Study Break 2013

Every year, I get a study break.

Every year, I try to take a bit of it.

This year, I'm doing it right.

(Here is a little glimpse of last year's break...)

I'm taking the entire break in one big clump, as encouraged by my boss (who had a terrific, extended study break during his sabbatical last summer). After Easter, I tidied up a bit and then left creative planning in the hands of my remarkable team at PCC and set off. I spent the majority of the first week in Savannah, where I managed to renew my soul and spirit through connections with my daughter, her friends and an incredible church. I did some good, hard study preparing a message for City Church, and enjoyed the challenge of sharing a message from God with a group of relative strangers. Great conversations were had, incredible food was eaten and the 2013 Study Break was off to a great start.

Sarah and David...

I followed up with a trip to Raleigh - with my eldest daughter and her boyfriend - to see her reconnect with her brothers, and to see my eldest son's drum line take first place in the AIA championships. It was a good, if incredibly exhausting, Saturday.

This week, I am mostly home. I've set aside specific goals for each day; yesterday, I reconnected with a husband who held down the fort (in spite of a sinus and bronchial infection) while I was gone, and I did my part at his music store by teaching some incredible musicians their private piano lessons.

You know who you are...

In this photo, you'll see one of my students' hands as she begins to work on a Clementi Sonatina that I played in high school. What goes around, comes around. I find that one of the greatest joys in my current existence is the privilege of working with piano students. To see music come alive for them, as the discipline of years of practice and dedication pay off - wow. It connects everything internally - my love of teaching, my passion for music, my genuine fondness for my students - and the reward is like nothing else. It is passion and purpose, and spiritual in ways that I can't even articulate.


I took a walk through our little village. It's no Savannah, but it's home.

Today I was a domestic diva, staying home, listening to my former pastor preach via the magic of the internet (Jamie Rasmussen, Scottsdale Bible Church - the man God used to teach me the most about grace) and cleaning. Sort of. I'm a half-hearted cleaner who is easily distracted, so it was not difficult to interrupt the day with a conversation over coffee with a good friend who also happens to be my current pastor. And my boss. Lots of great stuff going on in life and in our church, and it was good to reconnect.

I was inspired to cook by the incredible tacos at Foxy Loxy.
These are a far cry from Foxy Loxy, but they were homemade and it's a start....

I visited my church, enjoying very much the glimpse of the faces I love who are carrying out the mission of PCC. I visited my husband. I came home to visit my son, and I listened over the phone as my daughter read a dramatic interpretation of her testimony, which is entangled with my own, and I found myself very emotional.

The freedom to move throughout the day with the undercurrents of grace and inspiration all around me fuels the best, deepest part of my creativity. Things begin to churn and swell and before I know it, they erupt. I know I am where I am supposed to be, and expanded breathing room like this helps me to be my best.

The remaining days of the week include focused study time, artistic inspiration, a structured retreat at Richmond Hill and moments with my boys whenever I can find them.

I'm also thinking of planning a big party. I'm turning 50 in just a few weeks!

I'm grateful for every day of every one of those almost-fifty years; with each day that passes, my gratitude grows for the privilege of life, well-lived. Working, study-breaking, vacationing - it's good just to be alive.

There Were No Easter Baskets

Time just keeps moving us forward. There's no greater reminder of this for me, lately, than holidays. What once was a foregone conclusion; holiday, big dinner, everybody home - has morphed into something that requires a lot of mobility and flexibility.

Such was Easter this year. The boys are gone, off on a mission trip with their dad in New York City. Sarah is in Savannah. Shannon and Sydni came home for the weekend. Tony and I are still here, and everything swirls around us. 

No complaints. Just the way it is. And I'm okay with that.

Easter was an amazing celebration at our church. I read this post today and realized that I have moved past the emotions he describes into something that is grounded in joy and optimism, more so than in recent years. It is tangible and it is good, and today was an explosion of grace and goodness that I still find

Connie Kottman's art

inexplicable; but I accept it for what it is and give thanks for a community of faith that gives us room to work out our salvation with fear and trembling.

And a good bit of singing and shouting.

There were no Easter baskets for our family this year, which felt a bit odd. But church and a full table and good conversation made up for the absence of candy, fake grass and chocolate bunnies.

It's been a busy few weeks around here, but I've been taking notes. Here's some links I highly recommend, from writers all connected with PCC in some way:

Paul on faith and The Bible series.

Meredith on Easter and modern-day slavery.

Mel with a humble, brave apology.

Laura, with the backstory on It Was Me, the powerful song she wrote and sang for Easter services today.

Eric, with eleven things that brought me hope.

You can watch today's service here

Trusting In Advance

With the benefit of hindsight, it's not difficult to admit that change is good. We do not become who we need to be without altered circumstances, in spite of the pain in the process. It's hard to believe until we are well past the gate, but change always has the potential to be good. It gives us the opportunity to be better, to grow, to lean forward and dig deeper. Once we're there, we can nod our heads at our own history, we can acknowledge the results.

But it's hard to believe, in the midst of the turmoil. My friend Lisa posted this quote by the Philip Yancey (author of one of the most transformative books I've read, The Jesus I Never Knew):

"I have learned that faith means trusting in advance what will only make sense in reverse."


If you live in the paradigm of grace, change triggers growth, resulting in faith.

But it's hard to see.

There are so many around me who are enduring painful change in this season; difficult medical diagnoses, basic surgical procedures gone wrong, loss of jobs, imploding marriages, changing relationships that change the future. In the chaos of their circumstances, there is pain. It is difficult.

One person I know said, with no small amount of anger, "I don't want any canned Christian phrases. I can't even cope..." God bless you. I don't want any canned Christian phrases either.


I sat down to write this morning about the current season of change in my life; how my three daughters are all living somewhere other than this house this summer, and how my anxiety almost crippled me as I contemplated life without the swirling mass of female energy that has always defined our home life. Like a rushing wind, some weather event of joyful energy, my emotional energy has been fixated on my daughters. There have words - many, many words! - and questions and laughter and tears and let's not forget the massive amount of clothes everywhere. There's stuff of the practical, daily living, and matters of the heart, the way that big, broad personalities fill up all the empty space in the house. The way the dynamic of sisterhood brings intense conflict and incredible love. It is big, and it is busy, and loud and emotional. And it's all I've known, for almost two decades.

And now? Change. Quiet. Space. Vision. There's the general contemplation of what comes next for the girls, as each one prepares for college and work and new relationships and independent living - anxiety on a different level. But also, there are eyes to see (mine) the young men who have lived in the midst of the swirl, space to hear them and settle into silence and uncomplicated maleness. I have a sixteen-year old son. I have a thirteen-year old son. The shade of their sisters gone, they are in my field of vision now, and I am discovering the joy of a more complete and focused love for them, without distraction and unhindered by their role as, simply, The Boys.

I sat down to write about that sort of change this morning, to acknowledge that I have survived, it's not so bad, and that it has been surprisingly good. I have settled into something that makes sense, and I have discovered that I really, really like being the only female in a house of men; not only the ones who live here, but also the ones that tag along with them, crashing on the floor to eat ramen and drink Gatorade and sleep, arms and legs flailing, on the couch in the midst of it all.

I sat down to write about this good place I am easing into, and of the irony of a 12:17AM phone call last night, from a daughter who had a week's worth of words that needed room to roam.

Things have changed, and some of what is different still bruised and tender. I miss my girls. I pray for their safety and stave off worry and anxiety over their well-being. My maternal cloak of protection stayed home with me, and I leave them to their good sense and the watch care of God.

Change is painful, regardless of the circumstances and details. I have known the backbreaking pain of the big ticket items; illness and loss and death and divorce and sin and shame. The relatively minor (and somewhat natural) process of releasing my children to independent lives pales in comparison, but change is painful, no matter the details.


Yet the result is always the same, when you look back; the aching may remain, as Andrew Peterson says - but the breaking does not. The cracks are filled in.

Faith means trusting in advance what will only make sense in reverse.


Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.


Or, as Eugene Peterson puts it in The Message: 


The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see.


Struggling with current circumstances? I have no pithy phrases to alter your perspective.

But because you cannot see, the paradox of growth is put into motion.

And that's a good thing.

What Kind Of Wife?

My husband has been gone most of the past two weeks, out of town to take care of a family medical emergency. All is well, and he is due home shortly.

It's been an interesting time.

We are newly married, only about 2 1/2 years, and after 40+ years of life for me, 30 months seems like the blink of an eye. I love the man dearly; love who he is and how he conducts his life. I love that I am better with him beside me, that he balances me in just about every way possible.

I love our life together.

It's been stressful lately, though; a huge season of transition. Kids moving in and out, a major home addition, a new business, health issues, life in general. Our relationship is good, but we've been clinging to faith and hope and love more than we've been able to live it. We love each other; we just don't have a lot of time or energy to be in love.

I think that's just the way it is, mostly. Life is like this for people in this season of life. He told me the other day, "We aren't retired, yet. We have a few years of work ahead of us..."

So in his absence, a curious thing has happened. For two weeks, I have stretched out a bit, spread my arms wide, slept in all of the bed, turned on the light whenever I wanted to, like I used to. I've focused fully on the kids, like I used to. I've felt less anxious, less concerned about how the house looks, whether or not there's food left over (he always gets home late, after closing the music store). I've been less self-conscious and more self-aware. Like I used to.

I miss him, for sure. I can't wait till he calls me and tells me about his day and we listen to one another breathe on the phone before we hang up, way too late for a 615AM alarm. I send him text messages and email. I miss him.

Like I used to.

There's something wonderful and fresh about this longing. We're apart, and the fondness is, indeed, growing.

But it scared me, to realize all of this. To admit, in my head, that I missed him but I was okay.

That somehow, I was breathing easier.

It scared me, and I pushed it all away, and buried it, and leaned harder into the waiting for his call.

And then the other night, I gave in, and I thought about it all, and how it was probably okay that I kind of liked this quick revisit to that other place, where it was me and just me. I lived that way, lived it hard, for eight years. It was me, only me, and the bed was always all mine and my heart was for my kids and when I let go at the end of a long day, I sunk into a place that was just me, and it was good. Easy. Comfortable.

And then I felt called to make a marriage, to commit, to have a partner in the second half of this life. I loved and respected him. I knew, deep in my heart, that he was for me. I chose the "yes", and I dressed like a princess and walked towards him alone, down an aisle lined with my history, into a circle of the best love I've ever known, my children and my friends and my brother and sister-in-law and my pastor and his tears, who tethered me to grace through the working out, through the fear and trembling. I said, "yes".

I chose, and it's been the up and down and chaotic and busy and crazy and fun and deeply joyful. It's been the holding hands, side by side. It's been the passion and the risk, the wide and the deep.

We lived it, up and down, holding on for dear life. And lately, it's been tenuous. But still good, solid. It is our life.

And then these few weeks apart, and I've been reminded of the wide open spaces I walked through when it was Just Me.

And I whispered, finally, the truth to myself.

"I kind of like this."


"This is easier."

Secrets bind anxiety, and I let go my secret to my own ears, and then knew I needed some other ears. I started an email to my most trusted advisor, asking for a few moments, thinking I could pour my heart out and admit my feelings and get some good counsel.

I finished the first sentence and I stopped. I heard his voice, this advisor, and I knew what he would say.

"Have you talked to Tony about this?"

My fear leapt into my throat, and I recognized that Independent Girl, the single mom, the one who Takes Care Of Everything; the part of me that lives in fear, that fixes everything herself, that hates vulnerability, that bears all the burdens. That part of me was terrified to speak these things aloud to the man I loved, afraid of rejection, afraid of letting him process these feelings that had a life of its own.

What kind of wife is content and relaxed when her husband is gone?

A failure.

A bad wife.

I longed to choose the easy, to keep it to myself, to manage it on my own.

I have control issues, but I'm learning.

I picked up the phone, and I called, even though it was after midnight, and I let my heart spill out, carried in the mucky sludge of anxiety and fear and failure.

What kind of wife is content and relaxed when her husband is gone?

It seems odd, I'm sure; but I was terrified. But I told him how I felt, and he responded with understanding beyond my own, layered with love and compassion, and before I realized what had happened, love snuck under my fear and got in between the cracks of my doubt and squeezed until it hurt. He got it, he validated it, he loved me anyway. I admitted my failure.

He loved me anyway.

This is my life. It is not easy.

But I've chosen this, and I'm in for keeps.

And he's on his way home.

I can't wait.

In Which The Truth Comes Out

I’m house cleaning. Music pours through the empty halls and off the walls as I wait for three of my five kids to make the 45-minute trip from their dad’s house back home. I’m in the kitchen, and I can hear the shuffle of the melodies from the living room.

Eminem - Tenth Avenue North - Susan Graham - Michael Roe - U2 - Willie Nelson - A.R. Rahman - Andrew Bird - Dave Matthews - Jay Z - Lecrae - Hillsong - Sting -

I’m unsure about so many things these days, including what kind of music I want. So I put it on shuffle. It works brilliantly. There's a little bit of everything - a LOT of everything!

I think, to myself, “This music....it’s like I’m schizophrenic or something...” and I imagine me saying that to someone, because I do that, sometimes, when I’ve spent a few too many hours alone.

And I pull up short in that moment. It's that word, schizophrenia. Because I have learned, recently, that comparing the challenges of a mental illness like schizophrenia to the razzle-dazzle of an eclectic music collection meets a wide range of criteria for wrong.

There is no comparison. Bad analogy.

I’m not schizophrenic. I just have diverse taste in music. I don’t have a mental illness.

But my daughter does.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

There it is. I said it. The truth is out.

And oh, the roaring rush of wind that blows through mind as I even type those words...it is loud and it is fast and it blows where it will. And I can’t control it.

So I am giving up control. I have decided (with her permission) to let it go.

It seems, at times, that we live in two separate worlds. It’s not the biggest secret; there are many who will read these words and acknowledge what was confided months ago. Coming out is no surprise to all.

But we have lived in this other place, where we read blogs about bipolar and pass around a book called Loving Someone Who Is Bipolar and we talk about and pray for friends who are exhibiting symptoms that we recognize so well. We talk about our extended family, and those who have gone before, some undiagnosed, and what cousins are struggling still. We see the scarred branches of our particular family tree and have learned to find new names for what we once simply called moody. Or over the top. Or intense. Or hyper.

And we live in this place where we are all just a bit sensitive to the mania and the depression and the way the tendrils of either one can wrap around our legs and throw us on our collective asses.

Bipolar disease has changed our family dramatically, because we live here, now.

Sarah was diagnosed just a few weeks after her 19th birthday. Calling it what it was - naming this thing that was bouncing off the walls and scratching itself bloody on our backsides - led to a decision (hers, mostly) to walk into St. Mary’s psych ward here in Richmond. Reliving those moments as I watched my child - my baby girl! my daughter! my beautiful child! - walk through doors locked to keep me out as much as to keep her in brings hot, tense tears even now.

Of all the things that life has brought; of the many mistakes I have made, the pain I have caused, the injuries I have inflicted, the wounds I have felt, nothing - absolutely nothing - compares of the utter agony of a suffering child.

My suffering child.

And me, rendered completely incapable of helping her. In fact, quite the opposite, as therapy and hot dialogue reveal that the initial triggers all connect to me, somehow. Those tight, tense strings of maternal love and affection can also carry deadly, destructive disease.

I am her mother. I bring healing, and I bring pain.

There is a special place for this sort of motherhood. I’ve yet to determine any analogy, any comparison. I know this: that there is a depth to my soul untouched and likely unreachable by anything but the fiery coals that sear this tainted love, the kind that rages within the boundaries of mania and weeps with the despair of depression. Only this particular, unforgettable fire burns this deep. None other that I have felt.

I love my daughter. She is bipolar. And we will never be the same.


~~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah is incredibly wise and proactive and continues to embrace - even to own her life, in a full and vibrant way. The challenges of living with mental illness are greater for her, the affected individual, than any of the rest of us; but Sarah has a unique, God-given ability to consider others around her. Perhaps it’s because she is the eldest, the “big sister”. Years of looking out for everybody else created habits and patterns of bold love and heartfelt kindness. It's a beautiful thing.

Today, she sent a note to me and to her sisters, quoting a book she is reading. It was the trigger to finally tug these words out from beyond the walls of our house and into the light.

So, now you know. And I wonder if some of you read this post and were surprised.

It's everywhere. There are people and families all around us who live with bipolar and other mental illness. The spectrum of treatment and life engagement varies wildly. You never know.

In opening the door to our situation, we hope to offer an invitation toward healing for other families who are living with bipolar disease or other mental illness. And we want to help eliminate the stigma. Everyone around you is carrying some sort of burden. Some of them struggle with mental illness. Don’t forget that.

Here’s the quote Sarah sent us, how she is helping her siblings walk this road:

The effects of mental illness on brothers and sisters
Mental illness can lead to a variety of emotional effects for brothers and sisters of the affected person. For example, they may feel:
Confusion about their sibling’s changed behaviour.
Embarrassment about being in the affected person’s company.
Jealous of their parent’s attention.
Resentment about not being like their peers.
Fear of developing the mental illness.

What brothers and sisters can and can’t do
What you can do
If your sibling has a mental illness, you can:
Talk honestly about your feelings and encourage others in the family to do the same.
Be active in improving mental health services - for example, through local mental health support groups.
Avoid making the ill person the axis around which the family revolves.
Maintain your focus on living and enjoying your own life.
What you can’t do
If your sibling has a mental illness, you can’t:
Be totally responsible for their welfare.
Make your sibling behave in a certain way - for example, force them to take their medication.
Solve all their problems or feel you ought to.
Lessen the impact of the illness by pretending that it is not there.

And this is the back story, then, to the tremendous emotion behind that post I wrote. You see, leaving home and taking this step towards her future was something that she wasn't sure she'd ever really be able to do. That's why we cried; that's why we rejoice.

You never know.

Swagger

Just a few days ago I was thinking about how my family dynamic has changed since my oldest girls got their drivers' licenses.  Used to be, we had to pile five kids into the Suburban together to go anywhere. We didn't fit anywhere else. There were always heated arguments about who got to sit up front - they would run towards the car screaming, "SHOTGUN!!!" and subsequently debate whether or not the word itself trumped the physical possession of the front seat. We've argued and sung and laughed our way through many a mile in our big red Suburban.

No more. Now Sarah and Shannon have their own cars and the occasion for all of us to travel together is rare.

I remember the first van we bought; it wasn't worth much, an old square GM van we purchased in Hico, Texas. It didn't last long; it came with a bum transmission and within a few months we were trading it in for something that actually ran. With only two kids in the family, we weren't quite mini-van material, but from that point forward we needed large vehicles to transport our crew.

I love my Suburban, but these days it's used more as a shuttle for Sunday morning church services than it is for our family.

So this made me smile, and just a bit nostalgic. I'm thinking about all the folks I know with young children and swagger wagons. Those days passed way too quickly, it seems.

Enjoy - creative marketing and great filmmaking.

Feels Like Home

Syd takes voice lessons in the city. Every time I drive her into the quaint neighborhood that curves around the James River, my heart quickens. The old frame houses huddle like unique old relatives at a reunion, snug in the shadow of the glass and metal buildings shining just across the river. It appeals to me.

I was born in a small town in western Pennsylvania. Until I started first grade, we lived "in town". It was considered a great escape to get out to the country, living on five acres next to my aunt, uncle and grandparents in the new house my parents' built. It was a good life out there, but something was formed in me during those first few years that has never left. Memories of living in Franklin - in town - are stitched on my heart.

Narrow city streets and sidewalks, houses built at the turn of the century or earlier. A massive courthouse and city parks, a library within walking distance. Quintessential small town life.

I've always felt like a small town girl.

These days, I'm out in a rural county about 30 miles from Richmond. It's a large county, too spread out to offer much of that small town, walk-about feel. We have the county seat - and the County Seat Restaurant - and you can walk to the Y or the library from there. But there's precious little housing available in the courthouse area, and most of us live spread out all over the place. It doesn't feel like a small town.

A few weeks ago Tony and I had lunch at Karen's City Diner in Richmond. As we navigated the neighborhood, I said, "You know, if anything ever happens to you, I'm moving to the city..." He smiled and nodded. I've said that before. I'm committed to raising my kids where they are - the public schools are excellent and this is home for them. Tony loves the rural lifestyle.

But I go into the city and drive through neighborhoods with houses rich in character, neighborhood grocers and diners, linear blocks and corner bus stops and something in me just quickens. Every time I go to town, my heart stirs. I can imagine a life in the city; walking to the market every day, the feeling of everything close at hand, the energy of so much of life in such close proximity. What intrigues me is what's going on behind all those closed doors, in the hearts and heads of the people walking up and down the street, in between the boys and girls in love, holding hands as they stroll past the front porches. So much life, it seems.

Tonight was no different. I dropped Syd off and then just drove around for a while, discovering where the streets wound, how the weirdly angled intersection resolved, what the local Oriental market looked like. I watched the people moving around as I cruised with the flow of traffic. I pictured myself there, in one of the houses that was for sale, perched on a stoop with a cup of coffee.

It leaves this odd taste of nostalgia in my head. I know it's tied to my earliest memories, to black and white photos of me posed on a sprawling front porch of a three-story mansion on Elk Street. I know it's something as closely tied to imagination and wonder as it is to real estate and quality of life in 2010. I know there's a little "grass is always greener" yearning in me. I don't quite trust it, but there's this feeling that my life would be somehow more authentic if I lived in the city, if I got back to being "in town".

Tonight, though, something occurred on the drive home. It surprised me. As we headed west, we navigated the six-laned Midlothian Turnpike through the city limits and into Chesterfield County. Strip malls, development, small businesses, fast food; out of the charm of the city and into the sad, bruised facade of old urban sprawl. Stop lights and shopping malls. Ugly.

We reached the western side of Chesterfield, the place where the development just seemed to stop and the clutter tapered off. The car crested a small rise in the road and I saw open spaces, green trees, blue skies.

Involuntarily, I sighed. And a word came to my mind spontaneously, unbidden.

Home. I was headed home. It was there, out there in those wide open spaces.

I was ready for it, anticipating it. I just didn't realize it.

In the grocery store tonight, I ran into five different people that I know in the community. There were hugs, or smiles, or small waves. Conversations. Questions about the kids. I never go anywhere here that I don't see someone I know - not just a vague recognition, but someone I know well enough to stop and say "hi". I've lived here for just shy of six years now - longer than I have lived ANYWHERE in my adult life.

It's home.

Live At Last - The Flat Rockers

Rockin' with the stars - indeed.

In Search Of Wonder

A photo of my as-yet-unfinished work space at the church. Eventually, I'll get it done...

Here's what's smacking my internal attitude around today - a fascinating and thought-provoking quote from Dan Allender's book Sabbath, via Pete Wilson's blog:

“Ambition leads to the demand for the shortest path between points to gain the most in the least amount of time; wonder calls the heart to explore the unexpected, nonlinear paths that often create a new unity that could not be expected when one first began.”

This really resonates with me today. I am struggling to make sense of the details of my life in this season, from the responsibilities and requirements of my job and my home to the emotional challenges of my relationships.

I want an answer. I want to get there. I want things to be right, and to be assured that I am doing things right. I want to know that I'm heading in the right direction, and that we - the "we" that collectively embodies my work, family and friends - are moving forward in grace and wisdom.

I want some answers, and I want things to be not-so-difficult.

I'm leaning hard into ambition and not much into wonder. And I hate that though I know better, I can hardly seem to help myself from getting bound up with anxiety and stress and concern.

It's ridiculous, really, because time and again I have been whacked over the head with the same message.

Rest.

Trust God.

Let go.

I've heard it from friends, read it in scripture, stumbled upon it in books and articles and know it, deep in the core of my being. And yet I am having a heck of a time living into it these days.

"I cry out to God most high, to God, who fulfills his purpose for me. He sends from heaven and saves me, rebuking those who hotly purse me; God sends his love and his faithfulness." - Psalm 57.2

Family Snapshots

After a most incredible Christmas surprise, the big day finally arrived last weekend. My three girls, my mom and I went to see Wicked, and oh - what a day it was!

We had a wonderful brunch at the Strawberry Street Cafe and then went on to see the show.

Not much good blogging fodder, truth be told; the following content is simply photos of my family, having fun.

It was a wonderful day; the show is incredible. No matter who you are, whether or not you like musical theatre, if you love or hate going to shows - you need to see this musical. Go with The Wizard of Oz in mind, because Wicked gives you the backstory. It is clever, imaginative, emotional, powerful, touching and very, very well-told.

The music is brilliant. The sets are astounding.

Here's some pictures of my family.

Have a great weekend!

Mom and I. Don't ask why I look so astounded. I'm not sure what was going on.

Sarah, looking absolutely gorgeous, as usual...

Shannon, looking absolutely gorgeous, as usual...

Sydni, looking absolutely gorgeous, as usual...

At the cafe. No photo of Sarah, as she's the one always taking the pictures...making us look absolutely gorgeous. As usual...

Apples To Apples

We are learning a new version of family at our house. Adding a new person to the mix, one who has moved past "friend" and "significant other" to "husband" and "stepfather".

This is the part I was really, really anxious about. I just couldn't see it; I had such a strong sense of identity in my home, with my kids. I didn't know how in the world it was going to work.

But, to my surprise, it's been far smoother than I anticipated. A lot of it has to do with the man himself. He is flexible and laid-back in ways that I did not anticipate.

But I think it's given all of us different roles, one that we are embracing, carefully and cautiously. Somehow things have changed and everybody seems to be relaxing, settling down, feeling less stressed and panicked and overwhelmed. It just seems that our burden is shared now, in a way that perhaps we didn't foresee.

Last night after dinner, David - my youngest - declared, "Okay. Now we're going to have a HUGE game of Apples To Apples!" We all had things to do - write thank-you's, study for tests, wash dishes - but this was a first, David organizing a game. So we set aside all our stuff and met for a game of Junior Apples To Apples.

We laughed. We fought, just a bit, in fun.

We had time together. It came in a way that it had never come before. It was sweet, precious fun.

It was new, and I count it as a blessing and joy, a bonus coming from the changes wrought by taking a risk and moving forward. Seems like I'm finding a new kind of contentment.

I'm grateful.

Ready

I had the most remarkable day of my life last weekend.

I got married. Obviously that’s a big day in anyone’s life. But at this point in my journey, in my mid-forties, with five kids, a wedding takes on a completely different meaning. Of course there’s the basic premise - a commitment to a man, the beginning of doing life together as a couple, incorporating another adult into our family dynamic. The general stuff that comes with getting married remains the same.

But we had a wedding - a celebration, a party, an event - and it was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

When we began to talk about actually moving forward, taking this step, having a ceremony, I approached our discussion thinking that we’d do something very simple. After all, I’d obviously done this before. So had he. We had kids in the mix. We were adults. The need to celebrate ourselves seemed a bit superfluous. I thought we’d do something small, intimate - maybe even just take a trip to the county courthouse and avoid all the pomp completely.

There’s so much to process after a failed marriage; so many things that a mother feels like she owes her children, because so much was taken from them. It seems pretentious and self-serving to think about celebrating a new marriage. I couldn’t help but think about the kids and how a big party to celebrate this new union might impact or hurt them.

I think, actually, that I felt as though we should just hide, just sneak a little wedding ceremony under the radar.

But he had different ideas. He encouraged me to think big, to dream a bit, and after some discussion and releasing my inhibitions about something so self-centered, I began to explore the idea of having a party. And I realized that I really wanted to do just that - to celebrate, to rejoice, to stand up and loudly declare that something amazing had happened in my life, to forcefully declare my intentions. I wanted to create a beautiful, memorable day.

The past eight years have been so much about my choices - right or wrong, I have deliberately chosen one path or another, and I’ve dealt with the consequences. Having looked back over the last 40+ years of my life, I’d have to say that I finally grew up over the past eight years. I know who I am, and I’ve realized - finally - that I don’t have to apologize for that. My calling is to “walk straight, act right and tell the truth”.

And so, a few phone calls were made, a date was chosen, and things began to miraculously fall into place. In three months’ time, we planned a wedding - a party - and all that came with it.

I thought the day would never arrive - and then, when it did, it flew by way too fast. I can truthfully say that I enjoyed every single moment. About 30 minutes before we were to begin, all the girls were gathered in our dressing room - a mad mess of underwear and flowers and curling irons and hairspray, with my veil hanging off the light fixture - and I found myself in an amazing state of calm. No anxiety, no worries, no stress at all. I was, in a word, ready.

We have relived the day over and over, relished the mental pictures, tried to describe how we felt and what we experienced. It was remarkable and memorable. But three specific things stick out for me, because they were so unexpected. And the unexpected moments, I know, are the ones that really matter.

See, to some degree, I plan events for a living. Each week, I work to put together a Sunday experience that is scripted to honor a unique process with the intention of creating a memorable and important spiritual result. A wedding is sort of like that as well. We had scripted everything as best we could - we had a “felt need” (Tony and Beth want to get married!) and a “desired outcome” (Tony and Beth get married and all their guests have a wonderful time!) and we’d included some elements that we believed would make it memorable and sacred. The right people were in place - our families, who played important roles in everything that happened. We had a timeline and an order, and everything went according to plan.

But just like in the weekly gatherings that we plan when we seek to encounter the holy and divine in corporate worship, God showed up. I had a very specific, personal experience, and undoubtedly others experienced something completely different. But for me, there were three moments that took my breath away. Unscripted, they were reminders for me of how life itself can take you by surprise when you simply make space and time to notice.

First, I came down the aisle alone. This was deliberate, reflective of my choice and my decision, a statement of intention and independence. I entered into this marriage as a choice for me, rather than any desire to please or placate anyone else or any other expectations. I came to meet this man on my own. When I arrived, however, I found myself surrounded by men - five men whose impact on my life has been undeniable and irreplaceable.


As I reached the front row, I took the arm of my father, and my eldest son came to stand beside me as well. Supported on each side by the two men whose blood I shared, I stood before Brian, who has been my pastor, my friend, a creative partner, a counselor, an accountability partner, and a man who has allowed me to grow to a place of trust and understanding. Beside Brian stood my brother, whose lifelong presence in my life has brought friendship, inspiration, and the simplest, most definitive unconditional love I have ever given or received. My father on my left, who loves Tony like a son. Daniel on my right, my young man, almost as tall as me - my first son, the one promised and named by God’s whisper in my heart. And on the other side of Daniel stood Tony, the man to whom I would pledge my faithfulness and love.

There we stood. Most of us were crying. And I felt so surrounded and supported by these men, whose lives I have seen into to the degree that I understand and appreciate both their strengths and their weaknesses. I am a better person - so much closer to the woman God has created me to be - because of the presence of these men in my life. I cannot imagine my life without these men woven throughout. It was a moment I will not forget, an Ebenezer moment testifying to something deep and solid and healing in my soul.

Second: After the ceremony ended, we took a few photos and then proceeded out of the room. Most of the guests had already moved downstairs into the Rotunda, where the jazz piano music flowed and folks were eating, drinking and mingling. As I moved towards the railing and looked down, my breath caught in my throat. There were all of our friends. I had not seen anyone in the room during the ceremony - I only had eyes for the groom - but now, suddenly, I realized that all these people had come to celebrate with us! There was Karen and Mike and their girls; there was Mary Elizabeth, and Jeff and Nancy clear from Nashville, and Kelley and Brian. There was Chauncey and Christine and Alana. Christian was there, looking dapper as usual. I saw Ric and Betty and Hayley and Lisa and Jeff and all of them, all dressed to the nines, looking beautiful, and I was overwhelmed. A wave of gratitude washed over me, rich and resplendent with the grace of fellowship and community.

Third: We planned three dances, one for ourselves, and then one each with our respective parent. We practiced and planned for weeks, but in the moment I forgot every step and we ended up laughing our way through those first moments of our dance. Keeping with tradition, I had a dance planned with my father, and I’d chosen an old family favorite - Willie Nelson singing “Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain”. My dad’s musical phases had impacted me greatly, and when we’d moved from Pennsylvania to Texas in 1976, he fell in love with Waylon and Willie and Jerry Jeff and we got a huge dose of outlaw music for several years. Just last year we saw Willie at the National in Richmond, and I thought it would be a meaningful moment.

Just a bit of back story here; my dad suffered a stroke about five years ago, and though his recovery has been miraculous, he is, in some ways, a different man than he was before the stroke. Though his physical healing has been remarkable, he still struggles with his balance at times. Quite frankly, I did not anticipate that our dance would be much more than a bit of a shuffle, a few moments to celebrate for the sake of tradition.

We moved to the dance floor and the song started and we shuffled along for a few bars. Dad muttered, “Let me see...just let me remember this....”

And then we began to dance. The Texas two-step, in perfect time. My dad moved me across the dance floor - me in my wedding gown, on this incredible day marking the most definitive moment of my mid-life journey - and we danced. Dad has always been a good dancer, and in that moment, he was exactly that. No simple homage to tradition, we were literally dancing, and I was in the arms of the first man who ever loved me, feeling every bit a princess.

Enthused by the cheers of the crowd, Dad ceremoniously pulled off his jacket, and then his tie, and - like the Clyde of years past, who would do anything for a laugh - he made like he was going to strip it all off. Our friends cheered and laughed, and we finished the three minutes of Willie’s mournful tune. I walked back to my seat astounded and overwhelmed, overcome with the realization that, for the length of a song, I’d been dancing with the man I’d known all my life.

It’s difficult to plan a wedding and not realize, time and time again, that these events are generally designed for the young, for those still moving towards figuring out who they’ll be and what they’ll do. Vows to honor and cherish are the doorway to an entire lifetime when you’re twenty-six years old and close to the beginning point of everything. When you’re forty-seven, this commitment means something entirely different, knowing that you’re past the promise and looking towards what comes as our lives wind inextricably towards the latter days.

But for me, regardless of the lines on my face or the gray in my hair, I discovered the great gift of grace, culminating in the celebration of a promise that intend to live out for the remainder of my days. And this day - my wedding day - felt like a new beginning, a fresh start, with layers of youthful anticipation for the future. It was an incredible, beautiful day; all that I have never dreamed of, because I never knew enough to dream such things for myself. I was happier than I have ever been. I am still glowing today.

I will never forget, which is the way it ought to be.

It's Here!

Every year, for the past two decades, the Christmas spirit has settled upon me at various, unexpected moments. I never know when or how it will be ushered in. Last year, it came like this. The year before, like this.

Sometimes the falling snow is key. Sometimes it's a song, like when my friend Helen sang the angels down at Joshua Baptist Church years ago. Sometimes it's Charlie Brown.

This year, it was a late afternoon realization that slightly inclement weather - i.e. some wet snow - caused the cancellation of the evening's planned activities. Miraculously, all of us were going to be home on Saturday evening.

Sarah and I were driving home from Richmond - in the snow - when the call came. We decided to make a detour and pick up a tree. After some discussion, we thought we could get away with an artificial tree this year; after all, we're overwhelmingly busy. Nobody was going to go out to cut a tree in this weather, although that's been a fine tradition. We called the house, told the other kids to get the stuff out of the attic and get ready - that we were getting an artificial tree on the way home.

Shannon was adamant. "This is just WRONG!" she exclaimed.

Then I called Tony to fill him in on our plans. "NO WAY!" he exclaimed.

We had two very virulent protesters of our plan - not the decorating, but the artificial part.

So, we relented. By the time we got home, Tony had a real tree in the house and we had the makings of a good dinner in hand. We spent a few hours getting the decorations up. Harry Connick sang us through, with both his recent Christmas records. Syd put the star on the tree. A good time was had by all.

Traditions are so powerful. They bind us to who we were, and give us insight into who we are yet to be. Last night was special, and provided another opportunity for buckets of grace-filled memories.

And the Christmas spirit? It landed hard all around us, as Sarah and I walked through the drizzling snow in the Lowe's parking lot, singing "Winter Wonderland".

It's here.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

This was the interesting nativity scene this year; Joseph's head turned up in a box. It was, honestly, a relief, as this was the scene two years ago:

I guess we'll never know what really happened...

Thanksgiving Thoughts

It's Thanksgiving Eve. The house is quiet - just me, the laptop and a little mindless television. It's been a busy day.

We had a house full of fun and food and laughter all afternoon. We call it "Fake Thanksgiving", and it's an every-other-year event. My favorite holiday - I can't stand to skip it when the kids spend the "official" holiday with their dad. We just pretend Wednesday is Thursday and nobody seems to mind. Elijah and Travis are here, on break from school, and their presence filled the house in a joyous way. Katie joined us as well, and the touchstone of her presence throughout the last several years - in our lives and also with my parents - made her place at the table very special.

Plus Katie brought pies. But that's another (delicious) (fattening) subject.

I'm a very thankful girl these days. Little things settle in my heart and give me great peace. The house is clean and uncluttered (for MY standards, anyway!) My family is safe and sound. My parents are healthy and present in our lives. My job is rewarding and fulfilling. My friendships are solid and meaningful. I love a man deeply and powerfully and truly and he loves me in return.

I've arrived at some point in life that seems to mark a turning of sorts. As if I am standing on the edge of a river, about to step forward. It's the truth, actually; much is changing. My kids are growing older - I'm learning to parent young adults, which is much more of a challenge than I ever imagined it would be. I'm reevaluating my role in my workplace and excited about what lies ahead and what challenges and opportunities await our community. I'm about to enter into a partnership with a man - a marriage - that feels so new and unique and unlike anything I've ever done, and yet will be settling and familiar.

Seems like I'm growing up. I find it somewhat disturbing that it's taken me 46 years to get to this point. Aren't I a bit late to the game?

Is this the way other people in their forties feel? I mean, for all these years, I looked at people in this stage of life and assumed that they had things figured out. Seemed like you live this long, get your kids halfway or mostly raised, and you had it together. By this point, you had the house, the cars, paid the bills, worked your job, knew the ropes. Knew who you were.

But I'm looking at my friends who are my age and I'm thinking, "Shoot - they are still figuring it out as they go along - just like me." And I KNOW that I'm still stubbing my toe on the big and small issues of life.

So being a grown up must be relative, I guess.

I do know this - there are some lessons I have learned. Some mistakes have paid dividends. Perseverance has paid off. Love always wins. Investment in children is never wasted.

Some things I'm starting to get.

There's my Thanksgiving ruminations. Tomorrow I'll hang out with my parents and be thankful - so very thankful - for all that has been and all that is to come.

A Smaller Solution

I'm having a rough time right now.

Lots of things swirling together to make a recipe for the autumn blues.

Family and relational challenges. Kids growing up, stretching their wings and breaking things in the process.

A friend's illness.

Another friend who is processing his wife's illness.

Life changes that bring about anxiety, stress, regrets and concern.

The consistent lack of time to accomplish all that needs to be done.

sounds like. a cup of soup, a good workout, some comfy socks, and a long-distance hug may seem like temporary fixes. but we live life in days and moments, so it sometimes makes sense that when a bigger solution is not to be found, a smaller one is held out. and it fits.

These words of wisdom came today from a friend, via a Facebook chat. I think she's got a great point.

It's the little things that get us through the day.

100.1 Degrees

I did something very unusual today; I called in sick to work.

On a Sunday.

A friend called this afternoon and told me that she didn't really notice that I wasn't there.

That's good.

Seriously.

David's been sick since Friday afternoon with a fever and congestion; some variance of the mess that's going around this county like crazy. I'm not sure whether it's H1N1 or a virus or a cold or what - but he's sick. Last night he woke me up around 3:00 AM with crazy jibberish and tears and cold sweats. It scared me; I had read up on H1N1 last night just to be sure I knew what to look for - just in case - and they made mention of possible neurological issues along with the respiratory challenges of this illness to children.

At that point, I knew I would stay with him, although I had already made plans for somebody else to cover for me this morning so that I could lead worship while David stayed home. I changed my mind.

I called some key folks at 6:00 AM to let them know that adjustments would have to be made.

They adjusted, I stayed home and watched David sleep until noon and was at complete peace with my decision.

The more I let go, the more I learn. Life goes on without me.

Church goes on without me.

There are days when I appreciate that. Today was one, when my son was snuggled against me, sleeping off his illness and feeling safe.

With The Family

This is Dana (along with Syd and Shannon).

She was ordained to ministry today; meaning that her home church ceremonially confirmed that she is "called" to serve God with her work and her life, and that she is, indeed, doing so. Baptist-style ordination is a mixture of formal prayers and responsive readings and informal speaking by people who were significant in the life of the one being ordained. It was a unique day for Dana, where she was the center of attention, affection and affirmation.

It was a unique day for me, too. Dana had spoken with me to personally invite me to attend, and followed up with a written invitation by mail.

I accepted. I drove to Caroline County and walked into a beautiful, rural Baptist church. It was slightly awkward.

Slightly awkward because Dana and I have a unique relationship.

We're both "Mrs. Brawley".

Dana met and married Lonnie - my kids' dad - last year.

As we have carefully and tentatively navigated the waters of interacting, managing kids' schedules and figuring out how to communicate, we discovered something interesting: we liked each other.

I mean, I really like this woman. I respect her and admire her. She's funny, focused on ministry and passionate. She cares deeply for my children. And she takes good care of the man who was once the most important person in my life.

I swear, I can't sort it out. She and I both acknowledge that it's very weird.

But it is what it is.

I came to the service anticipating that I would simply be a witness. I found a place in the next-to-last pew, in the very back of the church, planning to stay out of sight and out of mind, while still honoring the invitation.

But Dana sent Sarah back to get me. She had saved me a seat, up front.

With the family.

At the end of the ordination service, all those present were invited to speak privately with Dana as she kneeled at the front of the church. Church members, family, friends, co-workers, fellow pastors - for an hour, people streamed by to whisper a prayer, speak words of encouragement, offer a hug. There were many tears. As I watched others stream by, I considered what I should do.

In the end, I went forward and knelt before the woman who is now married to the man that I married almost 20 years ago. We shared words and a hug.

It's weird. It's awkward at times.

But more than anything, to me it's a great demonstration of the reality of this statement:

"And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them." Romans 8.28 (NLT)

And I believe it is proof that grace covers everything, if you just open your heart and let it in.

I don't know if anybody has ever figured out what this sort of relationship ought to be like. I'm just gonna roll with it. It's working, and it's good.

And I'm grateful.

Emily

Just saw this awesome video.

A young violinist, in her first rock-n-roll gig.

Playing with her dad.

Who happens to be my brother.

Which makes her my neice.

I'm flapping my hands, and processing a priceless combination of pride, love and something I can't even name. Except it has something to do with the gift of song and love for my family. And it brings a huge smile to my face.

Vacation

We are on vacation.

Me, my five kids, my mom and dad, my brother and sister-in-law and their two kids.

And other assorted cousins, aunts and uncles as they appear.

We have done this every year for as long as I can remember. It is the one deal-breaker in our family: We do vacation together. Every year. We have outgrown the tents and trailers that held us many years ago and have moved on to rented condos or houses. This year, we are living together for a week in a large second-row house. With a pool. It took a lot of pennies pinched together to make this one happen.

But it's well worth it. It's a touchstone for the cousins and siblings, who are growing older in ways that we don't claim to understand. As are we.

It's messy sometimes. But it is our family, it is our committment, and it matters. Probably more than most anything else I do the other twelve months of the year.

Feeling blessed today, with room to breathe and arms full of grace.

Love Like That

I woke up this morning after the best night's sleep I've had in weeks.

All three of my girls have been gone all week long. Sarah is still making her way around her new (albeit temporary) life in Germany, with new friends and strong new bonds with family. Shannon and Sydni have been in Knoxville all week with the World Changers group.

David was with a friend Thursday night and Daniel went up to see his dad in Mechanicsville. Last night, both boys stayed with their dad.

So I had the house to myself.

It is striking to note the difference in my life, my mind, my way of thinking - pretty much EVERYTHING - when there are no children in the house. I miss them - sort of - but I also have this sense of reclaiming my self. Longer, coherent thought processes. A complete night's sleep. No energy extended towards managing their lives, spurring them on to good deeds, referreeing disputes. A little less clutter, only my own trail of life left in the various rooms of the house.

Oh, and the laundry's done!

I love them deeply, profoundly. And when I get a moment to breathe, it seems that I can love them from afar in a way that allows me to find myself outside of that love, rather than immersed and overwhelmed by the actions it requires. That's a fresh perspective for me. It's easier, sometimes.

Peterson's take on a bit from Ephesians in the Bible is interesting:

"Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that." Ephesians 5.1-2 The Message

"Mostly what God does is love you."

Love can be exhausting, in the 'giving everything' and the extravagance. It can be costly. If I'm to take this seriously, it seems that framing the intensity and distraction of my day-to-day life as a parent within the context of extravagant love alters the context somewhat. Rather than claim the current quiet of my house and my mind as 'normal'and the object of aspiration, perhaps I should consider it nothing more than refueling, refreshing and rest for the next round of love.

Like that.