love – Roasted Peanuts

Regerts

“Oops!”

“Crap, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I can’t do two things at once.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’m too socially awkward to avoid this decision.”

Have you ever looked back and thought, “What was I thinking?” Not about major life decisions – those are regrets, and we can’t camp there; we can only learn from them and do better next time. No, I’m talking about the stuff we do that we wish we hadn’t done but didn’t have major consequences.

A regret I have is passing on the offer to be a residential assistant at WVU my sophomore year. I got in quite a lot of trouble my freshman year, but the dorm director saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself and asked me to be an RA the following year, which would have saved me thousands of dollars in student loans. This is something that had long-term consequences, and while, again, I am not camping there, for purposes of illustration, I’ll dig up those bones for a minute.

A regert I have around that same time period, on the other hand, is the time my roommate and I drove to Key West for Spring Break and I was putting sunscreen on my arms and shoulders, then used that hand to wipe sweat from my forehead. A few hours later, distinct outlines of my fingers glared on my forehead in stark contrast to the redness of the rest of my face. Embarrassing? Yea, absolutely. Life altering? Not so much.

One day when Ayden was an infant, Addison and I were hanging out playing with her sticker book. She thought it would be funny to put a sticker on my arm, so she did that a few times and then I thought it would be cute to put stickers on Ayden’s tiny face and arms and take a picture. We giggled while he sat clueless in his bouncy seat, oblivious that he was a human canvas. After I took the picture, I took off the stickers, but to my horror, they left red patches in the exact shape of the sticker in every spot I had placed them. I panicked, called the pediatrician who told me to give him a bath and wash off the glue. (I blamed Addison when I explained what happened. Dr. Damran, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for lying.) He was as good as new and I learned never to put stickers on my babies.

Fast forward a few years and I decided I was going to roller blade like I used to when I was 20. “Here’s some knee and elbow pads,” my friend suggested, but I told her I didn’t need them and away I went as Addison, Ayden and Avery watched. At first everything was fine. I was having fun. But then I got cocky – I decided to go down the road and down a small but slightly steeper-than-it-looked hill. Let’s just say I still have scars on my knees and elbows.

A few years ago while visiting my family in Florida I decided to take my sister’s bike on a ride: 19 miles with zero issues. I was about a mile from her house when I missed the turn. The path was narrow, but instead of getting off the bike and turning it around like a reasonable person, I chose to try to make the turn. The tire caught the edge of the paved pathway and I started unintentionally heading toward the metal grated culvert, so I had to bail off. My sternum landed squarely on the middle of the handle bars, my right hand got trapped between the grip and the pavement and the spikes of the pedals embedded themselves in my leg. That last mile was long. I could feel the wetness of the blood under my hand as I rode to her house, handlebars crooked and blood dripping down my leg. I can only imagine what people thought as they passed me. The flight home was miserable. I ended up going to the ER to make sure I wasn’t broken. The doctor came in and said “I’ve got good news and bad news – the good news is, nothing is broken. The bad news is, you aren’t 20 anymore.”

Amnesia is real, though, because only last year I was on a horse and he went down on his knees, throwing me over the saddle on to his neck, clinging for dear life because I wasn’t paying attention. I had a death grip while I tried to figure out what to do. All of a sudden I could feel he was about ready to make the decision for me so I bailed and landed on the frozen ground squarely on my rib cage, but because there’s something deeply wrong with me, I rode 4 hours anyway. By the time I got back I thought I was going to die. This time I was legitimately broken, and before he could say a word, I told the doctor I was well aware I wasn’t 20 anymore. That regert made its presence known for a solid 4 months.

My car is riddled with regerts. One time I got stuck in the car wash, resulting in the passenger side gouge. That one upset me so much I couldn’t even talk about it for 3 days. Then a few weeks later a deer hit my STOPPED car. Why was I stopped, you ask? I was letting her family cross in front of me but she wasn’t paying attention and crashed directly into the driver’s side passenger door. But honestly, I couldn’t even be that mad at her because let’s face it: Same, deer, same.

A more recent regert happened at 7-11 a few weeks ago when I decided to splurge and try the once-upon-a-time-viral Dubai chocolate bar. It was on the counter staring at me one morning and I thought I would indulge both my sweet tooth and curiosity. I figured it would be about five dollars, which is plenty for a candy bar, but when the cashier rang me up it was closer to $25. Instead of just putting it back like a normal person, I froze and stared at her in shock as she waited for me to pay, which I did. I mean…it was good, but not $25 good.

The point is, we are all human. Humans do dumb stuff sometimes. The goal is to keep the dumb stuff to a minimum and do our very best not to cross from regert to regret. That is easier said than done and takes intentionality on our part. We will make mistakes, but it’s what we do after that matters more than anything. For instance, always double check dimensions when ordering office supplies online. Need a 5’x8′ dry erase board, anyone?

Empowering My Alien

Would you be interested in sending me $200 so I don’t have to go to work this week? Ummm, negative. In fact, I’d ask that you refrain from all further monetary requests.

Was this from a spam email? A Nigerian prince needs me to help him to the United States? No. No indeed. This was an actual request from the alien that used to take up residence in my uterus.

Is she objectively cute? Yes. Is she charming and kind? Also yes. But is she getting my money? No. At least not that time. Approximately two days later she informed me that she needed a bed frame when they move to their new apartment. I was like, “That sounds like a you problem, sister”. But then she reminded me that in a moment of parental supportiveness I did, in fact, promise her that I would supply the bed frame. You got me there, kid.

The process of separating from grown children is especially painful some days. Contrary to (her) popular belief, I do not delight in telling her no when she asks for money to do superfluous things. It requires a level of self control NOT to indulge some of the whims. But my fully developed prefrontal cortex understands that this is the safest time in life to learn the value of a dollar, and enabling bad money management is not an act of love.

Instead she (and all her siblings) can rest in the security that I will never allow her to go without basic needs (and let’s face it, plenty of wants), that wherever my home is she is always welcome, and that I am her biggest cheerleader as she grows into the woman God created her to be. One day we will sit and laugh over coffee about how we barely made it through puberty without bloodshed and then when the check comes, I will have conveniently forgotten my wallet and the circle of life will be complete.

Vintage

Death will not come a second before or after God ordained. (But statistically it’s getting closer.) Happy 50th Birthday

Wait, 50? That’s basically dead. “Happy”birthday.
-younger me

Congratulations. You are now older than 65% of the earth’s population. Happy 50th birthday.

50? Maybe cross becoming a professional ballet dancer off the list now. Happy Birthday.

You have your whole life ahead of you. There’s just less of it left now. Happy Birthday.

Half a century has passed since you were born. Read that again and then tell me you’re not old. Happy Birthday!

This is a sampling of my inappropriate “aging” greeting card line. My sister and I have developed several less than tactful but fully hilarious greeting cards for different occasions. We have a Hospice line that’s almost definitely offensive to everyone except us, but humor is how we’ve managed to survive some pretty intense storms.

Becoming older is not a curse, as our popular culture would have us believe. But it’s also fraught with some hardly ideal reality. Fortunately I have a great hairdresser and no one will ever see that cruel twist of gray fate.

To mark the beginning of my second half-century, let’s talk about some things I will never miss about being young (specifically regarding parenting):

I will not miss diaper blowouts-especially the ones that happen in a cloth car seat.

I will not miss being sharply awakened at 2am by vomiting episodes in small children.

I will not miss the last month of pregnancy.

I will also not miss the physical pain of the first month of postpartum. (But I definitely miss the tiny warm fuzzy human that created the pain)

I will not miss the constant struggle of finding childcare so I could work and the mom guilt associated with that whole ordeal.

I will not miss my van that had no heat or air conditioning for 18 months. Oh and no working driver side window.

I will not miss financial insecurity.

These are all things that I experienced when my skin was tight, my body bounced back and my hair was naturally brown, which are all things I have mourned the loss of as time marches on. But what I’ve traded in physically I have gained in every other category, most importantly my faith. He sees what’s inside, and He has walked me through some rugged terrain only to come out on the other side with perspective and wisdom that younger me was not able to discern. I’ll take it. And I look forward to gaining more and more of the attributes of my Creator. I am protected on all sides. I’m covered in the blood of Jesus, which is worth far more than any temporary vanity of this earth. (But also, thank you for the transformative power of hairstylists.)

Amy

Grief is such a strange thing. It’s like a thief waiting to ambush at the most unusual times. I could be having the most normal day and something completely off the wall will remind me of my mom and then my heart breaks all over again. I don’t enjoy that feeling, but it does put things in perspective for me. The big picture gets blurred sometimes as I hyper focus on one area of life, then when grief slips in uninvited it somehow helps me zoom out again and reset.

Many of the things I start to allow myself to be absorbed by are so trivial. Mom used to tell us that there was never a reason to be hateful to someone. Even if…fill in the blank…it didn’t matter. I’m grateful that her voice echoed the voice of my Father. I didn’t (and still don’t) always listen, but it guided me and helped me listen way more times than if it had not spoken.

I fight within me so often I don’t have the time or desire to fight with anyone else. You have an opinion that’s different from mine? Ok. We die on hills that are meaningless and silly. There’s no place for that kind of controversy in the life of a Christian (I’m lecturing myself, mostly). I’ve contributed to the idiocy quite enough. The battle is within and it urgently needs to be won. Sometimes we are what stands between someone walking toward Christ or walking away. I hate to think of the times I was so caught up in my anger that I misrepresented His name. Is the gravity I feel in this regard related to the wickedness of this current world? Is it a product of maturity? My guess is that it’s a little of both, mixed with the relative peace of life, which is in stark contrast to the chaos that has defined much of my adulthood.

One day many years ago my sister and I were on the phone; most cell phones had minutes and it was cheaper to talk after 9pm. Our combined 7 children were very young, and we were both in places of sustained crisis but we were growing in our faith as young adults. Both of us, surrounded by believers in our communities, were adamant that our children would make better choices than we had made. As we knew better we would do better, and we promised to be continuously improving so that our children would have us as role models.

If all you knew was part of the story then it may seem we were the most ridiculous excuses for role models there ever were. Sometimes I still walk back to that place, but these days I don’t pitch my tent and stay. I simply walk there, acknowledge the mistakes and then I turn around and come back. I will get to a point where I never return but until then I stand at that spot and remember the truth; I remember that God fights my battles for me and I point to my precious children. I may be slightly biased, but I do believe I have the cream of the crop as far as children go. God doesn’t think any of the negative things I can be guilty of thinking about myself. As I have grown closer to Him, the demeaning voice gets quieter and quieter. And it all started with my first step taken in obedience by a nudging of the Holy Spirit…and my mom.

My mom was as human as any of us, but her unwavering faith, misguided as it sometimes could be, was a legacy left by my grandma, who carried it forward from her mom, and so on. It created a space in me to see the truth, and experience how mightily God works through the most heinous situations. It gave me the strength to walk with Him, to offer up my children to Him and to understand I was a steward of those young people – they belong to Him, not to me.

The hours in prayer, the tears shed, the angry outbursts, the depression, the confusion, the agony, the denial, the acceptance and the joy – none of it was wasted. He has used every single circumstance for our good. Every single one.

When I look at it my life from the perspective of my Creator, I can be nothing less than grateful. The rest of my days will continue to be spent imperfectly loving, growing, serving and learning. If even one person falls in love with Jesus through my obedience, it will have been worth everything. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thank you for introducing me to Him. I’ll see you at Home.

Sister Sister

Once upon a time there was a darling little girl whose daddy bought her a pony and whose mama read her stories; she was blissfully singular. Then along came Alyssa, a precious little usurper. When the firstborn realized this tiny, bald, wrinkled person was for keeps, she made it her life’s mission to form a unique, unbreakable bond with her and live happily ever after in sibling harmony. But first she had to be hazed.

I really wasn’t that bad of a big sister. I may have occasionally broken something and blamed it on her. There could have been times I spit on her head from the top bunk, or told her she was impregnated with a watermelon after she ate a seed. There is a slight possibility I gave her a haircut that made her look like she was attacked by tiny lawnmowers. If she admits to an irrational fear of the Easter Bunny, it is definitely NOT because I hid outside the bathroom window and told her the Easter Bunny was actually an evil jackrabbit. (It made her cry and I got spanked – justice was served.) I’m sure I could go on with more heartwarming examples of sisterly love but suffice it to say it was a hit-and-miss relationship in its formative years.

It was during those years that I attended Vacation Bible School and learned about Jesus. I decided to ask Him to be the Lord of my life (see John 3:16). From that time until this I sometimes feel like Jesus is hazing me. He wasn’t/isn’t. At least not with the “Let’s do this and see what happens” kind of attitude I had when I put my little brother in the dryer or locked him in the toy box.

It has been through these trials, many that are senseless, self-made disasters and some that are not, that God has attempted to raise me up. I have a desire to cooperate, but I fall short every day. I, too, have skeletons just like everyone else. But instead of hiding them, I am using them to build a ladder – every day I reach higher ground until building-sized pieces of the past look like ants as I survey life from the clouds. It’s amazing up here, and nothing short of Jesus Himself will make me step down the ladder, and since He Himself placed me here, I only go up from this point.

It’s no coincidence that Alyssa and I are sisters. God’s been knocking on the door of our hearts for years, urging us to tell our story. We have messed up, but that isn’t the end of the story; it’s the part that invites you in to experience the grace and forgiveness that’s waiting for you. Let’s all be sisters together. I promise I won’t come to your junior high school and demand you take off the shoes you stole from me. Hypothetically. (Sorry, Alyssa)

My Avery

Foreword: Given the current circumstances of our town and the heart-wrenching sadness as a result, I wanted to take a moment to honor the love we have for our children from before birth, how that love grows every day, and to encourage all of us to cry out to our Father in Heaven for the peace that surpasses all understanding to encapsulate the hearts of the families grieving loss, experiencing uncertainty and coping with unimaginable pain.

January 2014

I just wrote a thank you card to the greatest pediatric surgeon my world has ever known. It has been 12 years yesterday since I gave birth to my precious son, and 3 weeks shy of 12 years since his life-saving operation at WVU, correcting a congenital defect and making Avery’s life possible.

Avery came along during a tumultuous time. He was my 3^rdchild in 37 months. I remember sitting in my hospital bed a few hours after he was born contemplating, or maybe panicking, about how I would ever be able to successfully raise 3 such tiny people. My thoughts raced as the gravity of a preschooler and 2 babies sank in. I wasn’t ready. Our circumstances were less than ideal. I hadn’t even been able to fully freak out when the pediatrician on call came into my room. What he told me made everything I was fretting about seem so petty; I was instantly ashamed.

Avery’s belly had been incrementally distending since his birth. It was the doctor’s opinion that he may have cystic fibrosis, and needed to be flown to WVU immediately. I can’t accurately tell you what happened in those next few hours. I remember a nurse coming in and making my calls because I was sobbing. I remember being escorted into the nursery and handed a gown to put on as they placed Avery in my arms and instructed me to say goodbye in case he didn’t make it to the hospital alive. I can still feel the numbness – the inability to grasp what was happening.

Somehow we made it to the hospital. The NICU cleared as they admitted my baby boy. His tiny body endured needles and tubes as they made a way for him to get nourishment. The next 9 days would prove to be harder yet as we faced the uncertainty of his diagnosis. It wasn’t cystic fibrosis, but it would be 9 days of tests until the diagnosis of Hirschsprung’s Disease was made and then another week until he was strong enough for surgery.

Surgery came with risks. The surgeon told me to be prepared to homeschool Avery because there was a good chance he would not be fully potty trained by age 5. This specific surgery was usually part 1 of 2 and included an extended period of in-between time with an ostomy. There were permission forms to sign outlining the inherent risks of surgery on such a small person. And then after all the meetings with doctors, after all the signing, and after I once again kissed my baby for what could be the last time, all that was left to do was wait. And pray.

To think that just weeks before I sat in a hospital overcome with worry about how I would care for 3 small children. How this had changed my whole perspective! I simply wanted my Avery to live. And live he did. He came through the first surgery without an ostomy or a need for a second surgery. He was potty trained before age 3 and has been thriving ever since. I will never forget holding him for the first time free of tubes and needles. I can still smell his baby head and feel his baby breath on my chest… What began as a question of MY ability ended with a declaration by God that with Him ALL things are possible as well as the peace that even if this story had ended differently, Avery’s life pointed to the sovereignty of my Father. But that’s easy for me to say. May the love of Christ surround all those whose story didn’t have a happy ending, and may I live my life as though tomorrow is not promised. Come home safely, sweet Riley…rest in peace, precious Lexus.

Plastic

Alyssa and I have a horribly inappropriate line of Barbie and Ken dolls based on some very politically incorrect stereotypes. We began creating them about 10 years ago but decided not to market them because God wouldn’t think it was very nice. We have one called “Perfect Christian Barbie”. Her name is Joy-Ellen: she wears her hair in a bun with slacks, a button down shirt with puffed sleeves and sensible shoes. She doesn’t allow her children to say the word “fart”. Then there’s Donnell. He’s a skinny white guy who wears his pants below his butt and a flat brimmed hat that’s always sideways. He drives a pimped out 1999 Honda Civic with awesome rims and a kick-butt stereo but the hatch has to be closed with a bungee cord. The Civic is sold separately.

Stuff like that shouldn’t enter my mind, probably, and here I am broadcasting it for the world (or 10 people) to see. I do have a reason, though, and it isn’t solely entertainment. Sometimes my lenses get fuzzy. While I should be loving people right where they are I’m busy inventing imaginary dolls based on what I think of them, or a composite of similar personalities. So to be fair, I thought I’d invent a Barbie based on myself.

“Stressed Out Summer” comes dressed in jeans she’s worn for 4 days, boots she wears so often they may as well be part of her uniform and we don’t know if she even has a shirt on because her coat never comes off. If her shirt did come off it would reveal stretch marks covering her entire abdominal area. She has a realistic callous on her left hand from logging 3,000 miles per month driving to and from work and taking the children to activities. She only eats one full meal a day and comes with a bag full of Goldfish crackers, a 2-liter of Pepsi Max and an orange. Her crazed, glazed over eyes are bloodshot and her hair is frizzy. She used to have a van from a previous decade but now drives a 2002 Chevy Suburban that she no longer needs since most of her children drive.

“Stressed Out Summer” lives in a cute little farmhouse that is never fully clean for more than 10 minutes. The dining room table doubles as storage for folded clothes her children (all sold separately) seem to believe will put themselves away magically. The sink comes complete with dirty dishes, which have decreased in number since she started buying paper products (because it was either the environment or her sanity, people). Tiny dog can be purchased separately and is programmed never to die, even after she eats Silica gel, Brillo pads and chocolate.

You get the idea. If I was a doll, no one would buy me. So it’s easy to assume that if people really knew me, they wouldn’t like me. Authenticity is difficult. It’s risky. I struggle with it every day. How do I become the person I’m called to be without offending someone? Guess what? I don’t. Does that mean I sit in judgment of others? Absolutely not – but that does mean I speak the truth in love. It is quite an impossible task without the guidance of the Holy Spirit, who resides in those of us who have invited Him. I encourage you to let God, not status, body image, wealth, poverty, race, home life, life stage or anything else define you. Let us all put down our defenses and just be real. You aren’t alone. We are all imperfect. Even Barbie, who, if she was an actual person, would be 5’9”, have a 39” bust, an 18” waist, 33” hips, a size 3 shoe and weigh 110 pounds, putting her BMI at 16.24, which fits the weight criteria for anorexia. I’m not judging you, Barbie, but for the love of all that is holy, eat a cheeseburger, girl.