Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

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.

We’re in This Together

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“In this family you don’t have to go through anything alone,” I explained to my oldest daughter. “We’re in this together!”

She nodded, sniffled, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek before acknowledging my statement with an accepting “ok, Momma.”

She was eight years old, and for whatever reason had started developing fear at night. She was having trouble sleeping, and she said when she woke up in the middle of the night with everyone else still sleeping, she felt alone. Her father and I had noticed something amiss with her mood, but she tried to say everything was ok. Finally, after much gentle questioning, she admitted her fears. She had worried her dad and I wouldn’t understand how she could know Jesus was always with her, but still be afraid. I think she was ashamed of her fear.

“It’s ok to be afraid, baby,” I explained. “It’s okay to cry, and it’s especially ok to ask for help. That’s why we’re here.”

My husband went on to explain she could always wake him up anytime. We offered wisdom from scripture, but above all we let her know that she wasn’t alone in this. That’s what family is for.

That was last night, but I was reminded of it again today.

“We all just finished praying for you,” my husband texted to me at work.

We’re in this together.

I was reminded how true that was. I had texted my husband earlier this morning to let him know I wasn’t feeling well. I felt downtrodden, and while I knew you couldn’t spread sunshine on the daily, I also knew God didn’t have it for me to feel defeated or depressed in my day. So I had shared my mood with my spouse so he might lift me up in prayer.

Turns out he enlisted the whole family to pray.

We’re in this together.

I thought about how I had responded not long ago when my husband wasn’t feeling well. When he doesn’t feel good he gets really quiet. He’s almost sullen. He doesn’t want to do anything, and in this particular instance had tried to make excuses to not go somewhere I had planned.

“It looks like it might rain,” my personal meteorologist/aka husband had stated.

I had retorted, “if you don’t wanna go just say so!”

And as I stewed with indignation afterwards I thought to myself how his bad mood shouldn’t be something I had to deal with! Yet, I had. I had allowed my anger to cool, tried to place myself in his shoes, and remembered that it was my job to support him in life. Through good times and bad.

We’re in this together.

I didn’t know if our family had a bullseye lately from the enemy for following God’s will, but I did know that everyone eventually had bad days. Sometimes all at once, sometimes at inconvenient times, sometimes when you couldn’t understand them, and sometimes even when they didn’t want to share those bad days with you. You still shared them! Even if you couldn’t understand, didn’t want to deal, or felt like you couldn’t help. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You help carry the weight when they can’t, and then later they pick up the load for a while. Repeat.

I told my daughter this last night. “God didn’t promise us that life on this earth would always be easy, but He did promise you wouldn’t be alone.”

I reckon sometimes God’s presence is made concrete through the people who love you. Wives support husbands, and husbands lift up their wives. Or they should.

Families pray together, and they intercede for one another. That’s what we’re here for. To love God, love one another, and help make the journey through this life easier for one another until we reach the other side.

We’re in this together.

So, never feel like you’re alone. Never go at it alone. God gives us all our people to help us through this thing called life. Look for your people today.

My Tribe

When I Saw My Husband’s Painted Toenails

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It’s so quiet in my house right now, which never happens. My six year old went for a sleepover at grandma’s, and I’m holding a napping baby. My four year old went to work with her daddy just moments ago, and as I read the text message from him I thought again about his pink toenails. 

“Enjoy the quiet time alone with the baby,” he had said. 

I looked down at her sleeping, so peaceful, so beautiful, but so big! She wasn’t the tiny baby she used to be. She was starting to repeat every word she heard, and if she couldn’t say it she would try in her own toddler gibberish. She was growing up quick, but thankfully still loved to snuggle with me more than anything. I needed to soak it up, for sure. After all, that’s why my husband’s toenails were pink. 

I had noticed the changes in my husband lately. A working man, he enjoyed his quiet, restful time in the evenings. He had his own way of relaxing, which typically involved playing a game on his computer, but last week it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen his game on in a while. 


“Sometimes I wish they could stay just like this,” he had said to me recently as we drove along together to the store. “This age is perfect. I wish they could stay little.”

At night, instead of playing his game, he had started putting on television shows that our six year old enjoyed watching with him, shows about building spectacular fish tanks, or catching river “monsters” in other countries. They would make plans before he left for work of what board game we’d play when he got home, or how they’d have a soccer tournament, just the two of them, on his next off day. He cuddled with our middle child, and made up fabulous, elaborate bedtime stories that would rival J.K. Rowling. In the mornings I would smile as I picked up stray rubber bands and hair bows left over from a late night game of beauty shop makeover. A girl daddy for sure!

So last night as I hugged him before bed I looked down and saw his feet. Bright pink toenails stared back at me, and I giggled loudly at the sight. 

“Yeah,” he mused, “she wanted to paint my toenails, so I let her.”

As I lay later drifting off to sleep I uttered prayers of thanksgiving for a present husband who saw the importance of time with me and the children. He inspired me to enjoy this phase more. Many times it was absolutely exhausting and chaotic, but then it was also perfect. It was so wonderful that you just wanted to freeze time, keep them little, and enjoy all the cuddles that came without coaxing. So you watched the baby sleep a little longer instead of folding that laundry, and did an impromptu take your daughter to work day. You didn’t mind playing that board game for a billionth time, retelling the same old bedtime story again, and you even let them paint your toenails a vibrant, girly pink. 

They say the days are long, but the years are short. And I’ve certainly found that to be true. Each day that my eldest daughter grows taller and taller, it becomes more difficult to picture her chubby, newborn cheeks, or the way she suckled on the air when she slept, dreaming warm, milky dreams. The knees become knobby, replacing those fat, dimpled joints from before, and the time they spend out of your lap lengthens. Each day that goes by is the last. The last time to rock them to sleep, the last time to kiss a booboo better, or to read a bedtime story. The last time to bend down and tie a shoe, the last time to cut their meat into little pieces, or the last time to turn on the nightlight before bed. You have to enjoy each moment as if it’s the last.

My husband’s pink toenails weren’t just about a silly night of playing beauty shop, or even about being the dad of girls. It was about time, time that passed so quickly, and enjoying that time no matter what it might entail. We enjoyed a crowded bed at night, with swift kicks planted in our back, because we knew one night would be the last time they wanted to cuddle under our covers. One day would be the last time to hold hands crossing the street. So, until the last time came, you made the time count. You made each and every moment count.

Is Satan Stealing Our Families?

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This past year I read a book with my daughter called Little House in the Big Woods. You may be familiar with it. It’s the first book written by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and it began the popular Little House on the Prairie series. I don’t recall reading it before, and as I read it to my five year old, I think I enjoyed it even more than she did. Something about the way the family lived, it intrigued me. I love my internet tremendously, but the simplicity and closeness this family shared sounded really wonderful to me. The idea of working together for each other drew me into their little world. Many times as I read the pages aloud I yearned for such a time as the ones described.

I look around today and I wonder if we wouldn’t be better taking a step back in time where we could focus more on important matters, and less on trivial ones. I see the things around me that cause so much unneeded stress, and I truly believe that the principalities and powers of darkness wish to destroy what God has created. God favors families. He favors love, time together, and focus on cultivating those relationships. What I see today is in direct opposition of that, yet those things have developed slowly over time, so much so that we don’t even notice them deteriorating the fabric of family.

Our pre-teens and teenagers are so absorbed in their Snapchat and Instagram that they can’t even come up for air. Not that we notice. We’re buried in our Facebook newsfeed or hottest new game app.

The normalcy of public school education with its ever increasing curriculum demands are swallowed like good medicine. The school year gets longer, testing increases, and hours of homework creep into the family time. So children that already spend 8-9 hours away from home are spending their evening hours doing more projects, reports, and extra credit assignments.

Mom and dad are too exhausted to help much. They’re tired because they’re putting in more hours. Dual working parents are the majority. And while the cost of living has definitely increased over time, I wonder how much of our “necessities” are truly that? We work more to be able to buy more, yet we hardly have time to enjoy all our purchases. We save all year long for a week long vacation that leaves us exhausted and in need of a day off from our off days.

A lot of our hard-earned money is spent on activities. So. Many. Activities. We spend more time driving to activities, purchasing gear, costumes, and accessories for our activities, or working on our off days to raise funds for our activities. Activities where we watch other people teach, coach, and mentor our children. Is this the time together we’re craving? Makes you think.

Time together doesn’t cost a dime

If you had to sit down and add up how much quality time you spend alone with your spouse, what would it be? What about your children? And not time doing and going. Just time. Is it less time than you spend on your weekly commute to work?

It makes you wonder if divorce is more prominent today because it’s become socially more acceptable, or could it be because we’re spending less time enjoying the company of our spouse? Would children get in less trouble if they had a present parent/parents available to guide them? They say it takes a village to raise a child, but I’m wondering if we’ve taken that too far. Now we just want the village to take care of them. And then when our children fall down and fail we can have teachers, coaches, and the church to blame for their demise.

This is hard stuff to think about. It’s taking everything we’ve called normal over the past few decades or more and realizing that it’s actually destroying the family unit. Our kids are playing ball 3-5 times a week until 10pm, and the parents are working 60 hours a week to keep designer duds on the kiddos lest they get bullied for wearing WalMart brand clothing. Everyone has a TV in their room, a cell phone in their pocket, and a brand new car in the drive-way yet none of that will go to Heaven with us. We’re working very hard providing material possessions for our children, when in all reality we should be on our knees with them leading them to a closer walk with Jesus. Eternal life is what we should want for our kids, not the best education money can buy. And while I’m all for giving them a bright future, I don’t want to give them the world if it forfeits their soul. When my grown children look back on life I want them to have memories of time well spent rather than spending all the time. I gotta work on this! I don’t have it all figured out either, but I’d like to think my eyes are open enough to see that Satan wishes to destroy us.

Satan wants us tired, worn thin, and stressed. He wants us in debt up to our eyeballs, and our health failing because we can’t sleep enough, eat right, or handle our stress effectively. He wants husbands and wives fighting over finances, disrespectful teens who learned how to treat their parents based off Nickelodeon sitcoms, and thousands of young children sexually abused by the adults we’re so quick to place our trust in. He wants us busy, but not productive. He wants our plates full, but our tank empty. He wants us looking to society for what’s best for our families, not God’s word as a lamp to our feet. He wants the family unit ripped apart, and many times I look around and see us letting him. We’re not even trying to take a stand.

I’d like to believe that it’s not too late. We can still fight to save our families. Perhaps it all comes down to stepping out in wisdom, courage, and truth for our family. In a world that’s so busy Keeping Up With the Kardashians, maybe it’s time to be a Little House on the Prairie. What do you think?

*Of note, this isn’t meant to offend anyone. It’s just meant to trigger thinking about it. I’m certainly a work in progress.

Five Reasons God Gave Us Sisters

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As a mother of multiple daughters I watch my girls together and I am so happy for them. Sure, they fuss and fight, they bicker over “borrowed” items, but then they also do like they did last night. They sit together in the floor, attaching hair bows to their collection of stuffed animals, and ask the other, “what do you think? Is that pretty?”

I am of the opinion that having a sister, or sisters, is a true gift from above, and I can’t imagine my own life without the precious presence of my sisters in my little world. 

Here’s five reasons I think God gave us sisters. 

1. So you could have a built-in best friend. 

Personally, I’m a bit of an introvert. I don’t get out much, sans kids anyway, and I’m not the most outgoing gal around. I have a few select friends I enjoy spending time with on occasion, but if you asked me who’s my best friend that would be an easy answer. 

My sisters. 

Where else can you find women who love you unconditionally? Even when I disappoint them accidentally or make them mad, they love me still. No petty indifferences change the thick bond we have forged over a lifetime. 

When I can count on no one else, I can always count on my sisters. 

 2. So you have a consistent event planner in your pocket. 

This was my first thought upon waking this morning. Tonight I have a lovely baby shower planned by my sisters. I didn’t have to ask; they just did it. Like they did my gender reveal party too. 

Sisters are that friend you can count on to always know what you want, and then they just run with it. And the thing is they don’t do it out of obligation. They do it out of love. 

3. So you always have someone you can call. 

Sisters are the people you call on when you can’t call on anyone else. 

When you’re mad… Sisters are the ones you can always vent to. 

When you’re sad… Sisters are the ones you can always cry with. 

When you’re happy… Sisters are the ones you can rejoice with. 

When you have accomplished something… Sisters are the ones you can celebrate with. 

When you have a challenge in your life… Sisters are the ones who are your biggest encourager and your greatest cheerleader. 

When you can’t talk to anyone about that one thing in your life, you can always tell your sister. The best secret-keeper. The one who somehow knows the words you need to hear at exactly that moment. And most importantly, the one who knows when to remain silent and simply listen. 

4. So you have someone you don’t have to be embarrassed around. 

  

Lord, I think of some of the things I’ve told my sisters, and it almost makes me want to blush. But then it doesn’t. Because they’re my sisters. 

You can tell your sisters anything! 

Sisters don’t judge you; they just love you. 

Last night when I was having what I was certain to be false-labor contractions, aside from my spouse, I texted two people only. My sisters. I knew they wouldn’t make fun of me for worrying; I just knew they’d support me. 

Sisters are the people you can share your deepest fears with, even the silly ones. They may laugh a little, but they’ll do it in a way that makes you feel comfortable, not embarrassed. 

Sisters tell you when you have the broccoli in your teeth, the booger in your nose, or the toilet paper stuck to your shoe. They’re the ones who tell you what you need to hear, and tell it like it is. They offer tough love when needed, and also empathy and sympathy when no one else seems capable. 

When your heart gets broken they don’t say “I told you so!” Instead they hold you while you cry, help you dry your tears, then burn the leftover pictures and love notes of a relationship gone sour. 

You never worry if your sister knows all your dark secrets and all your terrible mistakes. It’s somehow not embarrassing when your sister knows this stuff. It’s somehow actually a relief!

5. So you have a personal fashion consultant on-hand. 

A couple of weeks ago I had an event I was attending where I wanted to look nice. I was in my third-trimester with clothes that didn’t fit properly, and also in a stage of my life where yoga pants are more common for me than panty hose. 

I love my husband to death, but he was no help. If I asked his opinion the answer was, “yeah baby. That looks fine.” Sigh. 

Thankfully I had my sister on-hand, and she was quick to reply, “Uhh… No, those boots don’t go with that dress.”

I wasn’t embarrassed by her honesty for my fashion faux pas. I was grateful!

Sisters will always tell you the truth about if those pants make your butt look big, but they’ll do it in a way that doesn’t hurt your feelings or make you mad. 

Sisters help you find the perfect shirt to match your favorite leggings. They may later borrow it without asking, but in all honesty, you’d do the same. It’s a sister thing. 

Sisters are so many wonderful things in life, and I guess the only thing better than having a sister is getting to be one. 

God made sisters for so many reasons, and I only listed a handful. Above all, whatever the reason, I think God gave us sisters as a gift, and I can imagine no better present to have in my life. 

Thank God for sisters!

Feel free to share this post with the sisters God gave you, whether blood related or otherwise.