Love is a verb

I’ve fallen in love a few times in my life. There were guys in college and after that I was head over heels for. Until I met Mike though, I had never actually LOVED anyone.

Here’s the thing about falling in love: eventually, you have to get back up.

Cinderella and Prince Charming had to come home from the honeymoon eventually. They had to decide who would do the dishes and the laundry and the yard work. And eventually, who would get up with the baby in the middle of the night or stay home from work with a sick kid or whose family they would spend the holidays with. And some days they would realize that they hadn’t had a chance to even touch each other or say “I love you” or even ask “How was your day?” Some days they would be so busy making breakfasts, and lunches, and dinners, and being interrupted every 35 seconds by little voices asking for milk/water/food/help wiping/etc. There would come a day when they realized that so many of the things they needed to say or meant to say to each other hadn’t been said. If they had a chance to gaze longingly into each other’s eyes it would be because they were in a standoff over who would get up to clean up the milk that had just been spilled.  

And they would fight. Over little things like someone (ahem, Charming…) leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Those little things would become big things that became indicators of respect or caring. There would be yelling and crying and nights worrying how they could keep going. And sometimes there wouldn’t be any of those things at all because they were weary and lost and not knowing how two people who are SO different could POSSIBLY keep the fairy tale alive.

And in today’s world, they’d go to a divorce attorney and split their assets and come up with a schedule for the kids and shake hands and shrug and say “Well, we tried…”

Here’s the other thing about falling in love: the very act of ‘falling’ suggests something accidental and out of our control. After all, nobody PURPOSEFULLY falls. It’s sudden and uncomfortable and sometimes it hurts. It’s not something you decide to do. It’s something that happens to you.

Here’s the thing about ACTUALLY, really LOVING someone: it’s not accidental. It doesn’t “just happen.” It’s purposeful and intentional and it’s ACTIVE.

It is EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. It is someone leaving dirty dishes in the sink and taking care of sick babies and looking across the dinner table and wanting so bad to walk over and hug the other person and just *be* together but not being able to because you are covered in spit up or cutting someone’s meat or arguing over bed time. It is waking up every day tired because you have a baby who doesn’t love sleep as much as you do and going to work thinking “I wish we could just go have margaritas on the patio tonight” but going home to have spaghetti instead and giving the kids a bath while the other one washes dishes and wanting to have sex but feeling not just out of shape but in the shape of a rhinoceros.

It is looking at the two little people you created together and feeling at once exhilarated and overwhelmed by both exhaustion and love.

It is sometimes thinking, “If I had known that when we were dating…” And then remembering you’re wearing sweat pants. Again. For the 78^th night in a row.

It is telling your Prince Charming that you need more. It is him giving it his best every day. It is you putting up with some shit because you realize you put out quite a bit of shit too. It is looking in the mirror and knowing that some of the problems you have with him might be problems you have with yourself.

Loving someone is messy sometimes and exhausting and really hard but also really easy. Because you know that without that person, you’d be…well, not you. Without the two little people that keep you flabby and tired, you’d be…not you.

It is letting this crazy, messy, exhausting, incredible love shape you and mold you and realizing you are better for it. It is making a decision that you are NOT going to give up. Not ever. Because love is not something you fell into. It is something you chose. It is something you choose every day of your life.

And it’s working out who is going to do the dishes and the laundry and stay home with the sick kids. And it’s accepting that you are shaped like a rhinoceros but you need to have some naked time together and knowing  that you’ll probably be up with a baby sometime in the middle of the night. It’s waking up the next day and choosing it all over again. EVERY. SINGLE . DAY.

It’s knowing that society’s solution to shake hands and walk away isn’t an option. It’s knowing that the love stories on tv aren’t the full story and that the reward, the real joy, doesn’t come from the falling. It comes from the staying.

It’s in the smiles and the tears. It’s in the laughter and the little things like eating spaghetti together and seeing your love alive in two other little people. It’s in taking those little moments to snuggle next to each other at night or hold hands while walking to the park. It's in the moment when you know you look like a rhinoceros but you're treated like a super model. 

Love, REAL LOVE is active, and involved, and purposeful. Not accidental. Not something that just happens to you. It’s a choice.

Love is a verb. 

. 

Today I got shit faced before work

I didn't have plans to post tonight but this blog is all about the realism that is Mommyhood and this morning, my day started off pretty freaking real...

My son is a morning pooper. You need to know this.

Nearly every morning, The Dude just blows it up, often destroying his pajamas or, if he’s already dressed for the day, his shirt and/or pants. This morning was no different. After I got out of the shower, Mike informed me that William had destroyed yet another onesie. No surprises there.

We said our morning prayer and Mike passed The Dude over to me and away he went to work. I carried my little guy around the kitchen putting some things away and getting a few other things ready for the day. Oli played outside on the patio since it was such a nice morning and I reveled in a nice morning with my babies.

Here’s something else you need to know: I kiss my babies constantly. CONSTANTLY. When Oli was a baby, my sister, Michelle, would say “You are going to kiss that baby’s cheeks off!” It’s true. I love all over them.

So there I was, drinking my coffee, enjoying the morning air, listening to Oli’s sweet voice as she played, and nuzzling my sweet boy all over his sweet head. I kissed his cheeks and ears and let my lips graze his little peach fuzz hair. I breathed in his sweet…wait…

No…

Not sweet…hmmmmm…his…strange…smell…

What was that smell…????

And then I looked at the spot I had been rubbing my lips and face all over just milliseconds before.

And I saw this:

See that orangey tint there??? Well, let me give you a hint--he's not a red head. Yes, ladies and gents, that’s poop. On my baby’s head. On his head that 

I WAS JUST RUBBING MY LIPS AND FACE ALL OVER.

And so ends the story of how I started out my day by getting literally shit faced. 

The pieces of my heart

Dear God,

When you gave me the gift of motherhood, I knew you had done something huge in my life. You gave me a gift that pushed and challenged me. A gift that showed me just how big my heart is. A gift that showed me just how big yours is.

What I didn’t realize immediately is what you took from me. Often I forget. But I saw it tonight. Or rather, I was reminded of it.

Like the rib you took from Adam to give him Eve, you took a piece of me to give me my children. Like the world’s most skilled surgeon, you removed a tiny piece of my heart to create the incredible beings I get to call mine. You did it swiftly as you distracted me with sleep deprivation and crying, so much crying, and snotty noses and chaos swirling around my every day that I often forget that there’s such a delicate piece of me out in this world that is no longer a part of my body.

It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to forget because some days are just so very, very exhausting. And I rush through the days and the nights just trying to remember who has a doctor appointment and when and whose teeth got brushed or whether or not we have enough milk to last through the week. It’s easy to forget what a significant, incredible, fragile piece of me Oli and Will are made from. In my haste to make sure everyone simply stays alive, I forget.

Tonight I saw it and was reminded again. I saw it in William’s sweet smile when I walked into the room. I saw it in the peaceful, still face of The Boss Lady as she slept, the tendrils of her hair strewn across her pillow, her hands folded under her head. At once I felt incredible love and responsibility and, I’ll admit it, terrified.

Because as I brushed Oli’s hair from her face and watched her sleep, I was reminded that you took this little piece out of me and put it out into the world where I’m not sure if it’s safe, where I have no control.  

God, I’m grateful, truly I am. Without these little people, I have no idea who I’d be. See, by taking from me, you’ve given back immeasurably. But I am scared.

Scared I won’t be able to protect them from the insanity of this world, from people who mean them harm, from disease, from fear. I can’t even protect Oli from bumping into walls or scraping her knees no fewer than 15 times a week! And, yet, there they both go each day, without me, to face and embrace all the world has to offer.

And what am I supposed to do, God? What am I supposed to do while two pieces of my heart are exposed to every danger my insane mind can imagine? How can I possibly build them up enough to take on their toughest challenges? How can I protect them from all evil? How? I have no answers, no way to do it. I watch each day, powerless, as these two pieces of me grow and learn and encounter. I watch as they experience pain and joy and disappointments. And I have no idea how to make sure they are never hurt.

So I turn to you. You who plucked these pieces from my heart and made them into the most incredible beings I’ve ever known. You who gave me this job of being their mother. I turn to you because there are days I am overwhelmed by not knowing what to do or how to do this job.

Is that how you designed this, God? Did you design this so that I would be wholly dependent on you? Was your intent for me to truly KNOW my lack of control over this life?

If this was your master plan, I am happy for it. By turning to you, by leaning on you, I am able to watch with joy as the pieces of my heart go out into this world on their own journeys.  In the vulnerability I feel loving them, I have been able to experience your love for me more fully. You have given me a glimpse into how you love—purely, deeply, letting me have free will, always with the hope that I will return to you unscathed from the harms of this world, always with the desire that I should be healthy and safe.

Thank you for showing me this love, for bringing me closer to you. Make me deserving of this incredible gift and, above all, please protect from all harm these tiny pieces of my heart.

Amen   

Fodder for The Mommy Wars

You’ve probably seen it and if you haven’t, you’ve heard about it: The Mommy Wars Similac commercial. I didn’t particularly care for the commercial and it’s taken me a couple of weeks to figure out why. If you haven’t seen it and would like to, just Google and you’ll find it in about a half a second. Or scroll through your FB newsfeed and surely someone has posted it. If you don’t want to watch it, let me give you the cliff notes version:

A bunch of mommies are at the park and they represent all stereotypes: breastfeeding, formula feeding, stay-at-home, working, baby wearing, and even dads make an appearance. And they’re all about to throw down until one of the baby carriages rolls away, down a hill, and ALL of the parents go running after it in solidarity to save the life of this infant. After they catch the runaway carriage, all of the moms start talking and find some common ground because we’re all in this together and it’s all about taking care of our kids no matter how we choose to do it.

Here’s why I didn’t like it: I think it represents us all as being one dimensional. For instance, I’m a working mom who breastfeeds and sometimes baby wears and also uses disposable diapers. Nearly every single woman I know is multi-dimensional like that or might have some characteristics that seem contrary to each other. I breastfeed because it’s the best nutritional option for my babies but I let my 4 & ½ year old eat Cheetos. And if I couldn’t produce milk or needed to supplement, I would use formula. That doesn’t seem complicated to me. I baby wear when I need to but prefer my kids sleep in their own bed. I recycle and am constantly pulling things out of the trash (thanks to my hubby and daughter) to put in the recycle bin but I use disposable diapers. Being a mom isn’t so one dimensional.

And, quite frankly, I felt like the stereotypes they were trying to discourage actually seemed WORSE. Maybe that was the point? Or maybe I’m sensitive and didn’t like seeing my own stereotype represented. I’m not sure which it was but the whole thing didn’t sit well with me.

At the end of the commercial, I actually thought, "Yeah right. After they all went home, they talked about that mom with the runaway baby carriage. They were probably bad mouthing her with things like 'What kind neglectful mom lets their baby carriage get away from them?'" Kidding, kidding. Kind of. 

Until last night, I actually thought the Mommy Wars were a myth. Evidently, I’ve gotten lucky. I posed a question to my FB friends about the Mommy Wars asking if they had ever been a part of one and if they had, what the war was over. Though not a large number of women responded, there was A LOT of discussion about it. Turns out, the Mommy Wars are real. Women are being judged and insulted and degraded by other women pretty frequently over things that, to me, seem ridiculous. I’m amazed that so many women have an opinion on how other people raise their kids AND FEEL THE NEED TO EXPRESS THEMSELVES. I don’t think I’ve ever been judged or made to feel bad about a parenting decision I’ve made.

Actually, there was ONE time I was involved in a Mommy War of sorts. I wrote about it a little in a prior post. I mentioned it in one of my Confessions. I was at Target and swatted Olivia on her bottom and told her in my Very Mean Mommy Voice that she was going to lose her special treat because she had climbed on the registers. 4 times. A man flagged me down in the parking lot and told me to “please be nicer” to my kid. I ran him over with my car. End of War. 

Maybe that’s why no one has ever said anything to my face…

Just kidding. I actually went home and cried and wondered what I could have done differently. Then I remembered that some people are douche bags. And I had some wine and all was right with the world.

In all seriousness, I really was hurt and offended on behalf of my friends to whom such horrid things have been said. Reading about their experiences made me sad and a whole lotta angry. Who are these Mommy Bitches who feel it is their duty to tell other moms that they are doing it wrong?? I thought about how thankful I am that (aside from Douche Bag Target Man) I’ve been so well supported in the mom community instead of being broken down.

I knew that I had to take action. While I can’t lay the smack down on every woman who has hurt my friends, I can give all of you wonderful mommies out there some tools to deal with the winches who feel they need to undermine you. If you are like me, often you walk away from a situation a little flabbergasted and it’s not until later that you think of all of the things you SHOULD have said. I’ve come up with a few canned responses for you to utilize should you ever find yourself on the battlefield of The Mommy Wars:

If you are being judged for formula feeding because you are pumping “chemicals” or “poison” into your baby…

Simply say, “Oh, I wasn’t aware that you lived on a farm.” You’ll probably get a response like “What?” or “Huh?” or maybe just a confused look.

Then say, “Well, I’m assuming that if you are criticizing me for putting chemicals into my child via her food, then you must grow your own food. I mean, surely YOU’VE never given your child pre-packaged food that has CHEMICALS in it?? And a fast food restaurant…I bet YOU’VE never been to one of those. Wow, what a life your kids must have getting to grow their own food and raise their own meat. Hang on a second while I open this bag of Cheetos for my oldest. Also, if you don’t mind, next time we meet up, please shut the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for formula feeding because you didn’t “try” hard enough at breastfeeding or you are being lazy…

“You know you’re right. I totally chose formula because, as everyone knows, formula babies are completely self-sufficient. I mean, I hardly have to lift a finger since I started formula with my daughter. In fact, just the other day, my 9 month old was crying and I told her, ‘Quit that fussing Apple Blue Ivey Riley Kingston!!! We didn’t start feeding you formula so you could be a whiny, titty baby! Now get up and finish folding that laundry like I asked you to 10 minutes ago.’ It’s amazing how little I have to try with my child these days. You should try it, too! You know what else you should try? Shutting the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for breastfeeding beyond whatever age the person talking feels is appropriate…

“Well, we’re hoping Junior is off the boob by prom. But I’ve got a dress I can wear just in case. After all, I’m his mommy and want to be there for EVERYTHING. Also, if I don’t breastfeed as long as possible, how else am I going to get my nipples in the shape of tator tots? You should see my husband’s excitement during sex! He thinks he’s getting some action AND a snack! And if I haven't mentioned it lately, could you please just shut the fuck up?”

If you are being judged for spanking your child…

“Absolutely spanking is horrid. I was spanked as a child and as a result, I’m the worthless piece of crap you see here before you today. Every day, I think to myself ‘If only my parents hadn’t spanked me, perhaps I wouldn’t have finished college and could have pursued my dreams as a street performer. If only they hadn’t spanked me, I wouldn’t have to live in my house in the ‘burbs.’ Damn them and their parenting techniques that caused me to wind up this way. Know what else I think about each day? How you should shut the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for NOT spanking your child…

“I can see how this is making you uncomfortable. If you think spanking is necessary, I’ll happily spank YOU. After all, my husband and I made the decision when we decided to have kids to keep spanking in the bedroom (this is best said with a little wink if you can manage). Also, it'd be really fun if you would shut the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for working outside of the home and “paying” someone to raise your kids…

“If those little rodents don’t learn right now the importance of an institution, how else are they going to appreciate working in a cube farm the rest of their lives? I pay someone else to teach my kid the ABC’s because I have money to make at my job which is extremely important. So at the next school fundraiser, you just watch me make it rain, girlfriend. I’m all about the Benjamins. Which is why I named my son Benjamin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make more money and you need to go shut the fuck up.”

****Thanks to my friend, Candice for the idea on that one!****

If you are being judged for staying at home…

“If I worked, who else would be watching day time television and keeping it in business? Quite frankly, I’m contributing to the economy more by being at home. And my tennis instructor? He’d be unemployed if it wasn’t for all of us housewives! I’m providing job opportunities for people like Hans, my personal trainer, and Cecilia, my nanny. You didn’t know I have a nanny? How else am I supposed to get in tennis, lunch dates, and yoga? I can’t do all of that while taking care of my KIDS all day! You know what opportunity I could give YOU? The opportunity to shut the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for using disposable diapers…

“Someone’s gotta help keep the trash companies in business, right? Not to mention, do you know how much pee one of those suckers holds??? I don’t have to change my kid for HOURS. It’s AWESOME! Also, on my list of awesome things is you shutting the fuck up.”

If you are being judged for using cloth diapers…

“I just want to make sure we get the most use out of the things we purchase. With cloth diapers, once our little angel is done peeing and pooping in them, we’re going to have them made into clothing for our family! Isn’t that great? In fact, I was thinking of making a little gift for you too! Know what gift you could give me? The gift of shutting the fuck up.”

Now, those were just a few of the top ones that were brought up during the FB discussion. Other Mommy War battles that were mentioned were:

Co-sleeping or not

Pacifier usage

Allergies (yes, one mom has actually gotten flack because her kiddo has severe food allergies)

Crying it out vs. not
Letting your baby around animals (and all of their germs)

Now I haven’t quite thought of responses for those just yet but, when in doubt, a good “Shut the fuck up” with a smile is usually pretty effective.

And if you are a perpetrator of the Mommy Wars, my advice to you is…you guessed it! Shut the fuck up.

We should be offering support, education, and LOVE to one another in this crazy world of Mommyhood. Not beating each other down. Yes, we ALL have opinions and maybe we even think the way we are doing it is the "right" way. And it IS the right way--the right way for YOUR children. But we should not be verbally beating down other moms because they choose differently. Like the old adage goes, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then for the love of motherhood, please SHUT THE FUCK UP.

And if you have been offended by my use of the F Word during this post, please forgive me. I’m a product of my mother’s parenting choices. I was formula fed by a working mother who used disposable diapers. I hear all of those things cause kids to grow up to be smart ass, cynical bloggers who curse like sailors and drink too much.

With A Baby In One Arm

I can do anything with a baby in one arm.

I can dance and sing all the words

to Old MacDonald Had A Farm

I can eat my breakfast and scarf down my lunch.

With a baby in one arm,

I can do a whole bunch!

I can brush my teeth or play the guitar

And do all of the motions

To Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

I can use the pot and even go number two!

Oh, with a baby in one arm,

There’s so much I can do!

I can make up words

Like Ding Dang Doodle

And clean from the floor

A big soggy noodle.

Wipe my other kid’s butt or even a snot nose

This baby in one arm won’t stop me

From painting my toes.

I can tell a story

Or play the animal game.

I can help my oldest learn to write her name.

With a baby in one arm, I can still text my friends

Or surf the internet

And check out new trends.  

I can draw a picture or read a book

With a baby in one arm,

A seven course dinner I can easily cook!

Carrying this baby has made this bicep so large

I could enter a wrestling match

And really take charge.

So many, many things I am capable of doing,

With a baby in one arm

I can keep him from boo-hooing. 

It's truly amazing, the things that get done

With only one arm 

Really, it's all kinds of fun.

  

I can navigate toys in one single leap,

I can carry the laundry in one heap,

I can make the horn on the bus go “beep, beep, beep”

With a baby in one arm, so much productivity I reap

Now if only I could put this baby down and

Get

       Some

                Sleep…

Let's try this again...again...

Let’s put it out there: I suck at blogging. Yeah, so I might be a little funny and you might enjoy reading what I write but I am NOT consistent. 40 days of blogging for Lent? Nope. 11 days of random, little-known facts about myself? Only made it through 8 before I abandoned my poor blog completely. And then a few months ago I woke up and thought “I don’t want to be a mom anymore.” Nothing major had happened. I was just run down and worn out and ready to grab my bathing suit and beach towel and drive south until I hit the water. And it hit me – I have to start writing again to keep what is left of my sanity. So, I started writing this intro into blogging again. I started it ABOUT THREE MONTHS AGO.

The morning I had the thought of resigning my title as VP of Butt Wiping, I was out for my morning walk and thinking of how I could carve out time in my day to do this writing thing regularly and of all of the posts that are floating around that I want to get out. I imagined a cup of coffee on the patio, my laptop open, fingers flying over the keys as I blow you away with my wittiness and realistic perspective, laughing about the happenings of my insane life as a mom. Ahhhh, this is gonna be AWESOME. Yeah right. I honestly have no idea if I can keep this up again and I have no idea for how long. Maybe I’ll make it a week or 2 weeks or 3 or 4 months. No clue. After all, it’s taken me about 3 months just to write this.

And I’m back working full time and I have two kids now (yep, TWO), and there are nights I’m so tired that I contemplate not brushing my teeth. And several weeks ago I cried, literally cried, because I didn’t have time to poop. So, blogging? Yeah, I ain’t really got time for that.

Time has become such a precious commodity around here that I find I am selfish of every friggin’ second. Everything I do feels like I’m moving at warp speed so I can get to the next load of laundry/dishes/diaper changing/dance class/whatever. When I go to the grocery store or out to run errands, I feel like I’m on some episode of Super Market Sweep. I dash through the aisles, zoom past others who seem to have nothing better to do than contemplate soup choices, tap my foot impatiently at the deli counter, and hope like hell I make it home before one of my boobs starts tingling. Except there’s no $100,000 prize for my ninja-like abilities to make it through 2 grocery stores in just under 56 minutes and 37 seconds. Nope. I mean, sure, I get to spend the time I’m not at the store with my glorious children, which, you know, is the whole reason I move through my errands with warp speed in the first place. But occasionally…I’d take the hundred thousand. Just sayin’.   

I was actually so intimidated by writing again that when I logged into my blog, I did so with a little trepidation. I have not looked at it in 12 months. YIKES. I read a few entries and started feeling happy about sharing and a little sad that so much of the past 12 months I probably needed to share and didn’t.

I’m not even going to say I’ll try to be consistent. Trying is crap. You either do something or you don’t. So, I AM going to blog again. I just have no idea how often or how long I’ll be able to keep it up. Because, not only are we in a whole other Fun Zone with The Boss Lady being 4 now, as I mentioned above, we added to this circus, folks. Yep, we had another little person—The Dude (a.k.a. William Douglas, a.k.a. Big Willie, a.k.a. Billy Doug). He joined our troop August 16, 2014 (exactly, to the day, 39 years after his daddy) and he’s INCREDIBLE. If we're Facebook friends, you already know a little about him. If we're not, you’ll get to know him soon enough.

So, without further ado…all aboard the Crazy Train Express (again) and enjoy the ride!

Broken

10 years ago today, my dad had been dead for 7 years. So, officially, today, I have lived longer without him than I did with him. That’s pretty surreal. But 10 years ago, as I was closing in on year 7, Mike was just getting into month 7 after his dad’s death. We hadn’t been dating for long when he asked me one night, “Does it get easier?” I was at a loss. Should I answer this boy honestly? This boy that I dared to call my boyfriend after just a few dates. This boy with the blue eyes and sweet smile whose heart was so big I could feel it every time he was near me. This boy whose grief was so fresh I could sense the cracks from his loss in that very same heart.  

“No.”

That’s what I said. Because it was the truth. Because it IS the truth. Because I wanted him to know something bigger than that. Something I sensed but didn’t quite have the words for 10 years ago.

Each year on this day, I, of course, remember my sweet dad. The man who laughed at his own jokes, who turned anything into a song, who made us pancakes in the shape of our initials, who repeatedly drove 16 hour round trips just to spend time with us. And I remember, on this day, that my grandma walked into my dorm room to tell me he had died. I remember being confused because I didn’t even know he was in the hospital (more on why that is some other day). I remember feeling raw and weird and shocked. I remember driving to Louisiana for his funeral, determined to be strong, to help pick out songs for the mass, to let others know how he was brave in the face of cancer and how I, too, would be brave because God was in control.

I cried like a normal person. I looked at his dead body in his casket and wondered how it was that this body looked so much like my dad. Like any second it would stand up and sing, “Whatever…melts your butter…whatever…peels your banana…whatever…whatever, whatever, whatever.” I talked like a normal person. I talked about what a great dad he was. I grieved like a normal person. But I wasn’t normal.

I was strong. Really, really strong. I was so proud of my abnormal strength. Even though I had prayed and prayed and prayed for him to be healed, God had let my daddy die. Still, I held strong to my faith. I had read the promise in the Bible about asking and receiving and I had asked and God had said, “NO.” So, I was strong some more. I built a shell of armor around the brokenness that was me. I built a shell so that I wouldn’t fall apart. And all of my broken pieces moved inside of that shell for a lot of years. I prided myself on my strength, on that beautiful shell I had built around the pieces that used to be me.  

I thought that I was being a good daughter. A good daughter to my dad. A good daughter to God. Both had left me and I was being so very, very strong.

One night, many years later, after I’d graduated college and had my very first apartment, I was going through a box of old photos. I rifled through dozens of pictures of my sister, Michelle, and me as we were growing up and lots of pictures with my dad. I came across a photo of my dad and my sister. It’s a profile shot of him sitting in a chair and the two of them leaning toward each other giving a kiss. She’s probably 3 or 4 in the picture. And I took one look at that photo and my shell cracked. Seemingly out of nowhere.  All of my broken pieces came tumbling out. They came out in tears and sobbing and gulps of air. They came out in an epic Ugly Cry. And with all of my broken pieces laid out in front of me, I finally started to heal.

17 years after my dad’s death, here’s what I realize about that moment: until then, I hadn’t been a good daughter. Not to my dad and not to God. I had put up a front of being brave thinking I was going it alone. I hadn’t allowed myself to heal or be healed. I hadn’t allowed myself to see that neither God nor my dad left me after all. And it wasn’t until I was broken on the floor of that first apartment that I realized that God was there and had been all those years.

Jesus, it turns out, is in the broken. He resides in the parts of us we may not want to face. He resides in our fears and our anger and our sorrow. He does not watch from afar as we work out our problems. He doesn’t sit on his throne watching us scratch and crawl our way back to him. He is the Savior who came down and got dirty with us so that we could spend eternity with him.

That’s the other thing I started to realize that night that I broke. My dad’s death had nothing to do with me or God’s broken promises to me. His death had everything to do with HIM. My dad’s journey was about him and God. I was a bystander to that. I was a witness to watching my dad transform into God’s good and faithful servant as he made his journey home. Being strong hadn’t honored his life. Being strong had made it all about me.

God knew that I was hurt and angry and confused and that I felt betrayed. He knew because THAT’S WHERE HE LIVES—in all of my broken places.

As I get older, I feel as though I add more and more people to my prayer list and lately I feel as though I’ve added many as they’ve grieved the loss of a loved one. And if you are one of those people, you may be grieving and broken as I was. You may feel that God let you down and you may be seeking answers from him. Because no matter how many generations pass, our flesh still empathizes with Adam and Eve and their desire to eat from the tree. We want to KNOW.  

We want to know, we DEMAND to know, WHY and what is next and how each happening in our life fits into the bigger picture and where it’s all headed. We want to know what He has up his sleeve because we need to prepare ourselves. We NEED to know.

But all of this being strong and questioning is not how we honor the lives of those we lost here on earth.

We honor them by LIVING. We honor them by embracing the broken and the ugly and the every day struggles and we give it all over to God, who is ALREADY RIGHT BESIDE US, and we LIVE. We get up each day and we take THAT day. That one day and we kick butt and take names. We love the crap out of our spouses and our kids and our families ONE DAY AT A TIME. We sing silly songs about melting butter and peeling bananas and we make pancakes in the shape of our kids’ initials. We do everything we do with love and zeal and with a smile on our face. Even the little stuff like making the bed or taking the kids to school or work or making dinner. Because THAT is where we see them—in the every day. That is where we honor them. Where we remember their lives and how they were and we celebrate that. It is all of these day to day REAL moments that I sense my dad and I know he didn’t really go far after all. And I sense my God who never left me but waited for me to stop being so strong so he could heal my heart. He waited right beside me for my shell to break so that he could fix what I never wanted anyone to see.

17 years later, it’s not easier. It’s different. It’s learning and growing and knowing God is in all things. It is celebrating a life lived instead of mourning a life lost. Some days it is crying and missing my dad and wishing he could meet the little girl who challenged me and pushed me out of my comfort zone and the little boy who has softened me. Some days it is laughing about the time he slept on the hood of the car because he couldn’t stand to hear my sister and me fight anymore. There are even some days that are hard and that’s okay too. But each day is another opportunity to live joyfully through this incredible journey. Every day is different but I know that God is in all of these days.

This year, today is one of those days where I know my dad is nearby. Several months ago, Oli told me that sometimes she says hi to Papa Bill and sometimes William smiles at nothing as though my dad (and probably Mike’s dad) is right there making the same silly faces that always brought a smile to my face. I don’t feel sad today. I just feel lucky that I got to be a part of the journey of an incredible man.  

Who knew that I would feel the most whole, the most at peace, after being broken…

And, oh yeah, it looks like maybe I’m blogging again…cue the circus music…