Tag: hope

Our Kids Deserve Moms Who Ask for Their Forgiveness

I forgot my daughter’s first kindergarten assignment today. Not like, it was the first time I forgot, no… it was her first assignment ever (really, my first assignment) and I forgot to do it. It was simple – take a picture of her getting ready for school and bring it by September 3rd. Noooo problem, I told myself when I read it in her folder last Friday. I’ll get it done this weekend.

LOL.

My little kinder girl reminded me on Monday – “Mom, I need to bring my picture in!”

“No, no. Not until Friday. We have time. But let’s go ahead and take it.” I said, still confident I’d successfully be putting a printed picture in her folder for her to take in on Friday.

We took the pictures. Her pulling on her socks, backpack, and mask with exaggerated slowness so I could snap a couple pictures. Phew. Halfway there.

Wednesday came around, as it always does, and I was met with, “Maammmaaa, I need my picture!”

“Oh yes. I know. I’ll get it printed. You don’t need it until Friday, it’s ok.” My Wednesday-self reassured her as I bounced a crying baby and ushered her 3-yr old sister to the living room to get ready.

But. Then I slept for 3 hours Wednesday night because my sick 3month old was wheezing and coughing all night.

Sooooo when Thursday came around, I was running on caffeine and mom-power; y’all know that combo, right? So OF COURSE that’s when I found out my work had messed up my return from maternity leave and I’d somehow been removed from the payroll so I’d essentially been working for free for the past month. And, OF COURSE, as I was sending emails to HR, the nurse from the kindergarten called and said my daughter had been directly exposed last week to a classmate who had tested positive with COVID. I started googling where to find a rapid test available in the city, wondering if all the urgent care wait times of “548 minutes” were accurate, and asking my husband if I should just have her skip gymnastics (her fav part of the week) and take her with me to the pediatrician appointment I had for our son in a few hours to beg them to test her while we were there. He picked her up from school and we played car swap in the driveway as I made it to the doctor only five minutes late.

I got work sorted, got 2 of my 3 kids tested for COVID (both negative, thankfully), gave my wheezing baby a few puffs from his newly prescribed inhaler and Tylenol for his double ear infections, fed my kids fabulously healthy Happy Meals – then put them all to bed. I promptly sat on the couch with some cookie dough and watched an episode of Scrubs with my husband before going to bed.

Enter this morning. “Mama, I need my picture.”

Ugh.

Mom-guilt smacked me full in the face.

“Sorry, I don’t have it. I forgot and I don’t have it.”

“But, I need it! I’m supposed to have it!”

“I know, but I don’t have it. Tell your teacher I forgot and I’ll bring it later.” My voice starting to rise.

“But maaammmaaaa.”

“I’ve had a hard week! I can’t do everything for all of you all of the time!!!!”

Ugh.

It just came out. Mom of the year over here…

Her quiet little voice spoke up, “It’s not for me, it’s for my teacher…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll go get it printed and drop it off, ok? It’ll be ok.” I felt my face get hot and my eyes start to burn as my husband left to drop her and her little sister off at their respective schools for the day.

I felt terrible guys- this was not my best parenting moment. This was not the social media worthy moment of love and affection between mother and daughter.

Was the picture a big deal? No, absolutely not. I messaged her teacher, had the picture printed at CVS, and dropped it off to her school all before her teacher even responded with, “No worries, I’ll be accepting pictures all month.”

But it was the fact I had forgotten. I’d disappointed my little girl who loves school and wants so badly to please her teacher, and then lashed out in anger when what I was really feeling was guilt for forgetting, overwhelm with the whole week, frustration with myself for not being able to do it all, and mostly – exhaustion.

Parenting? Is hard. Being a parent to small children in the middle of an on-going, no-end in sight, pandemic? Is very hard.

And I felt it this past week. And I’ll likely feel it again. And again. And again.

When juggling kids, work, a marriage, household chores, church small group meetings, extracurricular activities, etc. … Sometimes, assignments are going to be forgotten. Kids are going to get sick. Dinner is going to come from a drive-thru window. Work reports are going to be rushed. Pajamas are going to be worn to daycare. Showers are going to be fast. Laundry piles will be mountainous. Sleep will be seldom. And yes, tempers will be short. Words will be said in tones or intentions not rooted in love. These things will happen.

And apologies will need to be made.

As parents – we are NOT going to be perfect. We just aren’t. We can try our best, and be pretty darn great most of the time. But there are still going to be balls that get dropped from the juggling act we are doing on the daily. And sometimes, unfortunately, that dropping is going to be cause for apology to our kiddos. Not an angry, sassy, “Well, sorry – I don’t have it!” but a big hug after school and a, “I’m really sorry for forgetting your picture and for talking to you the way I did this morning. I was upset with myself, not you. Do you forgive me? And do you want some ice cream?”

I think it’s important that we acknowledge our humanness to our kids, and model humility by asking for their forgiveness when that humanness hurts their feelings.

It’s hard and uncomfortable and takes work. But our kids? They are so so worth it.

So, excuse me. I have to go get some ice cream ready for my girl. ❤

Let’s be the rain this world so desperately needs.

Rain.

It cleanses and renews.

Bringing life back to dry and cracked ground.

Washing away decay and brightening the Earth.

Oh God does this land need rain right now.

We need cleansing rain to bring life back to this ground cracked with hate.

We need washing rain to pour down on humanity and revive decaying and hardened hearts.

Oh God do we need rain right now.

But, the rain isn’t going to come in a flood like the days of Noah.

The rain isn’t going to come in a downpour of holy water to change hearts and minds.

No. No. No.

The rain we need – and the rain that will start to heal?

That rain has got to come from us.

We, who have been tasked with fighting for “on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

We, who claim to want to walk in the way of the man who was the ultimate champion of the oppressed and beaten.

We, who have been given grace upon grace from He who was without fault and still slain.

So yes, pray and pray and pray. We serve a mighty miracle worker.

But also – do and do and do.

Love and love and love.

Because guys- He’s not going to flood the Earth again with water.

He’s already filled each of us, who have asked for and received the forgiveness we do not deserve, with the Living Water needed to be the cleansing rain.

It’s up to us to start raining down – raining down empathy – raining down hope – raining down cries for justice – raining down fights for the oppressed- raining down generosity…

It’s up to us to start raining down radical, transformative love.

Because Jesus? He was, and is, radical and transformative.

And He is Love.

Peace in the blurred lines between hope and heartache

Hope. Heartache. Healing.

The lines between these three are often faint and sometimes blurred. In my case, the line was a faint blue. At least on Monday. On Monday of last week, the line was faint and blue. An unexpected line that gave me butterflies of joy and anxiety all at once. A line that projected images of a growing belly for the 3rd time and questions of what kind of car we would need to buy. A line that suggested an addition to the family that would bring stress, yes, but so much joy. A line that thrust the current youngest to the middle child position in a second’s notice. A line that was filled with hope.

The line was faint though. So faint that my head told my heart to not let the love grow yet. So faint that I tried to not let any ripples disturb my dearly sought after, tranquil, inner lake of peace. A line faint enough that the ever-ready rational side of me stepped up to the plate and said – “Wait.” Wait a day or two before you teeter off the ledge and plunge headlong into hope. Because that line is faint and if you plunge into hope too fast, heartache may be the outcome. Just as it was when that faint line came and went the month before we became pregnant with our second child. And that heartache disrupts the calm. Heartache ushers forth not just ripples, but waves, to crack that glassy surface wide open, allowing the deep waters to spill forth in wet droplets that then leak down faces in messy trails. And to me, an Enneagram 9 who prides herself on being calm…collected…stable…unperturbed… at inner “peace” – these messy trails of emotion are to be avoided.

Ah, but the mind. The mind doesn’t always win out in these scenarios, does it? No, as much as I may like to think that my mind is in control of my pesky feelings, it does not always win out in these scenarios. Especially when it comes to thin blue lines that act as a tightrope between hope and what could be, heartache. No, my preverbal feet slipped off the tightrope and landed on the side of hope. All day Monday and all day Tuesday, I found myself planning for a third child. Planning with hope, the move of my two little girls into the same room so the new babe (probably a 3rd girl in my mind) would have a place to sleep. I found myself grinning in secret about the life I had started to believe was growing inside me. I found myself involuntarily thinking of our family as a family of five. I found myself hoping that when I took a second test on Wednesday, that faint line would be a dark blue line, confirming life.

But, that’s not how life always works, ya know? I got up Wednesday morning and that faint blue line that had been there Monday hadn’t gotten darker. It didn’t show up quicker like I expected it to. In fact, it didn’t show up at all. The line was gone. A clear white circle blinked up at me. And just like that, the hope had vanished. Gone were the concerns of fitting three car seats in the car. Gone were the internal bets of whether or not there would have been 3 blondy little girls in the family. Gone was the hope that in nine months, I’d have another baby to cuddle and rock. I hadn’t been planning on this unexpected hope to come on Monday, but it came anyway – and despite my desperate attempts at not letting it take root. It had. And so, when it was gone, my inner lake was disrupted a bit. Like a pebble had been dropped in the middle and tiny waves started to ripple outward, leaving me teetering in my own internal boat rocking back and forth on that lake of feelings.

I don’t know if the faint blue line 2 years ago or last week had been faulty tests (although a 5 day “lateness” both times would suggest otherwise), or chemical pregnancies, or real pregnancies that ended before they truly started – and I won’t know. But seeing those blue lines sparked hope and so the absence both times stung.

Because I’ve learned recently (through some therapy, through some reading of good books, through some intentional introspection, through some late night chats with good friends) that my tendency is to avoid – or stuff – these “negative emotions” to maintain the inner peace I value so much, I have been trying to at least give them a passing glance before sweeping them away with an easy smile, a shrug, and the words “I’m fine.” But it’s hard. It’s not comfortable – and admitting that this fine line caused a disturbance in my “peaceful” countenance is difficult for me. Which is why, when this same thing happened about 2 years ago, I told a few people in an off-hand way, but kept the sadness I felt down. Deep down. For the most part, I maintained my “peace.” Yesterday, I was listening to, “The Road Back to You” and heard some words that resonated deeply. He said, “what looks like peace, is just your desire to be unaffected by life.” Yikes.

My favorite Bible verse has always been, “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances,” but how silly I’ve been in my understanding of Paul’s words to the Philippians. He wasn’t speaking about learning to be content when things are good and hopeful and joyful. He wasn’t talking about ignoring the not-so-pleasant aspects of life, or convincing himself that they did not bother him. He was saying that he’s learned to be content because he had experienced hope and heartache and had found the answer to true peace in God. Not the superficial peace of a calm, cool, collected demeanor, but “peace that passes all understanding” because God is with us. Peace that can be had in the midst of heartache and the midst of hope. Peace that is a tranquil state of a soul WHATEVER the circumstances. As a peace (little “p”) seeker and craver, this true Peace is what my soul needs.

It’s what your soul needs as you allow yourself to hope and inevitably, sometimes end up on the side of heartache.

I know Jesus, but I am far from living in this Peace daily. I cling to my little “p” peace when the inner waters get rocky, (and truly by God’s grace, I haven’t yet experienced the tsunami like waves many of you have in this life) instead of riding the waves while clinging to the One who is Peace himself in the midst of the storm. It’s hard and uncomfortable for me, but I’m trying – I’m practicing – by texting friends the words, “You know, I’m kind of sad about this” that Wednesday, and by writing this post for all the world to read, to let go and let those messy trails of emotions leak out. Because by allowing them to leak out, I am allowing myself to admit that I do not have the peace needed for this life. I do not have the strength on my own in this life, much as I’d like to think I do. I have nothing in this life if I don’t have Jesus.

So, as you walk the fine, faint lines between Hope and Heartache – remember – in the midst of those blurred lines can come Healing from the one who offers us Peace that surpasses all understanding.

In the darkness of the storm, He is the light

Yesterday, I was driving home from a work trip in a little town in South Texas. It was only a two hour drive and I had planned to spend those kid free hours listening to my Harry Potter audiobook for the umpteenth time and letting my brain zone out blissfully, because I’m an Enneagram 9 and that’s what we do best. Especially after an emotionally charged day of Suicide Prevention training.

As I started driving out of the town and I turned onto the farm road that took me through fields of cattle and hay bails, I turned off The Goblet of Fire and just gazed out the window thinking about the sereneness of the scenery before me. I’m a city girl from California who has lived in Texas for about five years, but is still fascinated with the countryside. As I was looking out the window, trying to take pictures without looking at my phone, I noticed the storm clouds on the horizon. I could see lightning flashing in the dark section that started to fill the right half of my windshield and marveled at the contrast between the clear, bright blue sky to the left and the dark, looming sky to the right.

By this time, I had turned my music on instead of my book and was listening to Phil Wickham sing soothingly, “the brightness of your glory has arrived,” as I drove knowingly, head-first into the storm that had now taken over the sky in front of me. The rain poured down during, “a deep deep flood, an ocean flows from you – a deep deep love, yea it’s filling up the room,” and I couldn’t help but smile as I sensed something stirring within me.

The road got hard to see before me. Windshield wipers frantically beating the rain back just enough that I could see a few feet of road. Rain pounded loudly, making it hard to hear the music.

Usually, I get nervous driving in this kind of rain. This kind of rain that forms fast puddles on the road. This kind of rain that brings loud thunder and flashes of lightning somewhere close by. This kind of rain that makes going forward difficult. This kind of rain that obscures the road ahead.

This dark kind of rain.

But not yesterday.

Yesterday, I felt peace.
I felt joy.
I felt love and reassurance.
I felt the lyrics of the song being played for my soul to sing along.
“The fullness of your grace is here with me.”
My soul felt it there in that rain. My mind felt it there in that darkness.

I drove through that storm in peace and awe of His creation.
I drove through that storm knowing that no matter how long it lasted, His presence was all I needed.
I drove through that storm and after about fifteen minutes, the rain began to lessen and stop.

The road before me was suddenly dry again and the sky was clear and blue.
I’d literally driven through the storm from one end to the other.
The contrast in the sky was once again stark.

To my left and behind me, the sky was dark and tumultuous while the way ahead was clear and bright. I kept trying to crane my neck to take in the sight through the rearview mirror, and the occasional look behind, out the back windows because my San Diegan native eyes couldn’t get enough of the weather torn stratosphere.

My music at this point had progressed to another Phil song, a favorite of mine, that just reinforced my feeling that maybe God was trying to tell me something.

Or maybe….show me something.

The song playing now was saying, “I look up to the sky and say, you’re beautiful.” Which is, of course, where my eyes had been drawn this whole drive; before, during, and now, after the storm. I kept telling myself to just pull over for a minute to take a picture of the contrast I couldn’t stop trying to view, and I kept not doing it. Finally, I saw a little ranch driveway and I pulled off onto it. I stuck my head out the window and when I turned back to look at the sky, my insides jumped a little.

I was expecting beauty and vastness.
I was expecting dark clouds bruising the bright crisp face of the heavens.
I was expecting the contrast of the storm and the clear.

But I wasn’t expecting the bright colorful rainbow shining in the middle of that juxtaposition.
I wasn’t expecting such a visible reminder of God’s promise.

And when I saw it, that feeling of peace and of joy and of love and of reassurance I felt during the storm intensified.
I don’t have these moments often. I don’t have the, “I feel God” experiences daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly. I have faith in, and knowledge of, our God and His great love, but the “feeling” that people talk about, not much.

But yesterday.

Yesterday, on that country road, I did. The song sang, “The richness of, your beauty’s all I see” -and it was. As I looked back at that rainbow, and at the sky, so evident of His beauty and might, I felt Him there with me. I took some pictures, grinning to myself on the side of that poorly paved road in the middle of south Texas, and pulled back onto the deserted lane headed home. And since I don’t have these feelings often, when I had a sudden thought pop into my head of, “That rainbow was for me,” I laughed at my ego-centricism. But when I looked back in the rearview mirror, that bright rainbow I saw just a few minutes before was already faded, barely visible.

I’m sure there is some scientific explanation that includes angles and light prisms to explain my brief view, but I think it was what I needed just then. And I think maybe God knew that and used His creation of science paired with his physical, earthly creation of the sky to show me something.

Maybe to remind me that, in the midst of the darkness of this world;
In the midst of all the pain and suffering;
in the midst of the hurt and brokenness – that I see in my friends, that I see in my community, that I see in the world.
In the midst of all that storminess, He is here.

I think that maybe He knew I needed that reminder as I drove home from another suicide prevention workshop held during suicide prevention month, a day after 9-11, during a week full of hurting friends and sadness on the TV.

I think He knew that this logical, sometimes cynical, girl needed to literally drive through a storm, turn around to face the darkness, and see His promise shining brightly back at her in the storm thrashed sky.

I think He knew.

And I’m grateful.

I’m grateful because sometimes the road gets hard to see in front of you.
And the rain beats down so It’s hard to hear the hope singing to you from the speakers in your life.
And the darkness surrounds you.
But I was reminded today that He is there in the darkness.
His promise remains in the darkness, even if we can’t see it.

Not that storms won’t come – because they will.
Not that the road will always be clear – because it won’t be.
Not that the rain will stop, because it may not.
But His promise remains.
His promise that He is still there in the storm.
He is still there in the darkness.
He is still here.

He is here with me.
He is here with you.
He is here with us.

He is here.
He is here.
He is here.

Hallelujah, He is here.