShopVac, but what’re you gonna do. As I reach to brush off my legs – and this is difficult because there’s dirt in my eyelashes and in case you ever have this problem incessant speed blinking will not help – I notice a whole ‘nother kinda red. Not really gushing blood, but still a lot. Everywhere. On every limb. Big, huge strawberries on every joint. My pristine white shirt is toast. And still, Cristi is unable to stand from her hysteria.

Once I’m upright, somebody thinks it’ll be a good idea to get me to my husband. I guess so they don’t have to deal with me and can get back to their game. Somehow it had completely escaped my attention that my friends were seriously competitive and I might need a glove if I want to keep hanging out with them.

I’m escorted to the field he’s playing on. He turns around just as we approach.

“I told you somebody was gonna get hurt.”

That was helpful.

I kind of mill around, dazed, for a few minutes and our pastor actually helps me get cleaned up. He was a man who’d been married for more than 3 minutes and had the good sense to leave what he was doing and come to my aid. That’s all I’m sayin’.

As I’m stiffly making my way back to the bleachers to watch the girls’ smack down, I run into my sister, who, up to this point, has been chasing her 18 month old daughter around the park. I’m still thinking to myself, “How am I going to explain this?  How do you say you were operating at such an impressive rate of motion that you couldn’t stop and God just smote you down?”

She looks at me, and with all the grace and wisdom only a sister can possess, says….wait for it….

“Were your feet just moving way too fast?”

A-ha! So it’s a family trait, this speed of light thing?! Can you imagine if both of us had been playing?

My husband did eventually come to my aid that night. When we got home he ran a warm bath for me and applied giant band-aids to my elbows and knees, all the while still saying, “I told you so.” OK I’m still not five, and I don’t get what me being so fast has to do with your weird predictions, but, whatever. There was most definitely crying in softball that summer. (And for about 3 days after, but only every time I had to move.) And Cristi still cries at the mention of the words “feet” and “fast.”