Calling All Would-Be Friends

Making friends as an adult has been tricky for me.  I’m not a planner.  I’m easily exhausted in social situations.  I work too much.  My house is too messy.  I need to spend one-on-one time with my kids.  I need to make quality time for my husband.  I need more sleep!  I’m not good at making finger foods.  I can’t multitask over children and conversation.  I don’t have anything to wear!

                Does your list look anything like this? Managing the logistics of friendships with the reality of daily life can be tricky.  (Really, who needs another thing to do?)  However, I’ve found that logistics aren’t the real obstacle to friendships in my life:  I am.

When you get right down to it, all of those insecurities disguised as logistics say the same thing:  I’ll be ready for friendship when _________________.  Or, stated differently, I’m not really ready for friendship right now.

                Does my last sentence make you as angry as it makes me feel to write it?  Of course I’m ready for friendship.  I’m desperate for friendship!  It’s just that . . .

Good friends plan fun parties and bring energy into the room.

Good friends are selfless stay at home moms who have somehow managed to prioritize their families and friends over jobs, finances, and ambition.

Good friends have clean houses, don’t rotate pajama pants as casual wear, and provide Pinterest worthy party foods for their guests.

And really, it’s just that . . .

If you put me under a microscope with all of my junk and my issues and my demands and my stuff, you’d see . . .

I’m not really worthy of friends right now. 

But I will be one day. 

When I finally quit my job. 

When my kids are older and my house is cleaner. 

When I’ve worked through my issues in therapy and have recovered from ___________ (you fill in the blank).

               If this is you (and trust me, it’s me) . . . call me!  I need to visit your messy house.  I need to know you cannot find a single. pair. of. jeans. that. fit.   I need to see you struggle to string together sentences over your three year old and to hear your frustration (and sometimes relief) over dropping said three year old off at daycare.  I need to know what it’s like for you if you stay at home with your kids and struggle with feelings of inadequacy (of course you do!) just like I do when I go to work. 

                Do you hear me?  I need you!

Why?  Because when you take the risk to expose yourself to me, you help me see myself through God’s eyes.  When you share your messy house, your burnt cookies, and your dirty bathroom with me, you remind me that we are all created perfectly imperfect.  When we connect over something, you are like a mirror to my soul, showing me that some part of me is lovable.  So very, very lovable.  Right where I am.  Just as I am. 

So, let’s make a pact.  You share your vulnerability and your humor and your stories and your tears with me, and I’ll let you visit my fraternity-esque bathroom, see my unwashed hair, and hold my child with spaghetti on his shirt.

Let’s trade mess for mess.  Something makes me believe we’ll both leave feeling a little more loved, a little more worthy, a little more like the daughters of a King who did not hesitate to embrace the dirty, the sick, the issue-laden, and the needy.

Like I said, I need you.  And you need me too.

Heart Psalm

Dear Heavenly Father,

Sometimes, you don't seem so real to me.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, life sits like a rock in my belly.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, fear overrides faith and the future looks blah.

Sometimes.

But that is no way to live.

My heart wasn't created for fear, or for rocks, or for fiction.

So I will come to your gates with Thanksgiving.

Even when I can't see you, I will praise your name.

God of the universe, who loved me enough to allow me to taste your burden

To see how love feels when swallowed whole.

Father God, I praise your name,

God, I praise your name.  

Lost Sleep

Can I tell you one of the things that keeps me up at night?

It's embarrassing, it's often prompted by Facebook, it's prominent when I'm overtired, and it's real:

I'm worried that I'm not going to matter.  

That I will live my life and dream my dreams and have grand visions, and at the end of the day . . . I'm only going to have done very normal things.

And there is this imaginary crowd in my head that is going to say,

"She had so much potential, but . . ."

"If only she'd made that decision differently, then . . . "

"I always knew she'd never do it . . ."

When I am less tired, less comparison-oriented, less focused on me, I realize that this "crowd" is bent on making me the unhappiest person on the planet.  Because all those voices that tell me that I'm not going to matter . . . what do they know?

What if my limits are like guardrails from God . . . directing me into the path of grace, pointing me toward my purpose?

This past year has been one of the most challenging of my life.  I had two babies under two at the start of it.  My work had seen better days.  My thank yous were six months behind, at least.  I'm not going to list the rest of the issues.  Suffice to say, it hasn't been pretty.

This past year has also been one of the most beautiful of my life.  People have been phenomenally good to me.  Unsolicited grace has decorated my days.  Effort, my lifelong idol, has been replaced by something far superior.

And I have these two amazing little boys and their devoted father reminding me day in and day out of gifts, blessings, love.

And it is all so normal.  So blessedly normal.

What if significance isn't so much what we do but how we perceive? Experience?  Share?  Accompany?  Acknowledge?

Witness?

What I have witnessed this year has been extraordinary.

Significant.

Divine.

Normal.

Thank you, all of you, who have blessed me with eyes to see. 

Sweet Joy and Loving Kindness

A birthday message to my boys:  Collin, age 3; Connor, age 1

My dear, sweet, silly, and above all precious boys,

Happy Birthday to you both!  I planned to set aside a day every year to write to you individually before your birthday, but it hasn’t worked out exactly as I planned.  I won’t make excuses.  I also won’t dwell on the undone, because I have learned that God has a way of orchestrating EVERYTHING, even the flops and delays and not-good-enoughs, for his glory.

It just so happens that today is two days before Easter (yes Collin – it is your birthday cake that is in the oven today), and my message for you both this year is an Easter message.

My children, I will let you in on a secret.  Life is like a series of Easters.   You will have seasons of triumph, seasons of betrayal, seasons where the very hands of God wash your feet, seasons of cross-bearing, and seasons where God and his promises seem fraudulent, false, dead, crucified.  There will be moments when it seems that the darkness has won.

My darling boys, we are all human, and your emotions will tempt you to believe that the season you are in is the only season.  But it is not.  Because always, always there is the resurrection.

When you are tempted not to believe this, look around.  Nature, the seasons, our life spans, the birthing process . . . everything is designed to reflect this truth.  Resurrection is printed on your soul’s DNA.  

So when you make decisions, my children, make them with this truth in mind:  the resurrection is real.  Joy will come in the morning.  New mercies await around each corner.  Love can be beaten and nailed to the cross, but in the end, it will triumph.  

What does this mean? YOU ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ACHIEVING YOUR OWN HAPPINESS.  Don’t be fooled – you will never sustain any lasting contentment based on your efforts.  You are simply responsible for beholding the resurrection with eyes and hearts wide open, witnesses to grace, recipients of love.   If you do this, joy will find you.  Loving kindness will find you.  Purpose and peace will find you.   

And your heart will be glad.

What bigger prayer could I have for your lives?  What bigger hope?  

When the darkness descends, keep your eyes open.  

Hope is on the way.

I love you, my children, always and forever.

Mama

A Cow Named Hope

Dedicated to the wonderful and brave John Oliver ("Ollie") Tetloff, and of course his mother, Meredith.  (ollieupdates.org) 

Once upon a time there was a cow named Hope.

Hope lived in a great big pasture on Bay Branch Farm with her mama and daddy and lots of cousins and sisters.  The cows on Bay Branch Farm were very happy.  Every day, they woke up, ate grass, drank water, swatted flies with their tails, and mooed: "It's gooooood to be a cow." 

Life was good on Bay Branch Farm, but Hope wasn't happy.  Even though she liked eating grass, drinking water, and swatting flies with her tail, she had this nagging feeling that she was made for something more. 

She went to her mama and shared her problem:  "Mama," she asked tentatively, "Have you ever wanted to do more than eat grass, drink water, and swat flies with your tail?"

Mama looked at Hope, took a big bite of grass, chewed it around for a few minutes, and then chided:  "Hope, it's goooood to be a cow.  Don't be ungrateful.  Now run along and play with your sisters."

Hope bowed her head and walked away, ashamed.  For the next few days she tried to concentrate on living happily on the farm, but - try as she might - she continued to feel like she was missing out on something.

The next day, Farmer Hub noticed that Hope was moping by the water trough.  Farmer Hub loved his cows and always knew when something was the matter.  He walked up to Hope, patted her head, and said, "What's wrong, little cow?"

Hope mooed the longest and saddest mooooooooo Farmer Hub had ever heard.  Because Farmer Hub had been farming for a long time and knew everything there was to know about cows, he understood immediately what the problem was.

"Well Hope," he said.  "I have an idea.  I have a special friend named Ollie. Right now, Ollie is sick and is not feeling his best.  He loves cows but he can't come to visit right now because he is busy getting well.  Would you like to cheer Ollie up?"

Hope turned in a circle three times and kicked her feet up in the air with excitement.  Of course she would like to help!

The next day, the farmer brought a funny looking bag.  He opened it up and took out a camera. 

"Can I take your picture, Hope?"  the Farmer asked.  "For Ollie?"

Hope was a little afraid, but she held very still.  She knew she had to be very good so she could help Farmer Hub's friend, Ollie.


"Click, click,"  whirred the camera. 

"Moo, Moo," said Hope.

The other cows watched warily, chewing their grass, swatting their tails.  What, they wondered, was Hope doing?

A few days later, Farmer Hub came back to the cow pasture.  Hope trotted up, happy to see her friend. 

"Hope," said Farmer Hub.  "Ollie really liked the pictures of you, but he would like to see more cows.  Do you think you could talk to your friends to see if they would like to have their pictures taken?"

Hope moooed a worried moo.  She knew that the cows were happy eating their grass, drinking their water, and swatting their tails.  But - she could tell that Farmer Hub and Ollie really needed her help, so she approached her cousin Thatcher. 

Thatcher looked up at Hope with a mouth full of grass.  His big brown eyes seemed to say, "I'm happy just doing this.  Please let me be."  Hope didn't want to bother Thatcher and almost walked away, but then she remembered Farmer Hub's friend Ollie.  Courageously, she asked:

"Thatcher, will you help me help Farmer Hub and his friend Ollie?"  Thatcher blinked once, then he blinked twice.  Hope was sure he was going to say no and she almost walked away when she heard him say,

"O.K. Hope, I will help you help Farmer Hub." 

"Hooray!"  Hope kicked up her heels and nuzzled Thatcher's neck joyously.  "Follow me!"

Slowly Thatcher followed Hope over to Farmer Hub.

"Click, click," went the camera.

"Mooooooo," said Hope and Thatcher together.

The other cows watched from the corner, eating their grass, swishing their tails.  But this time, a few of the little calves ventured closer.  What was that funny noise?  And why did Hope and Thatcher look so excited?

Over the next few days and months, Farmer Hub came back with the camera.  And every time he came, Hope recruited a few more cows.  Before long, every cow in the herd had had their picture taken . . . every cow, except Hope's mama.  Now when Farmer Hub came with the camera, Hope's mama stood by herself while all the other cows posed for pictures.

One day, Farmer Hub came to the cow pasture looking very sad indeed.  He did not have his camera with him.  Hope wanted to know what was the matter.  She nudged Farmer Hub's shoulder and mooed.

Farmer Hub sighed a heavy sigh, took his broad-brimmed hat and turned it around in his hands, and said,

"Our friend Ollie is very sick, Hope.  He is very brave and very strong, but he hurts a lot and is very tired. I wish there was something else we could do to help him."

Hope thought.  She thought and she thought and she thought.  She thought about all the things that made her feel better:  green grass, summer sunshine, fluffy clouds, playing with her sisters and brothers.  But Hope could not send those things to Ollie.

Photo by Alex Palmour

Just as she was about to hang her head in defeat, she had an idea!  Hope lifted her head up to Farmer Hub's ear and whispered as well as a cow can.  The farmer's face lit up and he began to smile.

"That's a great thought, Hope!"  he said.  "Let's do it!"

The next day, Farmer Hub came with a crew of farm hands and a great big truck.  Even though the other cows now liked having their picture taken, they were a little scared of the big truck.  They backed up to the fence in a tight circle.

Farmer Hub took his hat off again and ran his fingers through his hair.  What if the plan didn't work?  What if Hope was afraid?

Just then, Hope stepped out from the circle of cows.  She took a few steps toward Farmer Hub.  Farmer Hub put his hat back on, straightened his back, and smiled a great, big smile. 

"Okay, guys, let's load her up!" he shouted.

The truck backed up to the gate and someone swung the doors open.  For the first time, Hope paused.  She was a little afraid of that great big trailer with the loud door.

And then, from deep within the herd, Hope's mama walked forward.  She walked up to Hope and looked at her long and hard with her big, dark eyes.  She nuzzled Hope's neck for a moment, and then she nudged her forward with her nose towards the trailer.

Hope stepped on, and Farmer Hub swung the door closed.

The truck sputtered on and then rattled off down the winding dirt road.

Hope rode for what seemed like a very long time.  Finally, the truck clanked to a stop and began to back up. It made a funny beep, beep, beep noise and then jumped slightly as it turned off.

Hope began to shake a little, missing her friends and her farm very much.  Just as she was beginning to rethink this idea, Farmer Hub swung the doors wide open.  Hope stumbled out into the bright light, blinking after being in the dark trailer.

And then .  .  . she saw them.  Waiting for her just beyond the truck ramp was the most wonderful little boy she had ever seen.  He was wearing a Mincraft t-shirt, and he sat next to his mother.  She had beautiful auburn hair and the kind of way about her that made Hope feel better at once.

"Ollie," the boy's mother said, "I think you should go up and meet your new friend."

The boy walked up to Hope, and she stopped shaking.  He lifted out his hand and petted her, and she felt her trembling heart slow down.  She mooed.

Ollie laughed, and his mama laughed, and Hope nuzzled his cheek. She thought for a moment about all the things she had left:  the fluffy coulds in the summer sky, the warm sunshine, the green grass . . . and then Ollie smiled at her again.  His smile was like all of those good things mixed together, but better.  She felt the happiest she had ever felt.

"It's gooooood to be a cow!," she mooed.  Then she posed for a picture with her new best friend.

THE END

Connor's Song

It has been 365 days
 -  Plus a few -
Since you were unwrapped
From my tight, stretched tummy.

A gift -
Surprisingly fair and red and blond
So unlike your
Dark-skinned brother.

The Sandal's wedding song
played over the surgeon's
Pandora station
As you were plucked from inside me
And taken to be weighed and
baby-tortured in your first few
oxygen-breathing moments.

What went through my mind?
Thoughts of joy and exhaustion and
Tingly-pain,
Mingled with randomness:
That is a good song.
I'm glad he was born to that.

The next few days were full of
Morphine and marveling
My heart over-saturated
Tired
Processing
A veteran mother,
but a rookie again
to you and your cries,
wants, needs.

In the tradition of all new mothers,
the thought-question-challenge
slipped in and out, out and in
as I fingered your hands,
cradled your head,
traced your nose:
Am I up to this task?

365 days later
 - Plus a few -
The question still hangs
And, will, always, I think.
A good question:
One that reminds me of
My mission,
My limits,
My dependency on the divine.

I could write
For a year and some days
About this tension:
the impossible task
of raising a person
to be better than me -
isn't that every parent's dream?

But - just now
I hear you waking
Your tiny yawn,
Your sleepy stirring.

You jolt up - startled,
scared
But then you see me
Typing here on the floor.

Your face relaxes
As you settle back in
To dream a little more.
It's not that complicated,
You seem to say.

You are just glad
That the bed is soft,
Your belly is full,
And Mama is here.

Evidence

My eight month old is not a great sleeper.

On a good night, he wakes up once or twice.  Those nights aren't so bad because he can be a little charming in the middle of the night.  When he realizes that we are there to help him, his smile radiates through the dark. "I missed you, Mama and Daddy!"  he seems to say.

On a not-so-good-night, that sweet baby greeting loses its appeal around wake ups three and four.  And by wake ups five and six, there is nothing charming and dear about him.  Or me.  I am generally just angry.

Every parent knows that tired angry is not good.  Exhausted angry is worse.  It's actually a little scary.

Fortunately, my husband and I have developed an unspoken language that enables us to deal with our irrational, sleep-deprived emotions.  We each have a distinct "rescue-me-from-this-baby" grunt.  When we hear it, it is a non-negotiable call to action.

95% of the time, this system works out well for us.  Unfortunately, last night was one of those nights where we both hit the grunting stage at the same time.  At around 5:30 am, I flipped on the lights and took my infant downstairs to the play zone to preserve his well-being.  As he happily gnawed on a wooden giraffe, I popped open a Vanilla Coke Zero and jumped up and down in the kitchen until I was awake enough to function. 

How, I wondered, was I going to survive this day?  This month?  This year? 

If this sounds dramatic to you, I urge you to take the midnight to 5 a.m. shift at my house for a few nights. 

A couple of groggy hours later, the kids and I were on the way to daycare and work.  I was still on a woe-as-me thought trajectory when we turned off of the main street onto a little cut-through road.

There, in front of us, was a rainbow.  We paused at a railroad crossing, and my two-year-old and I both admired it.  "Whoa!" he exclaimed over and over again.  "A rainbow!"

Chill bumps rose up on my arm as I thought about the meaning of a rainbow: about its message of hope and mercy; about its representation of love; about its visible reminder that God is with us even during the storms.

Some days I can acquire perspective if I am intentional about it, but this was not one of those days.  I believe God heard my grunting and understood what I needed.

Proof.

Thank you, Father, for evidence that you love me and meet me in my trials - both big and small.

  

Sweet sleeping Connor.

Answered Prayer

About a year ago, I was walking my dog and pondering my plight as a non-property owning parent.  It had been a long Saturday, one in which my suddenly speedy one year old ran circles around and around and around the stairs.  We lived in a small rented condo with no yard, and my soon to be second born pressed too heavy on my bladder to make a park outing feasible for any length of time.

As my one year old giggled and galloped around the living room, I had cruelly condemned myself for failing to adequately provide for him.  My husband and I had given ourselves until the third trimester of my second pregnancy to find a suitable home for our little boys, and it was becoming clear that we were not going to meet our goal.  The condo was going to remain home sweet home.

My child, exhausted from his afternoon, was sleeping soundly when I ventured out for a walk.  As my dog and I meandered down the hill, I began to pray --- unsure why this God who professed to love me and my family would lead us into this situation with no back yard.  It wasn't a very good prayer because I interrupted it every few minutes to (1) rehash the life decisions that necessitated the condo; and (2) beat myself up for my lack of gratitude.

Suffocating from these toxic thoughts, I looked up at the night sky.  It was a beautiful, clear night --- one of those where every star in the heavens seemed to be visible.  I admired the starscape:  its vastness, its splendor, its timelessness.  In the stillness, I heard my soul breathe: 

Who owns the stars? 

And who owns the heavens?

Through these umprompted questions, it was suddenly evident how temporary my concept of property was.  Was the earth really mine to own anyway?  My life was so small . . . long after I was gone, whose property would my homestead be?

In that quiet moment, I realized that God was answering the prayer of my heart as opposed to the petitions of my lips.  Although I prayed for a home that I owned with a big backyard and lots of friendly neighbors, what my heart uttered was a plea for edification as a mother.  Please God, I subconsciously murmured, help me give my boys what they need. 

And in his perfect way, he did just that by reminding me of the insignificance of this thing I believed my children required.  My job as a mother, he seemed to say, was to cultivate in my children values of eternal worth. This home ownership hangup was a distractor.

Trust in me, I could hear him whisper to me, around me, over me.

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the message I needed.  Thanks and glory to a God who ministers to my thirsty soul.