The First Step

In the ten minutes before tonight’s run, I changed my mind about going at least four times. I reclined the chair a little bit further, checked Facebook a few more times, glanced at weather.com to see just how crazy I was (not too crazy, after all), reflected on how the chill seemed to be reaching the inner part of my bones, noticed the congestion building inside my head and made a mental note to get some extra sleep to fight it off, checked the window at least twice in hopes of precipitation that never came, and finally, I shivered, poured my body into my brand-new cold-weather running gear, grabbed my can of mace (because, dogs) and headed out the door. I was cold for six or seven houses, and then the chill started to feel good in the face of sweat. And the darkness provided a welcome cover for self-consciousness as I willed myself up the first brutal hill. And by the time I got home, I felt healthier and more energetic than I have since the dreaded stomach virus decimated our house last week. Of course, now it is time for bed, and I’m still riding that high. I guess we really can’t have it all.

I’ve noticed this about the things that I need to be doing, the things that are good, the things that keep my body and brain healthy, the things that I love when I finally take a step: that first step is a doozy. Never, ever do I leave the house for a run and think, “Man, I am so psyched about this.” And never, ever, do I crack open my computer to write or edit and think, “Yes, game on.” Even home projects, like the quilt I am totally ready to start for Violet, languish for days on end while I will myself to get out the darn sewing machine.

I don’t feel this way about everything. Give me a bottle of wine or a bag of chocolate, and I don’t think twice. But drinking a glass of wine isn’t hard…and unfortunately, it doesn’t produce much of substance when I’m done either. The important things are hard, and they are hardest when I’m just getting started.

On January 1 of this year, I let my friend talk me into a run. It was brutal. It led to a half-marathon, some significant, healthy weight loss, and a new boost in self-confidence. It taught me to train for the long haul. In many ways, it prepared me for this new, uncertain season in life. But actually taking those first steps scared me to death. It was embarrassing. And exhausting. All 1.89 miles of it.

I’ve taken freelance jobs that scare me to death. I love what I’m doing and every once in awhile, I pinch myself because I get paid to do this. Whoa. But I’ve had a project pulled up on my computer since the day before Christmas, and I can promise I’ll put it off until the weekend. Why?

I think the fear that holds me back is equal parts failure and discomfort. But the failure and discomfort is so much greater if I just hang up my running shoes and power down my computer.

That begs the question: what else am I not doing because I can’t get past the first step?

I don’t think it’s an accident that Paul compares the life of a Christ-follower to a race. After all the excitement of the expo and the pre-race pasta dinner (bless), the actual start of the race is a bundle of anxiety and stress. I’m at least half-way through before I start to suspect that I might live through it.

I think every spiritual journey is the same, at least in this season of life. Certainly, the more times God comes through for me, the more I learn to count on Him. But those first wobbly steps are hard, hard, hard. Yet the alternative is so much harder.

I haven’t written here in awhile, and I hope to change that. I’ve had so many things to tell you all, about writing and homeschooling and running. Every once in a while I wish I could write about marriage, and the brutal path I’m walking right now. Maybe I will. Of all the published, polished things I get to send into the world, this is perhaps the most important. This is my story, the story my Father is telling through me.

I hope to see much more of you soon.

You Make Me Brave

Several months ago, I was crying in the dark auditorium that had been my church for over seven years.  I’m not one to cry at church, but we were at the point in the will-we-or-won’t-we process where it appeared pretty likely that the move was actually going to happen.  Our old house was listed, the job had been accepted, and my mind was mentally checking off a series of “lasts” in our home city.  This is probably our last trip to the zoo.  This might be the last time we’ll visit the trains at Museum Center.  This is probably the last time we’ll visit Summit Park.  This, this, this.  When you’re heading into the great unknown, every “last” seems like pretty much the end of the world as you know it, and my heart was wrapped up in the grieving. 

The band was playing  - no, rocking – an anthem called “You Make Me Brave”: the theme song of two all-church Brave journeys, the song that played while I walked on waves at the Brave experience, the song that spoke to me as I tried to quit my teaching job to become a writer and raise my kids, the song that took me to tears when I failed and headed back the work.  And then there I was in that dark room, quitting that teaching job (and the paycheck) whether I wanted to or not, leaving the neighborhood I loved to head to a home we hadn’t found yet, pondering a budget that scared me to death, and the tears spilled over.  And Your love, in wave after wave, crashes over me, crashes over me.  For you are fur us.  You are not against us. Champion of Heaven, make a way for all to enter in.  I suppose it was His love crashing over me, but it felt a lot like fear.  How would I leave this place that had become my home?  How would I thrive without this community that had loved, empowered, and inspired me?  I prayed for confirmation that we were following God and not just pursuing foolish desires.

And then our old house sold.  And finally James found a new one.  And I got a small job writing for a new local moms blog.  And after a long month of waiting, the Simon family was together again, with a lot more space.  It is the perfect house for us right now, with a horde of kids that play together on the cul-de-sac all day long, but I still found fear.  Did we make a good investment?  Is this the right place for us? Can we make it on one income?  I prayed for confirmation.  And then the writing gig exploded: three jobs in two months.  I am crazy busy and unsure how to manage it all, but after all those months I spent chasing leads and looking for jobs, they all showed up when we swallowed our fear and moved.  

 Eli takes a break with a new buddy.  Doesn't everyone hang out in the middle of the cul-de-sac?

We went church hunting online and narrowed it down to three choices.  One was too far away, and we couldn’t find the service times for another one because the website was down.  We found ourselves in a start-up church at a YMCA, and everything felt…weird.  People were lovely.  The kids had fun.  But it is hard not to play the comparison game, and this was very different from what we were used to.  I prayed for confirmation.  Later that week, our neighbor told us that the little start-up church we’d visited had bought the land immediately adjacent to our subdivision.  That…got our attention. 

We met the pastor and visited a small group.  I tried to embrace different.  I worried about how to handle tithing, since we made a commitment at our old church and God confirmed it by opening up JUST THAT AMOUNT of money in our budget.  But with a drastically smaller family budget and a new church with a church to build, I couldn’t figure out what to do.  I wondered if we were doing the right thing…or what the right thing even was. I felt that familiar longing for "home" and "comfort".

Today we went to church, and the worship leader announced that he was going to teach us a new song.  You know where I’m going with this, right?  You make me brave, you make me brave.  No fear can hinder now the love that made a way.  And so there I was, in another dark room, this time an exercise room serving as a temporary church space, tears running down my face again while the band rocked it out.  “The song is following us,” I whispered to James.  But seriously, the music of Crossroads has ministered to my heart for so many years.  To find it – my favorite song, no less – in our new space felt like a promise kept.  And a new promise…of favor still to come. 

Bravery is not the absence of fear; it is the presence of faith. 

I am still afraid, but God is here with us.  I believe it.

Re-Learning "Home"

When you let a place become your home, your body learns it by heart.  In the five years we spent in our Scenic View house, I learned instinctively how far to walk to the refrigerator in the middle of the night, how to navigate the bathroom without a glint of light.  My feet knew the tread of the hall even when my mind was still asleep.  And the neighborhood?  My running shoes knew the cracks and breaks in the sidewalks, my lungs knew just where the hills peaked and ebbed, my spirit knew where to cross the street because a ferocious, four-legged beast lurked in hopes of having runner for dinner.  The benefit to a good home is a sense of autopilot…the freedom to concentrate on other things.

Moving has upended all of that.  Every night, I dream that I am walking our old hallway, feeling the aging wood floors beneath my bare feet, only to wake up to a crying child and remember, yet again, that I have to stumble up two flights of stairs to get to her in this temporary home.  I dream the street, the curve of the cul-de-sac, the twinkling skyline just across the river.  Every day, I find myself heading to the window to see if the neighbors are home to play, only to find a different house across the street.  I’ve physically moved on, but my mind hasn’t quite let go. 

This move is ripping out my systems, my balances, my safe places; I can no longer claim the desirable community of Fort Thomas as a part of my identity.  I no longer feel safe running in the dark.  I don’t know these new (temporary) streets and their dogs well enough to risk that.  I am moving to a community that I hope is a good one, that I hope I’ll love.  But I’ve never even seen it.  I sense that this reprogramming of my brain is both hard and good.  It reinforces the importance of a stable home, both to us as adults and to our children.  It also forces pathways in my brain that have been dormant…trained, if you will…to fire up again.  It demands that I evaluate who I am and what really matters when my address is stripped away.  It is both a stripping and an awakening.

It also makes me think of the importance of establishing history, of creating a home, with God.  What if, in the turmoil of moving, I found my familiarity, my stability, in my Father.  What if I could better navigate our transient state because the pathways to Jesus remain unchanged, like Jesus Himself.  What if I invested the same amount of time in my faith habits as I do in making my home feel like a home?

I’m praying that we’ll love our new neighborhood, that we’ll be able to look around and say, “God, this is so good.  You prepared this place with us in mind.”  And while I wait, I am hoping to re-establish some habits and rituals in my faith that fell by the wayside when the routine of school came to an end.  This time, while trying, is a gift: a stripping of the familiar so that I have no choice but to focus on what really matters.

Finishing the Race

I’ve been running for five and a half months now, and I’ve discovered that the first three miles are always the hardest.  For me, there’s no such thing as an easy three.  Three is a torture of aches and pains and sore lungs and my brain screaming that I need to stop.  After three, something in my mind clicks, and my body shifts to machine.  The machine can keep going and going, seemingly indefinitely.  Yes, there are moments where the scream rises up again, but the machine kicks in and the legs keep going.  It “almost” starts to feel good.  It is actually hard to stop when the time comes because my body has adapted to the rhythm. 

I kind of feel like I reached that same point with teaching this year.  Yes, there were really, really rotten days.  Yes, from an objective perspective, I can say that it wasn’t the best thing for my kids.  But there was a rhythm, and I got used to it.  There are worse things, I told myself, and I got up at 5am again.  So here I am, getting what I’ve wanted for YEARS, and my heart is panicking because I have to let go of the rhythm.  I know how to do this teaching/working mom thing, however painful it might be.  I don’t know how to be a full-time mom.  I don’t know how to thrive as a freelancer.  I don’t know how to homeschool my kids.  I don’t know how to move cross-country.  As much as I should be happy to cross the finish line, I am all sorts of bittersweet and scared instead. 

I can’t help but think of the Israelites when they were rescued from slavery in Egypt.  Slavery was their routine.  Yes, they were abused and imprisoned, but they were fed. They knew their way around the city.  They knew their neighbors.  So when God showed up and rescued them, they freaked out.  The river was too wide, the wilderness was too barren, the inhabitants in the promised land were too big.  They couldn’t see the blessings because the obstacles loomed to large.  I mean, why couldn't God just rescue them from slavery and let them stay in Egypt?  Right?  

The whole Israelite community set out from Elim and came to the Desert of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after they had come out of Egypt. 2 In the desert the whole community grumbled against Moses and Aaron. 3 The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the Lord’s hand in Egypt! There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death. Exodus 16: 1-3

What a slap in the face to God who just parted the Red Sea for them.  As a parent, I can vouch that it stings when my children don't trust me, when they whine and complain while I'm making good things for them.  (Exhibit A: child lying prostrate on the floor, screaming because there is no food right now...while I'm making him Belgian Waffles.)  Here I am, at risk of making that same mistake.  I’m worried about money and moving and how this will all work out instead of being grateful, grateful for a house twice the size of the one we have.  Grateful for the chance to be at home with my kids.  Grateful for the chance to chase this crazy dream of being a writer.  Grateful for the chance to teach my own kids now.  Like the Israelites, I am effectively dishonoring God with my fear.

I am grateful.  I am trying not to hedge that gratitude with fear; I am trying not to fall into my old habit of ruining the joy of a moment by worrying about the next.  I am trying to lean into the excitement bubbling in my heart, because it is.  We are following God, and He is a good, good father.

Get the Shovel

It has been a long time since I played the dating game, but some things you never forget.  Like the breakups.  For weeks…or months…after the split, the places we frequented, the shows we liked to watch, even the music on the radio was somehow marked by the significant other’s absence.  And in that absence, everything looked, sounded, and felt…different.

James compared this moving process to a long, slow breakup with our hometown, and it is.  Instead of ripping the band-aid off, we have lived through two months of “lasts.”  Our last trip to the zoo before our membership expired.  Our last Cincinnati Opening Day.  Our last Flying Pig Marathon.  So. Many. Lasts.  When you live somewhere for a long time, you don’t realize how deep and complicated your roots are until you rip them out.  Just this morning, I drove through town, like I do every morning after I drop Caleb and Violet off at daycare.  I glanced at the empty space in the front window of a realtor’s office, empty space that is home to an elaborate train display every Christmas season.  The boys stalk the train display, from the first signs of set-up, to the night of the Holiday Walk, to the day it is taken down and packed away again.  We won’t be here to see the train display next Christmas.  We had no inkling of that when we munched on cookies and watched the train puff smoke as it flew down the track last Christmas.  How can that go on without us?  How can we go on without these myriad traditions that almost accidentally shaped our family? 

I know new adventures await.  Good adventures.  There are trains in North Carolina, and Christmas will come to our new state, too.  There are parks and zoos and museums.  We grew our roots around these places, these traditions, these friends almost without thinking about it; I imagine the same will happen in our new home. But in the meantime, there’s the pain of transplant, of tearing our happy, content selves out of their native soil.

After a break-up, there’s a point where you reclaim all those things that you shared and make them part of the new you.  We haven’t even left yet, but I’m trying to reclaim our sense of who we are, what we do, and where we belong without this happy little town we’ve been blessed to inhabit.  Because we are more than the place that defines us. 

Get the shovel.  It’s time to go.

(Also, we still haven’t found a house in North Carolina.  Please pray that God provides the right house for us when we visit this weekend, because I’m not sure how long my mom can handle our crew in her house.)

Falling

I barely know how to talk about what happened last night, but I need to, so here goes. 

Violet is nineteen months old, but she’s been trying to chase her brothers since she figured out how to crawl.  If they can do it, she’s going to try to do it.  Most of the time, she succeeds.  She learned to climb before she learned to walk, and the ladder on the playset is no obstacle to her.  She climbs ours.  She climbs the one at the park.  She climbs the one at the neighbor’s house.  She loves, loves, loves to go down the slide, and she loves, loves, loves to do it by herself.

We popped over to the neighbors’ back yard last night because it was warm, sunny, and too completely delicious outside to go to bed.  The kids kind of scattered, with Violet trending toward the dog and the slide.  I usually try to stay within ten feet of her, and I move closer when she climbs the ladder.  Sometimes I need to catch her at the bottom of the slide, and sometimes she loses her footing on the ladder.  Just yesterday, she fell off playground slide, right into my arms.  She bit her lip and cried, but no harm was done. 

Last night, she was climbing the ladder for the twentieth time while I stood three feet away.  The kids had pulled an old wooden bench over and placed it facing the ladder (why?).  I was right behind the bench…within arm’s reach.  Maddie and I were chatting when Violet lost her balance; we saw it at the same time.  I heard Maddie say, “She’s falling!” and I was already on the move.  So much of this is muddled in my mind…the opposite of the clarity you sometimes get in terrifying situations.  She was near the top of the ladder when she fell, she caught herself a step down, and then sort of skidded with her tummy to the ladder.  It wasn’t a total free-fall, but it was close.  And here’s the thing: I couldn’t get to her.  The bench blocked my way, and no surge of adrenaline project me over it.  I was still reaching for her when she hit the ground. 

I watched her hit the ground.

I did not catch her.  I could not catch her, or maybe I didn’t know how.  All those mama bear instincts that I thought I’d have…failed me.  The image of her lying there, facing away from me so I couldn’t even see her eyes…I just can’t.  I didn’t know she was OK.  She very well might not have been.

She was only on the ground for a second or two…not enough time to even start crying.  I snatched her up, which in retrospect wasn’t a great decision seeing as I didn’t know if she’d hurt her neck.  But I had to hold her, had to touch her, had to comfort her.  The moment she was settled in my arms, she started to wail.  Loud, terrified screams…not screams of pain.  My friend checked her head for bumps and ran for frozen peas.  My husband exploded in a mix of panic and rage.  And after no more than thirty seconds in my arms, Violet decided she was over it and started squirming to get down.

I wouldn’t put her down.  I sat on a deck chair and tried to hold the peas on the part of her head where we thought she might have hit.  The frozen peas were vastly more horrible than the three-foot fall.  (Why do they tell you to put ice on kids’ injuries?  Is anyone actually successful at this???)  She screamed every time I picked them up and squirmed some more to get down.  The baseball game was continuing in the backyard and she was missing it.  The dog was still in the yard, and she was stuck on a deck.  Oh, the fury of a toddler!  I didn’t care; I was watching her pupils, scanning her head for bumps, and waiting for her to throw up.  She didn’t.

Finally, we brought the dog up to keep her occupied, and Maddie got out the treats.  She offered one to Violet, thinking she would enjoy feeding the dog.  Violet snatched the treat and popped it in her own mouth.  That should have been my cue that she was OK.  Maddie reclaimed the treat and showed Violet how to feed it to the dog.  She giggled and the process was repeated at least five times.  (The whole process.  Violet tried to eat every single treat.)  Slowly we started to piece together what had happened.

Our best guess is that the wooden bench – the one that prevented me from catching her – met the leg of the playset ladder to form a V.  It appears that Violet’s shoulder landed squarely in that wedge, absorbing the fall and cushioning the fall for her head.  Other than a scrape on her knee - probably sustained when she grazed the ladder, a graze that certainly slowed her fall – she has absolutely no sign of injury.  I kept her up late to watch for signs of a concussion, and checked on her throughout the night. 

This morning she woke up to a croupy cough…but she woke up.  She WOKE UP!  I know how very blessed I am, how different this story could have been. 

When I hear stories of terrible accidents, I like to distance myself from the situation by assigning blame.  That couldn’t happen to my kids because I supervise them.  That couldn’t happen to my kid because I’m responsible.  That couldn’t happen to us because we are good enough to prevent it.  But last night?  I was supervising.  I was close.  And I couldn’t catch her. 

As I replayed this over and over, another realization hit me.  I couldn’t catch her, but God did.  He let her land in that perfect V.  He protected her head.  He protected her neck.  I wish she hadn’t fallen at all, but He broke her fall in the perfect way.  She’s back at daycare today, sharing her upper respiratory infection with the kids who shared it with her.  She’ll probably try to climb the playset again tonight…because this kid knows no fear.  She is quite confident in her landings.

I’ve been trying to journey to a place of trust with my Father.  Today, I keep telling myself: He caught her.  When my hands weren’t enough, He protected her.  He catches me, too…especially when I can’t catch myself.

Waiting

Waiting is hard stuff.  Sweet Eli cut his baby teeth really late, and true to form, they are taking their time about falling back out.  One by one, his kindergarten classmates have parted with their first tooth and received the subsequent visit from the revered Tooth Fairy.  Eli listens closely to each classmate’s story, inspects the newfound gap in each smile, and wonders when it will be his turn.  If you could make a tooth lose by checking it fifteen thousand times a day, Eli would be sitting on a pile of riches.  He wants this next step so badly, he craves the experience his friends are having, and there’s not a thing he can do but wait.  Ahhhh…sweet boy.  My heart hurts for him.

He got a glimmer of hope yesterday when I checked for myself and discovered that his bottom teeth do, in fact, wiggle just the tiniest bit.  I hope that hope will be enough to propel him through a few more months; I’m no dentist, but I just don’t think those suckers are coming out any time soon. 

Waiting hurts the heart and tests the faith.  Sometimes it whispers, “God has forgotten you.”  Sometimes it plucks hope right out of your heart and plants a bumper crop of despair.  It steals on the perspective you have and manages to convince you that you are, in fact, going to be the first person in the history of the planet who will never lose a tooth.  It settles in with “what if” and makes itself comfortable.  It is hard stuff.

I remember well the waiting.  The waiting for a first boyfriend, for a first kiss, for a husband, for a home, for a child.  Some things took longer than others, but even one day of waiting can deflate a hopeful heart.  It can be a time to turn away from faith or a time to turn into it.  I am waiting now.  We got one offer on our house last night; it was so low, so out of line with the comps, that we were actually insulted.  We’ve been told we are getting another today…this morning, actually, although this morning is over and we’re still waiting.  Is the waiting a good thing?  Or will we be back to showings and stress?  And if we do sell, where will we go?  Where will we live?  Will it be a good place?

I know in my heart that God is moving us in his time.  I know He will provide for our needs.  But right now, my head feels like Eli, waiting for that tooth to come out and wondering if it ever will.  It feels like forever.

He Speaks

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on makeup for the day.  Caleb, ever the grumpy early-riser, was “sleeping” on my pajamas piled on the floor and rubbing the stubble of my unshaven leg.  “Mommy, you need to take a deep breath.  Take a deep breath NOW.” 

I obliged, making more of a sigh than a deep breath. 

“No, Mommy.  Louder.  Take a louder deep breath.”

For a second time, I sucked the air into my lungs and blew it out through my pursed lips, exaggerating the noise to satisfy the child on the floor.  It is funny, though, deep breaths really do clean and calm the soul…even when they are forced.  “Do you think I need to calm down, honey?”

He nodded, and mumbled some jumbled, indistinguishable words…and then, “Mommy, you just need to trust God.” 

Oh, little one, if you only knew. 

God’s still, small voice, concealed in the murmurs of a four-year-old who got up too early. 

My Brave Step: Trusting Boldly

Another day with no offers on the house.  Another day of feedback from buyers who aren’t interested.  Another day of deeply wanting to stay in Cincinnati, of ambivalence towards the community I am supposed to be joining.  The fact is that I don’t want to go.  There are no neighborhoods that I love and can afford.  There is so much I’m leaving behind, and the fact that our house won’t budge at the price point we need is not exactly encouraging either.  In Cincinnati, we live in a neighborhood we could never afford anywhere else, and we live here because we bought a short sale when no one else can buy.  We were brave.  We likely can’t do that again, especially not with three kids who would be living in the construction zone.  The peace I woke up with has quickly eroded to an ugly mess of fear, hurt, and anger.  I’m furious that no one wants to buy my house because I don’t want to sell it.  There.

Our church is doing an all-church journey called “Brave”…appropriate, don’t you think?  I started with the same heading I used last year because frankly, I haven’t found a way to make it happen yet: “Make wise decisions as I find a way to make a living as a writer and stay at home with my kids.”  I’ve taken some Brave strides in the past year; I’ve found increasing amounts of freelance work, seen my product published, and gained confidence in what I can do…but my kids are still in daycare while I teach eight hours a day.  If we stay here, we still can’t afford for me to quit.  So I set the wheels in motion, but nothing has come to fruition.  As I worked through my individual work tonight (before my phone battery died), I felt like last year’s heading was all wrong for me.  After all, I’m stuck being brave in the selling our house/moving to God-knows-where mess regardless.  I felt like my Brave step needed to be something both easier and harder, something much more difficult to quantify, something much harder to act upon.  I’ve watched my emotions over the last two days as I received negative feedback in text after text, and I am wrecked.  I lash out in every direction with every piece of bad news.  My inner turmoil, my quickness to tears…it all points to one thing: I do not really believe God answers prayer.  I do not believe He truly wants to care for me.  I do not really believe I can trust Him.  I do not believe that He will move unless I work my tail off and get everything right for Him.  I believe I don’t see answered prayers because I do not work hard enough.  I really, truly believe that I do not qualify for answered prayers, for miracles, for evidence of His hand at work.  Other people get to see the big stuff, not me.  How disrespectful to God, and how very human.

And so my Brave journey needs to be one of trust.  There are so many prayers I do not pray because I don’t think God will answer them, and I don’t want to be disappointed.  I pray safe things, things that I think might actually happen, things I can bring about myself…but my heart aches with years of unanswered prayers, of prayers that were only answered years after the fact.  I am afraid to trust my instincts; I must not know what to pray for because God doesn’t show up very often.  Obviously this is completely antithetical to what God tells us about Himself, and it absolutely comes from a place of fear, hurt, and mistrust. 

So on this Brave journey, I’m going to lean in to God.  I’m going to explore what it means to pray boldly in faith.  I’m going to seek God’s wisdom in my prayer life and start asking for – and expecting – big things.  I’m going to pursue God and I’m going let Him heal my mistrusting heart.  Failure to trust means holding on to control…I’m going to beg Him to let me feel safe in letting go. 

So we still don’t have a buyer or a house we like in North Carolina, but I do have a heading for my Brave journey.  That’s something, right?

Keep Paddling

I like safety.  I like properly-installed carseats, seatbelts, helmets, high fences, padded floors, hedged bets, back-up plans, and pretty much anything else that mitigates risk.  Somehow, my high school friends talked me into white water rafting in spite of my personal feelings;  I remember thinking it was a necessary evil on the way to an epic week of Young Life camp, and since I couldn’t find a way around it, I said yes.

The bus ride to New River Gorge was long, and we traveled through the night.  Someone got the great idea to watch The River Wild while we dozed; after all, it fit pretty perfectly with the theme.  One by one, my friends drifted off to sleep while I stared, in horror, at the tiny screen.  Meryl Streep’s abductor forced her to raft through enormous rapids, ending with what had to be a fifty-foot water fall.  No one bothered to tell me the rapids were computer-generated.  And no one was awake to reassure me that the New River was nothing like the movie.  For all I knew, my morning would include a fifty-foot freefall in a tiny inflatable raft.  I was terrified.

The bus ride into the gorge did not help one bit.  The aging school bus bounced and squeaked as it zig-zagged down the side of the mountain.  Each turn required the driver to stop on the edge of the cliff, back up until the back of the bus touched the mountain, then pull forward to the cliff again…an eternal see-saw that eventually enabled us to navigate the turn.  At any minute, the bus was going to hurtle hundreds of feet into the gorge below, bursting into flames on the way down.  I was certain of it.

And yet, we survived, and we were unloaded into a landing area where we put on lifejackets (thank goodness) and met our guides.  There I got another shock.  Actually, I got two.  First, our guide had approximately five teeth.  Total.  And second, the raft wasn’t exactly fitted with harnesses and safety belts.  In fact, we weren’t supposed to sit on the seats at all.  Five Teeth grinned and told us to perch on the sides of the raft, with our butts hanging precariously over the water below.  And we didn’t get to hold on; instead, we were told to jam our feet under the “seats” to anchor ourselves and devote both our arms to paddling.  Right.  I knew Five Teeth had been riding this river since elementary school, but I thought he was full of you-know-what.

Nevertheless, I only had two choices: take a solitary bus ride back to the top of the gorge and risk the falling off the cliff, or get in the boat.  Thanks to peer pressure, I got in the boat.  It was pleasant for approximately fifteen minutes.  The water was smooth and relatively shallow.  The only “rapids” were really just bumps here and there.  Five Teeth told me that the rapids in The River Wild were computer generated.  It felt like a canoe trip with padding.  I could get used to this, I thought.

Then I saw the first real rapid.  Angry white water swirled and gushed on either side of a twenty foot rock.  We had to choose our side, and Five Teeth screamed for us to steer to the right.  Frankly, the right didn’t look any better than the left, but steer we did.  Our boat hit the white water and the front flew into the air; the impact threw me off balance, and I did the only sensible thing to be done: I threw my paddle into the boat, put my head between my legs, and grabbed onto the canvas ties in the bottom of the boat.  Remember doing tornado drills in elementary?  That was my exact position. 

Thwack.  Five Teeth hit me in the head with his paddle.  I looked up, and we had passed the rapid.  “What are you doing?”  he yelled.  I thought the answer was pretty obvious.  “Your team needs you to paddle, and the force of your paddling keeps you balanced and in the boat.  You can’t just quit in a rapid; you put yourself and your team in danger.  You’ll get through if you keep paddling.” 

Just keep paddling.  I tried it on the next rapid, and you know?  It worked.  In fact, I sort of enjoyed myself.  I went rafting again the next summer, and again several years later as a Young Life leader.  I’m not saying I would sign up to go tomorrow, but I developed kind of a fondness for the whole adventure, even on the trip where we paddled through an electrical storm.  When you keep paddling, it keeps you upright on top of the water, most of the time.

This has a point, I promise.  This whole home-buying/home-selling/moving three states away thing is a lot like white water rafting without the smooth, placid parts.  We haven’t found a home we like and can afford in North Carolina.  We put our house on the market today and both showings rejected it.  We can’t afford to move if we don’t sell our house for a good price, but I don’t know what it would do to James if he had to turn down this opportunity.  We had a good weekend in North Carolina, exploring and finding new favorite spots, but three days later, we are no closer to knowing what to do next.

When the promised offer turned into not an offer, I threw down my paddle.  I lost sight of our end goal: a better life for our family.  I decided we’d just stay put in Kentucky.  I’ll teach for 38 years, James will hate his job forever, but at least we won’t fall out of the boat. We’ll stay in our lovely neighborhood with our remodeled kitchen and our great backyard and we’ll be safe.  Right?  I just don’t think that’s what God has for us, if I’m honest with myself.  Paddling means keeping my eyes on Him, turning my fears and hurts over to Him every single time, and expecting that He has plans to prosper us and not to harm us, even though today felt a lot like harm. 

I do not want to go through weeks and weeks of keeping our house clean for showings.  I do not want to get my hopes up again and again.  I am bone tired, but now is not the time to throw in the paddle.  I can't do this one my own, but how can God show up for us if we climb out of the river?

How Now?

I had to wear a belt today.

Seriously, I didn’t want to, but I needed one. 

I ran 8.5 miles on Saturday.  Some people, namely my husband, might not be that impressed.  But folks, in January I couldn’t run two without stopping to walk.  And then there were some weeks where I couldn’t walk at all because the shin and leg pain was so excruciating.  Now, here we are a month out from the half-marathon, and I logged eighteen miles last week.  And I (mostly) liked it.  After months of work with no pay, I’m down thirteen pounds, hence the pants that no longer fit. 

I really wanted to be OK being heavier; I don’t think body image should rule our lives.  But I was tired and miserable and depression had settled in to stay.  I didn’t think I’d ever run again, and now here I am.

It started with a small thing: one set of weights every morning, a spinach smoothie instead of carbs, a “yes” to an invitation to go running.  It meant running through some painful moments, and showing up and trying again.  It meant making time when I wanted to sleep.  It was sacrifice.

But I also noticed that my mood is (slightly) more stable when I’m running.  And I walk with more spring in my step (when I’m not too sore).  The euphoria of seeing the numbers drop on the scale is something I didn’t expect. 

I don’t begin to think I did this on my own.  God provided me with opportunities so I could say yes.  He healed me.  He gave me accountability.  He sustained my body to do things I didn’t think it could.  He showed me the value in perseverance.

Sometimes being brave just means saying yes, showing up, and doing your best.  I’m choosing to believe that our move will follow the same path.  It is really hard right now.  We need to get our house sold, preferably before this weekend when we’ll be scouting new houses.  We need the money from the old house to get the new one.  We need to stop looking back and keep looking forward, unwavering.  James has compared this move to a long, painful breakup with our hometown.  It seems like time to rip off the band-aid.  I prayed that God will confirm that we are on the right path by providing a buyer for our home before this weekend.  But what if he doesn’t?  This morning I opened my email to a note offering me an ongoing blogging position, much like the one I have in Cincinnati.  Is that confirmation?  I have a meeting this week about an ongoing freelance job.  Is that confirmation?  I’ve found a running buddy and a homeschool resource.  Is that confirmation?  Yet none of this can happen if we don’t sell our house on Scenic View.  I suppose God know that, too, and He will make a way.  Time is ticking, and it is ticking fast.  How will He work this time?

In this season where I’m seeing fruit from many of my small (and large) yesses, I have to keep saying yes.  I have to keep doing hard things.  I have to keep cleaning the house for showings.  I have to keep engaging my husband in conversations about the new house.  (This is much harder than it seems.)  I have to keep filling out loan paperwork and trusting that the money will be there.  I have to keep following God’s promptings; the latest seemed like an invitation to mentor college-aged women.  What am I to make of that? 

I am walking a delicate balance between waiting on God and making a plan.  I’m not sure I’m walking it well, but I’m trying to remember the times He has provided…often unexpectedly…in the past.  He can do the same again.  I believe it.

The Many (Real) Victims of Heroin

Here's a link to my latest post for Cincinnati Moms Blog.  It generated quite a bit of reaction, as you can imagine.

One Big If

I like certainties and absolutes.  The past week has held neither of those things.  We’re moving to North Carolina…unless James changes his mind.  We’re selling our house…if it sells.  We’re buying a lovely new house…if our old house sells, and if the new one passes an inspection.  We’re planning to move May 25…if the timing of both sales works out.  We are trying to follow where we think God is leading…if we are correct in discerning His leading.  We are going to homeschool in our new community…if it works for our family.  I am going to supplement our income with freelance jobs…if I can find them. 

Everything in life is one big "if".

I want to mentally decorate the new house.  I want to see new owners love on our old one.  I want to march confidently into the future, to say “we are” instead of “if”.  I am willing to jump if God wants me to jump.  I’m just really struggling with fear that we could be doing the wrong thing.  There are some huge financial stakes here: the money we have worked hard for so many years to earn.  God has given us a wonderful home in a wonderful neighborhood; it defies logic that we would leave it.  What if we are wrong?  What if we are following our own desires and not God’s?  What if, what if, what if?  Neither one of us qualifies as the emotional rock in this situation; our moods are as mercurial as a teenage girl. 

I just crave knowing.  We have two months; I want to know what to do and what to get ready for.  At least knowing the next step would be helpful.  Just knowing we are on the right track would be amazing. 

The only true constant in this is God.  He has promised never to leave me or forsake me.  He has promised that He knows the plans He has for me, that they are plans to prosper me and not to harm me, that they are plans to give me a hope and a future.  He tells me nothing is impossible for Him, and I have to assume that means selling and buying a house.  He tells me He is faithful to his promises.  So in this time of not knowing, I am trying desperately to cling to what I know of my Father.

Please join me in praying that God will confirm both the path we are taking and the greatness of His love, and that we will move in full confidence that we are operating within His will.  

Still, Small Voice

The offer came.  It wasn’t what I had hoped and prayed for, but it was evident that another “no” was going to devastate my husband.  So we said “yes” with me kicking and screaming and picturing every single worst-case scenario.  (There are many options to choose from.) 

                I am shaken already.  Since my prayers for the offer weren’t answered, do I dare pray for a good selling price for our current house?  For a new house that is clearly tailor-made for us?  For a way to earn a living part-time while staying at home with my kids?  I have been up all night for the last two nights, asking myself repeatedly, “Are we crazy? Are we doing something so incredibly stupid?  Moving all this way for just one income?”  I keep begging God for confirmation that we are doing the right thing. 

                The morning after James accepted the offer, I woke up with Jeremiah 29:11 running through my mind.  “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord.  ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.  Plans to give you a hope and a future.’”  And then my Psalm for the day, Psalm 76, told me that the Lord resides in Salem.  Or Winston-Salem?  Am I reading too much into this?  Today, Psalm 77 describes a man up all night agonizing over circumstances, only to begin remembering the faithfulness of God in the past.  God certainly has been faithful to us, even in circumstances that seemed completely crazy.  “You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples.” Psalm 77:14. 

                Perhaps this is God’s still small voice confirming this decision, as hard as it is.  I hope.

Open Hands

Violet has been extra cuddly in the mornings on account of the time change; she can’t bring herself to go to bed at her normal time because “the sky is awake and so am I!”  Consequently, when I go to get her out of her crib at 6:15, she isn’t standing up waiting for me.  Instead she’s cuddling with her stuffed babies, and she holds tight to them when I lift her out. 

                Her grip on Miss Kitty and hippo pillow was especially tight this morning, and I needed to get her nightgown off and her school clothes on.  “I’ll give it right back,” I promised her.  “Just let go for a minute so we can take this sleeve off your arm.  I'll hold Miss Kitty for you.”  Two arms times one nightgown off and one shirt on equals a whole lot of giving up, and she had to think long and hard each time I asked.  (Little wonder I am eternally late to work.)  Those babies are comfort objects in the dark early morning, and even though they were faithfully returned to her each time, each letting go was an act of trust.

                I suspect that the process of letting go will never be easy; perhaps it gets easier as faith grows, but it is never easy to open your hands and relinquish control.  I’m struggling with letting go of my house, my job, my church, and my proximity to my greatest help and champion: my mom...if this move actually happens. They are good things.  Three of them comfort me, and the job…well…it is just nice to know that I can support myself and the kids if I have to.  I like not relying on anyone else, you know?  So in a round-about way, I guess the job is a source of comfort, too. And my mom?  Well, she needs the kids and I, too.  It seems so terribly unfair to go so far away when she's already lost my dad.

                Trust is a hard thing, whether it means relying on God to truly fulfill our needs or relying on my husband to provide well and be generous with his family.  I am trying to hold tight to God’s request to trust him with all my heart and not depend on my own understanding.  I’m used to depending on my understanding, though.  I am used to being independent and resilient.  In this situation, however, I don’t know how to start.  I have no choice but to open my hand and let go….minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.  

Moving???

I’ve found that times of change lend themselves to a sort of mental confusion; so many thoughts pop into my head during the day, and I think, “I want to write about that.”  But I’m running late and there’s deadlines and the To Do list is filled with things that have to be done or the world will end…and by the time I finish, I’ve forgotten what to write about.

We are in a time of change, I think.  A few weeks ago, a random conversation led James down a road of applying for a new job in North Carolina. The job will keep him with the same company, but it offers him some flexibility and the chance to get away from the desk.  He interviewed twice and got a verbal offer on Friday.  From the first mention of “maybe we’ll move” to the call from the manager that he’d been chosen took maybe two weeks.  Two.

When I was pregnant with Violet and agonizing over the work/life balance that I didn’t (and still don’t) have, James asked me where I’d be willing to move.  Obviously Dayton topped that list because of the proximity to my mom.  And then there were the Carolinas.  Nothing came of that conversation.  James put up amazing numbers at work and beat down doors again and again for a promotion in the Covington hub.  Again and again he found himself snubbed.  We settled down into a place called “stuck.”  Bound by our beautiful home in the neighborhood we could never have afforded but for an act of God and shackled by my old faithful professional job (that does offer summers off, a definite perk), we acknowledged that things were not working well in our family but found ourselves powerless to make changes.  I hunkered down and started writing – anything – that could build a portfolio and get me a foothold in the industry…and maybe pay off some debt.  James kept going to work and putting up the numbers.  The kids went to their respective school and daycare classrooms and over and over again I reminded myself, “This could be worse.” 

It could. 

Many women would love to live in our house.  To live my life. 

So when North Carolina came up, I wavered.  Yes, I’d said I’d go.  But would the job pay enough for me to stay home?  And what if it didn’t? 

Fear began to move in.  What if we couldn’t find a buyer for our current house?  What if we couldn’t get enough out of it to help us settle somewhere we like in NC?  What if we wound up camped out in a two-bedroom townhouse with no backyard?  (How I love our yard in Kentucky!)  What if I we give up these amazing things God has given us and wind up with nothing.  What if we make the wrong choice?  What if, what if, what if?  I found myself leaning back from the opportunity, choosing “not good, but could be worse” instead of “could be better.”  As James’ excitement has increased, mine has careened into panic.  How do people do this?

We are still waiting on financial details for the contract.  They need to be good enough to move us to a new state and provide for us on one income.  We were hoping to have them yesterday.  Now we hope for today.  We don’t know for sure that this is the right opportunity, but our guts seem to say it is.

In the meantime, I’m acknowledging this:  God’s provision is not limited to our house on Scenic View.  And when He gave me this house, He provided so many things He knew I would love: hardwood floors, and huge kitchen, a gas stove, a fireplace, a big back yard, and incredible sunsets.  He provided them at a price He knew we could afford through two more children and a spurt with one income.  He provided the impossible, but the impossible isn’t limited to one house.  We’ve felt a pulling on our hearts for some time, even as I returned to work and set about paying off debts.  We’ve felt a pulling to something new.  A wanderlust. 

Maybe the time is now.  And maybe I need to stop expecting that everything will be awful.  Maybe I should look at the blessings God has provided thus far and anticipate He will continue.

I’ve been praying for a four-bedroom house so that we can entertain guests comfortably.  I’ve been praying for a big living area so we can host people in our home.  I’ve been praying to a space the kids can use for a playroom.  For a kitchen I can love.  For a fireplace that works.  For a big backyard that will hold our playset.  For a community with good schools if we don’t decide to homeschool (although we may very well).  For a neighborhood where we can run and walk.  For a faith community.  For friends.  For a mortgage payment much lower than the one we currently pay.  And just maybe, for the chance to supplement our income with the words I eke out in the early mornings and late evenings after the kids are in bed.  That’s a lot to ask. 

Maybe none of this can happen if I won’t let go of the house of Scenic View.  Of beautiful Fort Thomas.  Of the power of holding a steady job.  Of the unknown and the comfortable. 

There’s a sign in my kitchen that reminds me: “He who promised is faithful.”  Please pray for our family.  Please pray for an offer my husband can accept.  Please pray for someone to buy our beloved house.  Please pray for a new home in North Carolina that can only have been provided by God.  Please pray for His assurance that we are on the right track, for the right doors to open and the wrong ones to slam shut.  Please pray for courage and peace as we move toward what is next. 

Because one way or another, we are moving.

On Faithfulness

Learning to play the piano takes time.  Eli is fortunate to have his grandma as a teacher, but he was still just a little disappointed when his first lesson consisted of learning a warm-up activity and practicing good old middle C.  He expected to play at least the Star Wars theme when he was finished, not a count of 1-2-3-4-5.  So we practice for a few minutes every day…and I mean a few.  Five…maybe seven minutes on a good day.  Sometimes he sulks when I tell him to play something again.  Sometimes he tries to sit criss-cross-applesauce because he knows he isn’t supposed to.  Sometimes he wants to dash on to the next song before he’s finished the last one.  Sometimes Caleb comes over and bangs on the bass notes while he’s trying to practice.  Sometimes Violet does the same.  It is slow going.  But last week?  He mastered his first chord.  And yesterday, Grandma taught him his first scale.  As an outsider, I can see the progress that maybe he can’t.  One day he’ll wake up and realize he can play a whole song, but only if he keeps doing a little every day.

I’ve been lifting weights and doing core exercises every morning since December 1.  Even when I’m tired.  Even when I’m sick.  Even when I roll out of bed a little, ahem, later than I should.  I’ve been eating a spinach smoothie for breakfast and making it a priority to eat small doses of protein every few hours.  On January 1, I somehow got suckered into training for a half-marathon, and even though it’s been a tricky journey of shin splints and stomach bugs and super cold-weather runs, I’m still doing it.  I can’t say it has resulted in a marked difference on the scale though…until now.  The most recent stomach bug knocked me down four pounds…and they’ve stayed off for a week now.  (Score one for the stomach bug; I just need to get one once a month for the next three months and I’ll be in good shape.  Kidding.  TOTALLY KIDDING.)  This morning, in honor of anticipated temperatures in the 70’s, I pulled out my grey capris; they are totally my favorite pair of fat pants, as in I wore them twice a week this past fall.  And they didn’t fit.  They barely hung on my hips, and when I pulled them out in front of my stomach, I had inches to spare.  This is the first indication I’ve had that all this work is actually, you know, working.  It is perhaps my first encouragement on my journey to taking care of this body.  And it feels good.  It makes me want to keep things up for the next three months. 

I’ve also been praying and saving towards financial freedom; financial freedom that seems completely impossible.  But I landed a big editing project in November, and while it wasn’t exactly fun to work on evenings and weekends through December and Christmas break, the Simons have a savings account now.  And our tax return paid of my van…today!  And because James’s employer is helping with his student loans, our monthly out-of-pocket went down by one-hundred dollars.  We have a long way to go, but all told, we cut the bottom line by $400 this month.  That’s a big deal, and it was a lot of time and work and prayer in the making. 

Neither of these accomplishments was possible for me to do on my own; not remotely.  In fact, they took a lot of risk.  I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to finish a run…or even my day…if I exercise.  Heaven knows that the editing job was a foray into a profession I know nothing about; there were some super stressful and frustrating moments.  Many, actually.  But God provides the daily energy to exercise and keeps my body free from injury.  God gave me the editing opportunity and a tax refund big enough for the balance on the car.  He provided me opportunities and offered me His hand to help; I still had to accept them.  

There’s a lot in my life right now that seems stuck in the early months…only some of these trials have been going for years.  My attempt to use writing as a means to support our family is still by and large in the portfolio-building stage.  I’m plugging away with no indication that I’m getting anywhere.  James has been knocking down amazing numbers at work, and door after door slams shut in his face when he tries to get a promotion to a job that will actually pay all our bills.  There’s still bills to pay down and a mortgage I’d like to see be lower.  There’s still my desire to stay at home with our kids, and the rocky battleground that is our marriage. 

Today was a glimpse that being obedient and faithful will produce results…but only with God’s help.  It was a reminder to pray for opportunity and have the courage to take it.  It was a confirmation of his blessing and provision.  God must have known I needed to see the clouds pulled back because winter seems to be going on forever.  Today, I’m going to celebrate just a little bit, because God has been faithful and He has sustained me.  Even when I couldn’t see it.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding.

Still Waiting...

I’m stuck deep in a creative rut right now.  Words don’t want to form into sentences, ideas resist being crafted into essays…most days it is easier to close the laptop and do the day-to-day tasks that keep piling up.  There’s always dishes, if I have a spare minutes.  I feel like life – progress -  has screeched to a stop.  If my hope is based on things on earth, there’s not much cause for joy or hope. 

But God says our hope is in him, and He does not change like shifting shadows.  When my heart breaks over my marriage, God is still good.  When my mind tells me I’ll still be sitting in the classroom – and my kids will still be sitting in daycare – in five years, God is still good.  I can’t tell you why He is good, but He IS, and I look for joy in that. 

That my mind and emotions are so scattered all over the map tells me that I’m not really looking to God for help.  I have not a single, tangible thing to offer as evidence that He will answer my prayers and fulfill my hopes.  In some of these hurts: my husband’s work ethic and his (in)ability to love me, answers have long been absent.  Yet the only possible hope I have for change is God, and I have no guarantee other than His word that He’ll come through.

Every morning, I whisper a Psalm to Him.  I tell him He is great, He is a conqueror, He is my protector.  I tell Him He is worthy of praise.  I praise Him for rescuing me from to pit.  And I hope that in time, my heart will begin to believe.  Then I lift weights, take a shower, make breakfasts and lunches, and dash off to work…late again.

And I surely hope He is all those things He claims. And that He wants to be those things to me.

A Long Run

I’ve been working on lots of projects lately: supplementary materials for a college textbook, lesson plans for the children’s ministry at church, posts for the Moms blog.  Between those good things and the daily routines of life and work, I haven’t been doing the sort of deep, expository writing that I helped me grow learn and grow through the months I was only working part time.  It doesn’t mean I haven’t been seeking; I just haven’t made time to process it all.  True to February fashion, I find myself tired, overwhelmed, and discouraged, without a clear picture or direction for yet another year.

On one hand, I am so grateful I didn’t take a risk on Cincinnati State.  Their enrollment has dropped yet again, and I certainly wouldn’t have had the number of classes needed to cover our budget.  My heart wasn’t in that work, as much as I wanted it to be, and it was right to walk away. 

But, I’m still here.  Still spending 1.5 hours each day driving and dropping off kids.  Still rushing, all the time.  Still giving the best of my energy to a classroom…to kids who aren’t my own.  I know all the rationales of why what I do is important, but I can’t seem to convince my heart.  There are bright spots, sure.  And work is important.  But as much as I’ve begged God to change my heart if He wants me to stay in the classroom, I still find myself unable to give my full heart to this profession.  In spite of the security, the need for me to provide financially, and the lack of a better alternative, I cannot convince myself that this is the purpose God has prepared for me.  I just wish I knew what that purpose was, and how to pay the bills in the meantime.

I think I am ready to step out and take a risk, but I don’t even know how.  I’ve exhausted the steps I know to take, and I just want to curl up in bed for a very long time.

I’ve started training for a half-marathon, sort of by accident.  It started with a text: “In the spirit of the day (New Year’s Day), how about a run?” and sort of turned into an excel spreadsheet populated with training runs.  I may have contributed to this decision, but I don’t remember it.  Anyway, I am not as young as I once was, and I do not remember running being this painful.  The more I try to hurry and get it done, especially if I’m on a treadmill, the more pain I feel in the ensuing days.  I am reluctantly learning that running has to be about the journey: making it to the top of the hill, peeking in the windows of the house they just built, finishing the conversation with my friend, dodging the lumbering black lab that just might turn into a foaming monster when I step on the wrong square of the sidewalk.  (True story: said dog barked at me, and I fell over in terror.  Literally, fell right into a street sign and had to grab on to keep from hitting the ground.  I am so good at this running thing.)  I think I could be OK with the metaphor of this life being a similar journey full of hills, twists, turns, and occasional dogs if I wasn’t watching my babies get bigger every day.  And they do.  This time I’m spending in my apple-scented classroom is time I can never get back.  Tonight I’ll stay here until 8:30, meeting with families and telling them what they should be doing to get their kid into college…and my own son won’t be doing his homework or practicing the piano because I won’t be there to make him do it. 

I’m still putting one foot in front of the other because I have to get home somehow.  Some days are more of a limping walk than a run, but what else can you do when your heart hurts?  Am I foolish for wanting more?  Greedy for wanting something different?  Am I only serving my heart’s desires, or am I following God’s leading?

I just don’t know.

Get Your Own

So this was published anonymously on Cincinnati Mom's Blog.  For obvious reasons.

Why I Won't Be the Mom from A Christmas Story Anymore

I Wish

Name the thing you most wish you could change about your husband.

The article suggested choosing just one, in case I’d had time to come up with a laundry list of grievances.

This took me longer than you’d think.  I mean, sure I had an immediate list: the refusal to help with household responsibilities, the work ethic that isn’t what I’d hope, the temper, the stinginess, the unwillingness to let us have friends, for heaven’s sake.  OK, so it was a long list.  But what is the one thing that stands out above the rest?

I wish he would love me.  Really love me.  I wish he would cherish me.  I wish he could see some value in me, beyond all the ways I don’t measure up.  I wish he would care enough about my heart that he would strive to protect it instead of hurting it.  I wish he would say my name like a blessing, not a curse.  I wish he would celebrate the best parts of me.  I wish he would want to provide for me.  I wish he would consider my spirit and my calling.  I wish he cared to honor my gifts.  I wish he would give me a gift that is truly a gift, not an obligation he has to fulfill.  I wish he would complement me, even when there’s nothing to be gained.  I wish I could feel safe with him.  I wish I could be myself with him.  I wish he didn’t list me as the sole reason for all the misery in his life.  I wish I was more than a servant to be managed and used to get things done.  I wish I wasn’t so utterly alone.  I really just wish he could love me.

I think love goes a long way in helping people bridge their differences, and I’m not sure we’ve ever had it.  I mean, I adored him for a long time.  I made excuses and kept reinventing myself to match his specifications.  But did he love me?  I remember thinking I was strong enough to love him; that’s probably a good sign that he didn’t. 

I am trying to stay because I want to honor the vows I took.  I am trying to stay because I don’t want my kids to live in two different homes.  I am trying to stay because I don’t want them to navigate his tricky moods on their own.  I know that I can leave, but my children can’t…so I stay and I pray.  Sometimes I get glimmers of hope, but lately it has just been hurt.

The thing about relationships is you can’t hope to change the other person, which is one thing if you’re battling over which way the toilet paper goes on the roll.  This is a whole different ballgame that I’m playing over here, but the rules stay the same.

God's ways are not ours, even when it hurts.  So my prayer has become: “Please change me.  Please heal my heart in spite of him.  Please help me make the most of this life I’ve been given.  Please teach me how to blossom in this place that isn’t right.  Please show me how you can make beauty out of two very different people.  Please let me let go of what may never be.  Please don’t let my perceived perfect way get in the way of Your story.”

I still wish he could love me.