Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

I Cried in the Shower Today

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Have you ever cried so hard it hurts? I’m talking about that deep burn in your throat that reaches all the way to your heart and back, only finding escape from the flames via hot, molten tears. That was me, sitting in my shower, somehow enjoying the emotion, yet begging it to simmer down before I hyperventilated. The last thing I needed was my husband to run into the bathroom, following an echoing thump, and find me slumped naked in the billowing steam. So, I tried to qualm my cries, yet the overflow of emotion erupted again, a fresh cascade of tears across my already wet face.

We had recently gone to a child’s birthday party, and I guess that’s where the story of tears started. My daughters were excited to see an old friend, and even opted to miss dance and voice lessons for the occasion. We had shopped excitedly for a present, each child contributing to the basket before making a final selection. They had chosen the outfits they would wear, and had asked me each and every day leading up to the event, “how much longer until the party?”

So, what happened?!

We had arrived to the gathering a little after its commencement, and already swarms of girls and boys bolted along the sandy beachfront. The birthday girl came running towards my oldest, screeching her name with excitement, enveloping her in a hug.

And my girl stood there awkwardly stiff, having trouble accepting the embrace. I heard Stephanie Tanner in my head proclaim, “how rude!”

Our awkward entrance continued. I looked around at my girls standing on the periphery of the group, looking shy, uncertain, and uncomfortable.

I encouraged them to “go and play.”

Yet, they kept coming back, and sitting on the outskirts, as if unsure of exactly how to go play. It didn’t make sense. These were their friends, and sure there were lots of other children they didn’t know, but my childhood wallflower self silently screamed, “go, be a part of the group!”

Yep, I had been that awkward kid in school, unsure how to act in social settings, sitting on the outside looking in. I had always done better one on one, a single bestie, and that trend had followed me my whole life.

“It’s Covid,” I thought.

Over a year of telling your children to stay away from other kids had surely stunted their social growth I hypothesized, and while I’m sure that’s true, it didn’t explain the fact that my tween had refused to bring her swimsuit, refused to wear shorts, and I had to buy her a baseball cap just to keep her from wearing a winter boggin pulled down over her head. Was that just a phase? Y’all, parenting is hard.

She had headphones in her ears, so she wouldn’t have to listen to the voices of others, and sunglasses because the sun hurt her vampire eyes. I’m sure it had nothing to do with being holed up in her dark room most of the time (insert tired mommy sigh).

I texted my spouse, “our kids have no idea how to act in a large group.”

I was questioning my own parenting skills, imagining all the ways I was messing up my kiddos, and trying not to worry I might be creating an ax murderer. Just kidding. Kinda.

My husband quickly replied, “uhhh, neither do their parents.”

Oh Lord, my husband and I were closet introverts. We loved people, and even flourished in one on one relationships, but put us in a group setting, and our left eye started to twitch. We hated crowds and avoided going places on weekends like the plague. We were happy to sit at home, and neither of us had the desire to go out with friends to blow off steam. We liked the bed, dinner and a movie, quiet time, and no expectations. His words made sense.

But still, I worried about my babies.

And that’s what I talked to God about in the shower. I handed Him my worries and my babies, listening to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. At some point in our conversation He brought me a vision of a flower in a field. Like the sunflowers we had grown last year, this flower tilted its head towards the light, and the light shown on its face, giving it new life.

The sun set and darkness surrounded the solitary plant. From above came a thermal blanket, like the kind a gardener would use to protect his prize winning roses from a spring frost. I knew at that moment, that was how God covered me and my family.

Each flower in His garden was unique, each created and cultivated to be its own creation, for His glory and kingdom purposes. His light illuminated and fed each one as it turned its face to Him, and He protected them from dark and cold places.

I felt the Lord speak to me, “nothing is by accident. I created each of your children according to my giftings. Nothing can take away from that. Nor does it need to be.”

I recognized that perhaps my children were different than the average child. Each one had nuances, sensitivities, or gifts that made them unique. I had grown up feeling like a square peg, longing to fit into a world I couldn’t seem to become comfortable being a part of. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized God created me square, with a square hole in mind for me. After all, squares make the best block for building God’s Kingdom. I wanted my girls to feel alive and beautiful in their uniqueness, and I realized that started with me not expecting them to fit into standard social norms. They were created for more than that. I didn’t need to worry so much as trust. And while there was nothing wrong with noticing peculiarities, or even learning more about those particular social styles, making a diagnosis or treatment plan if necessary, the bottom line was they were beautiful flowers in God’s garden, perfect in their specific design. Even if that made group events a little cringe worthy.

So, why did I cry? Gratitude, I suppose. What the world calls wounded, God calls blessed. What society would view as imperfect, He sets apart. And best of all, His light and love never fail. His covering persists, through every season, even the ones of drought and doubt. I’m still growing. My girls are too. I suppose, sometimes it’s the tears of gratefulness and joy that water the soil best.

The Conversation I Just Had With My Child That Rocked Me!

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I’m going to share a story with you. I almost titled this “my parenting regret,” but regret is probably a strong word. I know I’ve been a good mom, but do you ever look back, wish you could hit rewind, and do things a different way? Maybe my particular hindsight can help you see things in a different light.

I was driving in the car this past week with all three of my daughters, when my eleven year old said, “I’m glad that I’m getting to know you better, now.”

Confused, I asked, “what do you mean?”

She answered, “well, I just feel like I get to see you more now than I did when we lived in the blue house.”

She was referring to our life before traveling, our life before leaving our small town, but most importantly, our existence before we truly discovered what’s important in life. Allow me to recap for those unfamiliar with our personal life.

Almost five years ago I came to a place in life where I realized I wasn’t happy. I mean, I was happy. I had a great husband, children I loved, a wonderful home, and so much more. Yet… something was amiss. I was stressed, struggling, and considered myself what many women affectionately call one another, a “hot mess.” I was always running, always busy, and stretched on every side. My husband owned a business and worked six days a week, at least twelve hours a day, and even on his off day, he was sometimes doing stuff for work. I worked part-time, 24 hours a week, but homeschooled the girls five days a week, and spent my spare time (I know, hilarious) working a side business to try and earn extra income. Crazy. I felt like I was a single parent, breastfeeding around the clock, and striving to be better at all the things. It. Was. Exhausting. I was stressed, my husband was stressed, and apparently so were my children.

Back to present day, riding in the car, I continue the conversation with my oldest, “that’s weird, cause I work more now than I did then!”

Work may not be the best description here. More specifically, I work outside the home more now than then, but looking back, I suppose I was always working on something during that season of the “blue house” as my child put it.

My daughter replied, “yeah, I know, you work more now, but back then it seemed like I never saw you.”

Interested in this line of conversation I purposely asked, “who do you feel was home more, me or your dad?”

She replied quickly, “Dad.”

You know, the dad who worked six, full days a week!

I continued, “I was home way more than him. You don’t remember me there?!”

I watched her contemplation, and then she replied, “I guess I remember doing school with you, but I hated school.”

Ahh, yes, my initiation into homeschooling. Now, if I did call something a regret, it would definitely be how I handled schooling my child at five to six years old. Instead of looking at her as an individual learner, I compared her to other children. I compared her to her public school cousin the same age. I compared her to my SIL’s child who started reading at four, or my other nephew who had no troubling picking up his phonics in kindergarten. But I think my big mistake was the doubt I had for myself as her teacher. I was afraid I wasn’t doing good enough for her, so I unintentionally pushed her too hard, basing my worth as an educator on her unique performance. She would cry through her reader, and I would yell a lot. No wonder she banished it from her memory!

But it gets worse. The nail in the coffin.

She added, “oh, and you cleaned a lot.”

From the backseat my nine year old chips in, “yeah, you cleaned a lot back then.”

Sigh.

Not to be outdone, my eleven year old continues, “I can remember Dad being home really well! He would take me to Walmart, buy me a toy, and we’d sit on the couch watching Sponge Bob and eating Oreos all day.”

First, I made sure I relayed this to my husband later. He had mentioned to me more than once regret over not being around more when our girls were little. After I told this little story, he had peace that they only remembered that time of his overworking with fondness, and he hadn’t mucked things up too bad after all. I suppose all parents are their own worst enemy.

This conversation in the car didn’t so much guilt me as it taught me. I wasn’t drowning in regret, but it did rock my thinking. My husband had one day off a week, but that one day he made sure was quality time. That’s what our girls, six and four at the time, remembered.

I had focused on the things I thought were important at the time. Housework, ensuring my five year old knew all her sight words for the week, cooking every night, and building my business that was supposed to financially bring both of us parents home. I had rushed us to dance classes and homeschool co-op’s, but I had not taken as much time just to simply enjoy them being little.

Ok, I’ll look at this from all angles. I understand that things need to be done. If I didn’t clean the house, we would have been covered in our own trash. And reading is fundamental! Ha! Building my future via a small business was a wonderful plan, and activities and classes are important to childhood development. So, what’s the takeaway?

Remember when I said we had learned what was important over the past four years while traveling? See, we made a decision to sell our big house, sell our possessions, trade in the two cars for one vehicle, and travel for work so one parent could stay at home fulltime. We realized we didn’t need all the square footage. We realized we didn’t need to work more to have more stuff, but we did really enjoy more time. By doing the above, huge life-shift, we discovered what was important to us. Time with one another.

I can’t turn back the clock on the first six years of my oldest daughter’s upbringing, but I can move forward a little wiser. I can understand that young children won’t remember things like the fully-balanced meals every night or what grade they got in their school subjects, but they will remember Oreos and snuggles. Our relationship won’t be built on a foundation of how many days I was home from work with them, but rather the quality of the days we did have. And I’m telling you, as a fulltime working mom, that’s a huge deal. As mothers, we can often feel guilty for working out of the home, but if my experience teaches you anything, know that sometimes you can be home, but not really be there.

If anything, remember to be there when you’re there. That’s what I do now. As a working mother I don’t focus on quantity of the time with those I love, as much as the quality of the time we have. If you’ve lost a parent, like me, then you’ll understand a grieving child mostly wishes for “just one more day.”

I guess my goal, at this season in life, is to leave a legacy of quality. That the time I shared with my children will be fondly remembered as time well-spent, and while they’ll probably still grieve for one more day, more importantly they will recall fondly the days we had, no matter how many there were.

Did You Know This About Your Husband?!

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I was mopping the bedroom floor with our brand new mop. Man, it was so dusty in there! I’ll start by saying, I was the first one to use this mop. I bought it two weeks ago, and when I pulled it out this morning my husband exclaimed with surprise, “I forgot all about you getting that!”

That kinda sets the theme for this story, y’all.

Back to the bedroom, it was so dusty because my husband rarely did the floors in there. Important to mention, at this point, is the fact my husband sweeps the living room and kitchen floors every single day. We have three children under eleven in the home, all day every day. He homeschools them. They eat about a billion meals a day at the bar, dropping a tsunami of enough crumbs to feed the state of Rhode Island. He does plenty of housekeeping. Remembering this as I mopped our dusty bedroom tile helped me mop with a happy pace rather than the rage against the housework moms can get while they pick up after other people. I mean, seriously, no one executed tasks like a woman!

As I went about my mopping my mind zigzagged through an off-day to-do list as it usually does. You know what I’m talking about, ladies. You have this one day, and you have a list of things you want to complete. The only question is, what gets crossed off and what gets moved to the next day.

Toilet paper, my brain shouted, like a dog who sees a squirrel. We needed it. I’d have to go get it. Why hadn’t my husband offered to go get it?! He knew I worked tomorrow. He knew I hated running errands on my last day off!

Like I had shot a mental arrow, he appeared through the doorway. “Babe, stop. You gotta work tomorrow. You need to chill.”

“That reminds me,” I replied, “I was wondering if you could go get some toilet paper from the store for us? I have been to the store the past two days, and my goal is to not leave the house today.”

“You betcha,” he replied happily. “I forgot we needed some.”

As I finished the last section of tile, already looking forward to reading a book in my favorite corner, I laughed to myself about men and women. In case you haven’t figured it out, we are way different. The problem came when we, as women, assume our men should be like us.

I remember it took me some time being married to learn this truth. Men do not think like women. Not at all. I know there are exceptions to all rules, so to speak, but for the most part, women are better at task completion and multitasking. Sorry, fellas, who may have gotten this far, if you’re offended, but this is how we ladies see it. Lol. We remember the things. We lay in bed at night thinking about the things. Meanwhile, hubby is snoring softly. Know what I’m saying? Point is, women remember things like needing toilet paper, sweeping dust bunnies out of the corner, or calling the cable company about last month’s bill.

I’m not sure why our brain, for the most part, works so differently from our male counterparts, but knowing my Heavenly Father like I do, I know it’s with good reason. I think of my tendency to sweat the small stuff, and how my husband’s chill and nonchalant manner, while sometimes exasperating to me, also helps to keep me anchored towards a kingdom mindset. When my anxious thoughts of things of this world want to run rampant, my spouse is the steady buoy of my mental storm. He’s the steady truth to my sometimes cray-cray, so if he forgets to try out the new mop, he’s forgiven.

One key I’ve found to a happy marriage is not expecting my husband to be like me or to be who I think he should be. He is who God made him to be. In times past, when those differences have been bothersome, I either pray to the One who can change a man’s heart better than me, or I have responded to my husband with love, patience, and understanding. In turn, he responds to me in love and service. Plus, I try and remind myself what’s really important in the long term. Is it a healthy relationship with the man I love or a ball of dirty socks in the floor? Is it always being right, or being humble and happy?

Every day in a relationship we are faced with how we will respond to the action (or lack thereof) by our partner. Yes, there are big issues that warrant discussion! But there are hundreds of tiny, insignificant matters that must be recognized as such so they don’t build up and become big issues. Often when faced with a small nuisance, I can combat that by recognizing my own faults and remembering the many, beautiful sacrifices my partner makes in our relationship.

He’s not like me. He doesn’t think like me. But that’s ok. He loves me. He loves me more than I’ve ever been loved. He takes such good care of me! He protects me, and he would lay down his life for me. If I ask, he does it. He waits on me hand and foot. Y’all, I’m blessed with what I consider to be the best husband and father to my children in the world. If I need to remind him we’re out of toilet paper, so be it. Plus, would I really want to be married to the male version of me?!

Don’t Underestimate the Significance of Your Calling as a Parent

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I fell asleep a little earlier than usual last night. After a long and stressful day at work, I was beat. I said bedtime prayers individually with each of my daughters, and then I fell asleep before my head even settled on the pillow. A couple of hours later I woke suddenly, and keeping quiet I gazed upon my eleven year old preparing for bed. I watched in a sleepy joy while she read from a kid’s devotional book I had bought for her, and then while she proceeded to read from her Bible. I fell back asleep, contentment carrying me to dreamland.

My husband and I recently had a conversation about the amazing plan God must have for one of our children. How else could we explain the course our lives had taken?! We both carried pasts that were the whispers in church circles. An addict and alcoholic having a baby?! But God’s Grace had won. I tried to commit suicide by hanging as a child, but the poorly constructed noose didn’t work. My husband had a horrific car wreck as a young man, unrestrained, that left him without front teeth, but somehow no other injuries. When he awoke in the wreckage, he had been misplaced from the crushed-in driver’s seat, to the less impacted passenger side. And these are just a couple of our miraculous survival stories. Our past problems caused us to live individual, high-risk lifestyles, but in His mercy we were protected from our own stupidity.

As a teenager, new to the faith, I had known Ben was going to be my husband. I wasn’t very confident yet in my ability to hear God’s voice, but I never doubted he was the one. The problems and roadblocks of the world would separate us. For ten years, even! But somehow what God meant to place together, no man could keep apart. In my thirties, I finally married the man I knew at nineteen God had for me.

I could drone on and on how I believe my current path was meant to be, but I’ll spare you any further details. The point is, I have seen the hand of God in my life time and time again. So has my spouse. We consider each of our children a gift from God, and we have no doubt that the Lord has wonderful plans for their lives.

My husband used to own his own business, and he even built rockets once upon a time. But during this season, he is a homemaker. He homeschools our children and does about a billion other important tasks at home, while I serve in the role of primary and sole breadwinner. Albeit untraditional, this works wonderfully for our family. I think some men might tend to feel unfulfilled in their role as a stay-at-home dad. Not simply because society has deemed it a woman’s place over the years, but because, let’s face it; full-time parenting is hard! I’ve been in his position, and it’s crazy, hectic homeschooling multiple young ones. There’s one thing that he’s done that makes it fit him so much better than it did me, though. He understands his calling.

One day, a couple of years ago, my husband commented, “God told me today that what I’m doing is important.”

As simple as that. The encouragement of the Holy Spirit gave my man peace and purpose. We knew that financially we were doing what made sense, but budget balancing won’t fill your heart with purpose. The Spirit drives my spouse to parent well, and his determination and commitment are seen in the fruit of our babies.

It’s easy to see parenting as a chore. It’s work! It’s the hardest job you’ll ever love. It’s moments of ridiculous frustration mixed with moments of surpassing joy. It’s a love/hate relationship that you’d never let go. It’s the thing you need a break from, but also the thing you miss the second it’s gone. It’s a journey of perseverance, a practice in patience, and somehow humbling to how little we know. What we tend to forget, is that it’s also a great task for the Kingdom of God. As parents, we hold in our hands the ability to mend, but also to break. We have to be intentional to keep the damage to a minimum, and passionate to cultivate a loving environment of acceptance and success. We love our children as Jesus loved us; not for what we receive in return. The greatest gift we can give our babies is the heart of Jesus. This unconditional love that carries the fruits of the Spirit. Thankfully, perfection isn’t required, just the ability to show them the perfection that exists in Jesus, and that is there for their taking within them, as His perfect love resides there. This is the calling.

My husband takes seriously his calling, and it’s something I remind myself of often also. I mentioned in the beginning my girl reading her Bible and seeking God’s truth. This is something we taught! I don’t say that in a prideful way, for I know it’s only the true work of the Holy Spirit that keeps her doing it when the lights go down and she doesn’t know her parents are watching. That’s what truly gave my heart joy. She was able to experience the peace that comes from the Lord. We set up the practice, and we modeled the behavior, and the rest God took and ran with.

Children can be taught anything. They can be modeled hate. Abusive marriages often arise from watching abusive parents. Racism is engrained, and a false doctrine of religious works can be given precedent over the grace of God. You can even “scare the hell” out of your children by fire and brimstone, if you so choose, but when the lights go out at night, it’s the peace of abiding in Him that will persevere. That’s the calling, and it’s not an insignificant one.

It’s no secret that people have taken notice of the state of our world lately. I can hardly spend a few minutes on social media before seeing the hopelessness that persists because of the current, social climate. All I can think lately is, it’s up to me. Unless Jesus comes soon, the future is my children. It’s your children. The Bible tells a parable of ten virgins who had to keep their lamps lit as they waited on the bridegroom. Half let their oil run out and their light diminish. When the bridegroom came, only those who had remained prepared were rewarded. We are the ten ladies. The coming of Jesus is our groom. We don’t know exactly when He’ll return. It might not be in our lifetime. Does that mean our light goes out when we die? No! We keep our light burning through the oil of our children. The light of Jesus shines to future generations through the preparation we make as parents. The hope of the future lives in the loving light they carry to their own children. When He comes, no matter when, I want my lamp to still be burning for His return. That is the calling. It’s one we all share.

The Thing About That Last Baby

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“It’s like someone flips a switch,” my husband mused. “One day they’re little and cute, everything they do adorable. Then you wake up and they’re grown.”

We sat together on the front porch, sipping on our coffee in the shade, as a cool breeze blew making the morning pleasant despite the beating sun. I nodded my agreement in the quietness of our conversation. Our daughters all still slept, and in the stillness of early day, before their raucous laughter filled every crack, my husband and I talked freely about every topic from Old Testament prophets, to why Publix bakery could do no wrong in our book of sweet treats. I pondered his most recent observation, and I won’t lie; it caused my heart to whimper.

My five year old daughter was the most spirited, unique, and joyful child I had ever encountered. I’m sure I am partial, but each word from her mouth either made my eyebrow raise, jaw drop, or body convulse in laughter. A trip alone to the store with her brought the kind of content to inspire a sitcom. She currently hung in the balance between innocence and childhood discovery. She teetered in that very special place of believing in fairies, but more importantly, believing her daddy hung the moon. Her cheeks still held cherub-like chubbiness, her fingers without the lines of grown hands. Her head was larger in proportion to her body, her appearance the last of toddling giggles before Buddha bellies disappear and real childhood takes shape. She was still the pint size that made piggybacks possible and rocking in your lap a thing. Her frame was the perfect makeup for early morning cuddles, or late night hideouts under the covers. For now, at least.

Like a switch, my husband had said, and no thing could be more true. Having watched my other daughters spring up as the years rolled by had given me an educated insight, but had done little to block the blow of it happening again. Perhaps it was different this time because she was the last. The last baby.

Preschoolers, you see, have their own unique language as they’re transversing the land of phonics and annunciation. L’s are W’s, and pronouns are very little understood. Grammar unheard of, plural possessives erroneously uttered, but it’s cute. Eventually you have to correct them, but for the most part you smile, locking away in the memory banks of life that particularly adorable way they say words like pasketti (spaghetti) or aminal (animal). My own mom always reminisced over my requests for pale nolish on my toes. Nobody tells you, though, that one day your kid suddenly describes a banana as yellow instead of lellow.

One day they eat the crusts off their sandwich or they go to bed without kissing you goodnight. One day they smell like baby powder, but the next thing you know they smell like B.O. One day you’re nourishing them from your breast, but before you even have time to mentally prepare, you’re shopping for your daughter a bra. It’s crazy how that happens.

My husband’s words on the front porch interrupted my thoughts, “I soak up every bit of her being little as I can.”

I nodded some more. I think I even whispered, “yes” in agreement.

It seems, life was like a river. Sometimes the water level was low, but other times it threatened to overflow the banks. Sometimes you could sit lazily on the side, watching the ripples of the calm current, reveling in the way the sun reflected off the water. But most of the time, I reckon, it seemed like the river just flowed. Certainly faster than I preferred. You had to hang on to the raft to not fear the rapids, to enjoy the ride no matter how wild it sometimes seemed. You had to take the time to picnic on the outer banks, enjoying the company of those God put in your boat. I mean, before you knew it, they were too big to fit inside. And yes, I’m totally thinking about my king-sized bed being too small as of late.

That afternoon, after our morning quiet, coffee and conversations, I took my youngest to the store with me. I buckled her seatbelt when she had trouble doing it on her own. I sat in my seat patiently, waiting for her to put her shoes back on in the grocery store parking lot, even though I had told her not to take them off. I pushed a stray, wirey curl back behind her ear, and I held her tiny, chubby hand as we slowly plodded through the crosswalk. The thing was, the switch hadn’t been flipped yet. So, I lived each moment not in dread of the passage of time, but in enjoyment of the journey that took me there.

The Mess Won’t Keep

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“Well, that was the last of the Christmas money,” I said to my husband, as I stooped over to sweep up the pile of plastic bits and pieces. Leftovers from toy packages.

“That’s good,” he replied, while tying up a trash bag of discarded cardboard.

Our house had looked like the morning after a frat party when we got out of bed, and we set to tidying quickly so we could relax and enjoy the day ahead. As parents of three daughters, all of the age that still played with dolls and such, we were used to picking up our fair share of strewn toys. But nothing could turn a house upside down like the aftermath of the holidays. Considering we had two birthdays in December, the situation was doubled. Add in the fact that long-distant relatives sent gifts too, and the mess never seemed to end.

That was life with little kids, though, right?! I mean, it wasn’t just me that consistently stepped on tiny, plastic shoes, or tripped over a misplaced Barbie car, right?! If my kids were breathing they were making messes. It didn’t matter the rules set, boundaries placed, or chores assigned. Their trash and treasures proliferated throughout our home. Most days began (after coffee, of course) with me corralling their belongings back into their bedrooms.

“The mess won’t keep.”

These are the words my aunt spoke to me over the phone recently after I had finished another round of “return thirty, three-inch, laughing little dolls to their case.”

I knew this. I knew all the truths that little ones didn’t stay little. I had personally watched a decade fly by since I had my first child. But it was her mood this particular morning that caused me to pause and count my blessings rather than count how many times I had picked up their clothes from the bathroom floor.

I ended up spending some time with my aunt this particular day. She was feeling down, and we went shopping and lunching together to lighten her emotional load. You want to know the weird thing about grief? It has no expiration date. My cousin had passed away thirty years prior, but that didn’t lessen the sadness that had erupted within her unexpectedly that morning over the loss of her son.

“I’ll never get him back,” she had told me.

Even though she was eternally minded and took solace in seeing loved ones again one day, like anyone, the loss of the here and now was many times much too hard to bear.

We had a good day, and though I know I left her back at her home still working through her grief in her own way, she had reminded me once again not to take a thing for granted. Not the work. Not my daughters. And certainly not the mess. After all, the mess wouldn’t keep. The old adage was true. We weren’t promised tomorrow, and cherishing my children was about more than how quickly time passed. It was true that time was fleeting, but time also was abrupt. The time we had with someone could be cut short at any moment. That was the real truth of it.

That evening I hugged my babies a little tighter, and I allowed the kiss on my husband’s lips to linger a little longer. I promised myself to keep in mind the truth of life’s fragility. This world was a mess. My house was a mess. Many times my life is a mess! But I’m reminded to count it all as joy. A beautiful mess, if you will. My job was to embrace the mess. After all, the mess wouldn’t keep.

Raising a Challenging Child

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I sat in the bed watching some late night television, and as my middle daughter entered the room, I knew immediately something was wrong. She was a waif of a child, a tiny wisp, and somehow the slenderness of her face made her expressions all the more animated. A grimace crinkled her countenance, slowly becoming a mask of wailing, and I knew she was about to crumple into emotional tears.

“I’m stupid,” she howled!!

And my heart fell out. It literally came out of my body and dropped onto the floor. It had to of, but then it must have hopped back in, cause I could feel the ache of it all through my chest. I rushed to her.

I’m not normally one to jump up and rush to a crying child. I’m not trying to sound callous. Just being honest about parenting multiple, miniature, drama queens. I mean, it was no thing to hear a scream like a limb had been severed, only to discover the cause was something akin to a broken crayon. But this was different. My sweet, sensitive star was proclaiming insults over herself, but it was more than that. At her tone I had felt a sense of defeat in her voice, as if she was finally admitting to herself the negative connotations floating around out there.

As I reached her side she was confessing, “I spilled my drink! Again!”

A chocolate, protein drink (provided by me to help add a few ounces, at least, to her spindly frame) sat overturned in a puddle of sticky brown, soaking into the carpet, and streaked across the pages of her favorite, Bible story book. She was right about the again part. She had just spilled another of these pricy drinks in the kitchen less than a half hour earlier, but she was wrong about the “stupid” part. So I went about trying to convince her of that, while her dad mopped up thick, chocolate liquid from the hallway. Parenting was hard, man.

I mentioned as much to my husband later. I complimented his gentle handling of the situation, and he expressed my own heart in return, how hearing her ridicule herself had broken our hearts. Had we said things in the past to make her feel this way? Or to make her feel less? Probably. When you sign up for Parenting at the local job fair, no one explains how you can scar a human for life if you aren’t careful. I wasn’t one of these softie-types, who let the kids rule the roost. We believed in discipline, for sure, but we also believed in love. Every child needs both, but some need each piece in different doses.

I could correct my oldest and she’d try to argue with me about it. I could correct the youngest and she blew me off, or wrung out some fake tears of manipulation. The middle one, though. Each word she took to heart. Each word, I had learned over the years, had to be measured carefully. Like I had told my husband that same night, “she’s the child that makes you want to lose your cool the most, but she’s also the child who takes you losing your cool the hardest.”

She was my sensitive soul. She cried with pain when she felt she disappointed anyone. She was accident prone. Yet her tears were usually less about the pain of her mishap, and more about the disappointment she felt over the incident happening at all. Your human brain wanted to scream, “you klutz!” But your mother heart usually scooped in with a “it’s ok, baby. Accidents happen.”

I had learned when she was around three years old that I would need to handle her differently than I had her older sister. I could see it shining in her big, brown eyes. Something different, something spectacular. I had never seen a child so concerned with the feelings of others. I had never seen such a young child surrender her spot in line, her turn to others, or even the last piece of cake. She was a tiny thing, but somehow carried a heart bigger than the ocean. I knew God had created the most wonderful, caring spirit. I realized then that my job would be to cultivate that, and not to dim it. I wondered how many selfless souls had once existed in little bodies, but had suffered the world taking their shine away? I didn’t want to be responsible for that.

And so began the journey of parenting my special sprite. It. Was. Hard. It still is. Sometimes when she cries loudly over something I consider ridiculous I want to scream, “am I in an insane asylum, or something?!” I can’t promise I’ve never uttered those words. All I know is, God has a beautiful plan for this challenging child, and my main goal is to show her more of Jesus, and less of what I think she needs to be. Many times when I pray for her I ask the Lord not to change her, but to help me parent her the best way I can. I ask Him to give me wisdom, to help me lead her to becoming the young woman He has for her to be.

If she was in public school I’m pretty sure somewhere along the way a teacher would suggest medication for ADHD. She’s so hyper sometimes, full of energy and giggles. Sometimes I have to make her stop moving, look into my eyes and focus to hear the instructions I’m giving. I’m grateful we can provide tactile learning in an environment that stimulates her particular style of education. I would hate to see medication change the person she is.

She’s frightened easily. She cannot walk by Halloween decorations or the horror movie section in electronics. If she doesn’t like the “feeling” of a place, she’s ready to go home. If it’s too loud, she doesn’t want any part of it. Yet, in the quietness of our home or vehicle, she’s the loudest kid I know. The shy, timid one among strangers, but the class clown and comedian of family gatherings. I think her giggles could fuel a flight to the moon.

She’s a happy girl. She loves so passionately. She prays for strangers at night. She teaches me how to be compassionate to others, when I am lacking that part of me. She reminds us all how to be better human beings, each and every day. Every time I look at her I am in awe of her beauty, and each night I thank God that I get to be her mommy. I sometimes feel like I fall short in raising her, but I also cannot imagine a better blessing in life. A practice in patience, but also a treasure chest of never-ending joy. That’s the best way I know to describe raising a challenging child. I only pray I can do it well.

I Love My Children, But…

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I love my children, but they can turn any enjoyable outing into a miserable experience.

Like, why do we take them anywhere? Any amens from the choir out there?

I sat at the table of a German restaurant trying not to speak out loud the curse words that ran through my mind. Directed at my children. Sounds terrible, right?! But as I sent secret text messages to my spouse across the table, every GIF that popped up under the search “aggravated” seemed to fit. Yet it was more than aggravation. It was beyond mere frustration. It was the pot threatening to boil over, the kind of slow roll that only your own offspring could produce. They were exasperating.

They didn’t like the menu. It didn’t have macaroni, after all. Never mind that we had only chosen the restaurant to silence their whines of, “I’m starving! Can’t we find a place to eat already?!”

Never mind that they had grumbled the whole three or four blocks to the downtown area about being tired, chilly, or having sore feet. Never mind that I had brought jackets they forgot to get out of the truck, or comfy sneakers they had refused to change into.

I loved my children soooo much, but if I’m laying it all out for you… sometimes I want to kill them. Like, shaken child syndrome, kill them.

Why must they repeat the same phrase over and over, and yet over again, until I say, “oh yeah. Really? That’s interesting.”

“Hey, Mom. Watch this!”

*child performs some very minor, dance step/jump, or something

Crickets.

“Wow. That’s awesome,” I say.

I love my children soooo much, but dang, sometimes they are total brats. I look at them whining, fighting, complaining, and I want to know who raised these wild animals!

Oh.

Yeah.

Me.

Dang.

I love my children so much. Like, more than the air I breathe. I would die for them. When they’re sick, I want to take it all on myself. When they’re sleeping, I take photo after photo. I never want to forget! Oh, who am I kidding?! I take pictures of everything. Every day is a memory in the making, and I always want it on slow-mo so I can savor each smile, each giggle, and press into the pages of my heart every adorable, hilarious thing my four year old utters. So many days I wish I could freeze time, keeping them little forever.

But then, the rest of the time I am fantasizing about when they move out. Then my husband and I can go places and enjoy ourselves without complaints. No one will ask me to carry them. No one. No one will drink all my water, or eat all my food. No one will ask me for snacks right after I sit down, interrupt me with some mundane question right when I get on an important call, or turn the backseat of my vehicle into a garbage dump within 3.5 seconds of driving off the car lot.

I know I will cry. I know I will. It will be too quiet, and I’ll be so grateful for all the pictures we took, the places we went, and the fabulous memories we created. I know this, and I repeat it to myself every time I get a little foot in my back when they’re sleeping in my bed. I know that one day that king-sized bed will feel really empty. That’s the only reason they’re still there. I know they desire to please me. That’s why it’s always “hey, mom” and “look at me.” Even when I’m looking at her do the same thing I just watched her do thirty seconds prior. I know the reasons, and yes, it makes me feel good. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me a little twitchy, though. Just saying.

I love my children so much, but when I’m picking up the same mess for the eight millionth time, that day, yeah, I want to do a Calgon, take me away, one way ticket to anywhere else.

I love my children so much, but sometimes I don’t like them that much. They are rude, selfish, annoying little monsters, but they’re all mine. So you can’t call them any of that. Ever.

Because they’re loud, but they’re wonderful. They’re clingy, but they’re cuddly. They’re exasperating, but so darn cute. They’re awful, but they’re perfect. And they’re raucous, yet they’re my very best thing that I’ve ever made. They make me want to pull my hair out, but then they also make me beam with pride. They make me want to squeeze them to death! And then they make me want to squeeze them tight and never let them go. They make me cry in frustration, cry over my supposed failures, and cry over the love I have for them that my heart can’t possibly contain. It’s too much.

I love my children so much, but at the end of the day, I love to love them from the other room.

I love my children so much, but parenting is hard.

I love my children so much, and each day I pray for wisdom to help raise them into the young women God has in mind.

I love my children so much, but being a parent isn’t for the faint of heart.

I love my children so much, and I guess that’s enough for today.

What God Would Say to the Woman Who’s Not Enough

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Most of us women, at one time or another, feel as if we’re not enough, like we’re lacking some fundamental trait that will magically transform us into the women we wish to be. Not a patient enough mother, or perhaps you’re a wife who suffers to serve. We desire to be that mighty woman of God, to get it right at least every now and again. A fight with our spouse, or a harsh, thoughtless word screamed in frustration at our children prove to us where we have fallen short once again. If only we could be the kind of friend our girlfriends need, or have the time and energy to volunteer at church. If only we could keep the kitchen clean, laundry basket empty, or keep up with our graying roots like other moms seem to do.

We see our Facebook friends dressing trendy, our Instagram idols redecorating their homes. The lady next door doesn’t have trash falling out of the backseat of her minivan, and the mom of four at church, her kids are always so well behaved! A condescending look at the grocery store, the well-intentioned yet hurtful advice from an older woman at church, and the thoughtless comment from your husband all cement the idea that you need to step it up. You need to change, improve, work on you!

Wash your face, wipe your eyes, and work on you! Make time for yourself, yet cherish time with your children, time that is fleeting, and that you’re constantly reminded passes too quickly. How does that work?!

You’ll miss this, they say, all while taking afternoon naps themselves that you can’t personally enjoy.

So you strive to do better. You endeavor to be a Proverbs 31 woman, even though you feel like a Prozac 24/7 kinda gal. If you feel depressed you must not be godly enough, so back to the drawing board for you. Watch your weight, exercise, pray, repeat. Count backwards from ten, take your vitamins, and drink more water. Go out with your girlfriends, read a book, take time for yourself. Stay attractive for your spouse, serve him in love, and give him the affection you yourself feel like you’re lacking. Be in the mood, even if you’re not. Meal prep, crockpot, freezer meals. Keto, Paleo, Weight Watchers, Hello Fresh. So much advice, yet so little time. I don’t know about you, but I just want to not be tired anymore, and to wake up without a sore neck and back. Also, why am I anxious about nothing at all?!

Being a woman is hard, but working to be the woman you think you should be is even harder. It’s not easy being everything for everyone, yet still feeling like you’re not enough. Not good enough, pretty enough, young enough, thin enough, strong enough, happy enough. You’re not everyone’s cup of tea, sure, but maybe you just want to be the cup you yourself could enjoy. You want to be the mother your children deserve, the wife your husband desires, and the woman God needs you to be. Why is it so hard?!

Well, take a breath and listen. This is what God would say to you today.

Stop! Don’t work on you. Work on knowing me better. Stop striving to be the “mighty woman of God” you think you should be, and instead simply rest in who I have created you to be.

I don’t want you to be like her. I created you to be you. The things you see as flaws, I put those there. I thoughtfully formed your crooked nose and short legs. And even the flaws that the world has harshly placed upon you, I can work with those too. Don’t doubt what I can do.

The world will say you are not enough. Even my other children will tell you that is so. Satan will whisper lies so stealthy you will think they are truth, but I promise you this. You can only find my truth in my Word. If it’s not in the Bible, then it’s not for you to believe.

Stop seeking self-improvement, and instead seek my face. Spend time with me. Pour over my truths in scripture, and let that truth flood your soul. Allow it to take over your thoughts so that when lies from the enemy come, because they will, you can overpower them with who I say you are.

Stop working on being better, and start being better in me. Remember that my strength is in your weakness, that you have been made perfect in me, that I am in you, and you are in me. Together, there is no lack. There is always enough.

You are what I say you are, and you are enough. You can rest in my perfect peace, knowing the plans I have for you, plans for a wonderful future.

Stop fighting battles I have already won. Stop waging war on yourself. I take it personally. I created the stars in the sky, ones you cannot even see, ones that shine so fiercely they are blinding up close, but you are still my most precious creation. Just as you are. Stop trying to alter my design.

Stop planning to do better, and simply follow my path I have laid out for you. You cannot see it for your own anxieties of becoming lost. When you feel lost, go back to my map. Read the words there in red. They tell you the way.

Stop working on being a better you, and focus on residing in me. I am your safe place. I can block out the whispers that say you’re not enough. There’s nothing wrong with desiring to be a better you, except when you begin to think you alone hold the key to change. Only I can change hearts, and only in me will you find the completeness you desire. Stop trying to be everything, and rest in the fact that I already am. In me you have fullness of life. In me, you are already enough.

She Was the Original Pinterest Mom

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I don’t even know what conversation brought it to my mind, but for some reason this week I was reminded of my mother dressing up like a peanut for me. The year was 1986, and I was in fourth grade. It was our class’s Field’s Day, where we competed in outdoor athletics with other kids in other grades. We were affectionately called Price’s Peanuts, after our teacher Mrs. Price, but I’m not sure where the peanuts came in.

I didn’t know she was going to do it, and I’m not sure how she managed to keep it a secret. One minute I was standing on the sidelines cheering on my friends, and the next I was marveling at the magnificent creature cresting the hill of our softball field. The sun shown through her arms that rested confidently on her hips, and then in a triumphant celebration of prowess she waved a tiny flag with the letter P emblazoned across its front. Never had I seen a giant peanut/person look so grand!

My mother had taken an egg crate mattress and spray painted it brown, but that was just the beginning of her phenomenal nut costume. Topped with a netted, trucker’s hat, and finished off with larger than life shoes, my Mom arrived to our Field’s Day as our marvelous mascot, spurring us on to victory. All the other kids thought my Maw was so cool, but no one was as proud as me. She was my hero.

My mother was the original Pinterest Mom. She was the creative mother who brought a sparkle to her children’s life with her fantastical ideas and all the little extras. She drew amazing cartoon characters on all my otherwise boring, brown-paper book covers, making me the envy of all my pals. She also decorated my brown sack lunches with a new caricature and comical story every day, creating something much more grand than the ordinary lunchboxes adorned with Smurfs and He-Man that everyone else carried.

My Halloween Party was the best around, and I felt proud as a peacock as my friends sat blindfolded and delightfully frightened while dipping their fingers into the witch’s bowl of eyeballs (peeled grapes), intestines (spaghetti noodles), and children’s bones (thanks KFC). She existed in a world before the internet, where she came up with these fantastical ideas all on her own, not scouring the web and mommy blogs for the perfect party games.

She taught me how to cook from big, Betty Crocker cookbooks, and we rolled out our own Christmas cookies before social media said this was the best way to make memories with your child during the Holiday season. She made reindeer tracks on the roof without the suggestion of Facebook, and left magical evidence of St. Nick’s presence before Elf on the Shelf was required to keep kids interested. She told stories, made up dances and songs, and created fun games without the suggestion of educational sites. But I suppose the most significant thing to me was that she did all these things, and hundreds others I haven’t mentioned, without the necessity to show off her work.

When my mother decorated my room in the most wonderful way for an eight year old, she snapped a photo with her 35mm camera, just one picture that she herself couldn’t see. We waited until the roll of film was full before waiting another three to five days for it to be processed and printed. It didn’t have a filter, and it went straight into her photo album. She didn’t even share it to Facebook! A thing that didn’t exist. She took the photo for her and for me, just like she painstakingly designed my room decor for me. She didn’t do it for the accolades, for the adoration of others, and she didn’t require “likes” to make it feel worthwhile.

My Mom was the original Pinterest Mom before life required pinning, sharing, and the opinion or approval of the masses. She did all the things she did not for her fans or followers, but simply for the pleasure of it. She did the things she did for her children. She did it for the joy of parenting, without the worries of what others thought, and without the binding of other’s opinions. She had the luxury of being able to enjoy the things she did for her children, without the distraction of documenting it for everyone else.

Now, listen, I’m probably the biggest sharer out there, and I love documenting the things my daughters get to experience and see. I love photos, filters, and posting to social media for friends and family far away to see. I’m not as creative as my mother, so I need the help of others on Pinterest and craft blogs. I’m grateful for it, and I don’t judge anyone for doing the very things I do as well. But what I do envy my mother for is a simpler time, a time when she could pour love into her children through her creative tendencies and gifting without worries of what others might think. Everything didn’t have to be picture perfect, and in that somehow everything was perfect. It was perfect to me, and in my cherished memories it is perfectly wonderful.

My Mom could take a photo for herself, just one, not compelled to capture the best one. Then she could simply enjoy the moment. She could bake us the birthday cake she envisioned, not one she thought would photograph well, or one from the baker all the other moms were using. It wasn’t a time that was all about brand names; it was a time all about enjoying your children. She didn’t purchase our clothes with concerns of fitting in or keeping up with The Joneses. She got the stuff she thought was cute. The delightful horrible styles of the eighties and nineties, complete with awful hats at Easter and hideous Christmas sweaters before they were a funny fad. I look back in her photo albums at these pictures with a smile and happy memories, a time when a Pinterest-like mom wasn’t worried about Pinterest Perfection or a Mommy Fail. She just enjoyed what she did, because she loved her children, and there was no pressure to try and be like anyone else.

I try to carry on her memory in style, continuing her legacy. And no, I’ll never be able to draw like her, make up jokes like her, or come up with costumes and ideas like she did. One year she made me a garbage bag for Halloween. It was amazing. But anyway… I don’t mean I carry on her legacy by being as creative and artistic as she was. That’s a level I just can’t obtain. But I do try my best to carry on her legacy by not giving a crap what other people do or think is cool! I strive to do the things I do for my girls because I love them, to do it for them, not because I think I should since Karen does. I try and not compare my mothering to that of anyone else, to not place importance on fads, or attempt the perfection of social media standards.

If I ever appear to be like a “Pinterest Mom,” it’s not for the benefit of anyone else, but simply for my girls. I want them one day to look back on their memories with me like I do with my own mother, smiling at the things we did in joy together, not at the things I forced to be a certain way. Many times I see stressed-out moms doing parties and activities because they feel guilted into it. They believe they must perform a certain way, do certain activities to make their child’s life memorable and grand. Yet in the end it’s the love that truly matters. I don’t smile at memories of my Mom because of the things she did, but rather the reason that she did them. She did all those things out of love, and I reckon as long as your mothering in love then it will always be perfect, whether it’s worth Pinning on a board or not. It will be Pinned in your child’s memory forever, and that’s the most important part.