In Loving Memory of Margaret Parker (Mommom)

 There aren't words to begin to explain how much Mommom meant to all of us, or to capture what an amazing grandmother she was, or to describe the hole in my life knowing she won't be here.  I still wanted to share a few thoughts, because even though words could never fully express the depth of my love, they are all we have to share, all we have to remember her smile, her hugs, her kindness and generosity.  She wrote, "I've had a good, long life, lots of smiles, some tears.  So smile when you think of me."  So, I wanted to share just a few things that make me smile.

I loved how brutally honest she was.  You never had to worry about whether she was lying if she complimented your hair, or a new outfit, because she would definitely let you know it if she didn't approve.  She would say, "Jenny, I know you don't want to hear it, but," and then she would just go on and tell you anyway.  And I loved her for it, because everything she said came from a place of love.  She never wanted to hurt feelings--she just cared about telling the truth, especially to those of us she loved the most.

She would do anything for us.  I could always count on her.  She helped me so much, from co-signing for the car I bought in college to buying me bedding and towels to take to the dorms with me.  She was so proud of how far I went in my education.  She came to my dissertation defense, and when I nervously awaited my first question, expecting it to come from a professor on my committee or another academic, she raised her hand before anyone.  I hesitated before I called on her, not knowing WHAT was going to come out of her mouth, and then she said (after listening to the in-depth description of the research project I'd been conducting for the past year), "I just want to know, what did you do with all your free time?" And the whole room burst into laughter.

I think if it's possible, she's more proud of that doctorate degree than I am--and just to clarify, I am very proud of that degree.  I worked hard to get it.  She taught me to work hard--whether in keeping a clean house, which I promise, Mommom, I am finally getting better at--or in my studies.  She taught me to love learning and to never take an education for granted.  If she had been born in another time, or with different circumstances, she would have went far.  She was smart enough and determined enough to get a doctorate, too.

She loved to read and write, and used to send me letters just about every week when I went to college.  And she would send the best care packages.  When I told her that they didn't sell my favorite brand of potato chips in Florida, she would buy Herr's sour cream and onion chips and use a safety pin to poke a hole in the bag to let it deflate before taping it back up, so the flattened bags wouldn't take up so much room in the boxes she would send.  And I loved other quirky, thoughtful things she would do, like adding her own touch to store-bought cards by labeling the characters with our names, or when she wasn't getting out as much, recycling and re-purposing cards by writing witty messages on them.

She loves all of her great-grandchildren.  But she made it very clear that she thinks Rashieme and I should stop having children now.  And she's probably right.  She's right about most things.  

She was right about the girls' genders--all four times.  And my own, for that matter.  She had what both Rashieme and my dad called a voodoo trick to predict gender--she held a needle dangling with a thread over my mom and I's wrists while we were pregnant.  And it was right, every time, with the swaying motion correctly indicating girl rather than boy.  I loved to hear her tell the story of my dad proclaiming I was gonna be a boy right up until the moment of birth--when he came out into the waiting room and told Mommom she was right, it's a girl.

I know I'm going to see you again, Mommom.  I'm so glad you're in heaven, reunited with your one true love and your brave son.  It takes a special woman to raise a man who gives his life for his country, to raise a daughter who insisted on caring for you herself during your final days, even though it was physically and emotionally demanding, Mommom.  That's who you are.  You raise heroes.  And to me, that makes you a hero, too.

I love you, and I promise to always try my best to be the kind of woman you would be proud of.  I'm going to try to be like you, in as many ways as I can, for all the days I have left.  So I don't know how all that works, if God allows you to help from the other side, but if so, I'm definitely going to need some help.  And also, I am sick of losing to Rashieme at Canasta, so if you could please help me beat my husband at cards, I'd really appreciate it.

It's not goodbye, but see you late.  Until then, I love you a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.

One rose on Mommom's grave from each of us:  her daughter, her favorite niece, my brothers and I, and our spouses and children.

Stormy Octobers

One year ago today, I awoke after what was probably the scariest night of my whole life.  Hurricane Michael had been snaking it's way up the coast, and though it was a tropical storm (or maybe even weaker) by the time it got to us, here's what it did to our home:



Honestly, that was when I knew our time here had run its course.  In the middle of the night, those trees had come crashing down, thundering on top of our roof as my oldest daughter woke up screaming, the deafening smashing coming from directly atop her bedroom.  As you can see, the trees completely blocked our door, and it was only by the grace of God that they didn't smash through the glass storm door and enter our house, where my then-two-year-old had fallen asleep on the couch.

I spent the rest of the night on the couch with her, unable to sleep, wrapping her in my arms and staring out the windows at the tall pines bending back and forth, wincing every time I heard another creak or crack under the howling wind.  We'd been considering moving for a while before that, but for me, this was the final straw.  I didn't feel safe here anymore--how could I?

We were very blessed that we weren't hurt.  A year later, there is still damage to the shingles above our doorway.  The trees have been removed from atop the roof, but they are still cut up and scattered around the yard--both the two that fell directly on our house as well as a third that fell over our driveway, lodging itself against yet another tree at a thirty-degree angle, creating a terrifying limbo-like situation that I had to drive under in order to get to work one year ago today.

My husband spent the day calling around for estimates to clean everything up.  The best one we got was over two and half thousand dollars before a friend from church helped us out for a fraction of the price.  Still, the stumps littering our yard remind me of that horrifying night.  They have every day since then.

When I was home from work that day, after discussing the situation as calmly as I could with Rashieme despite the fact that I felt a desperate need to move that day, we agreed that we would take steps to buy our own home, and if that was going to be too time-consuming or unrealistic for us, we would find a way to rent until we were ready.

Then I went inside and took a pregnancy test.

There was a very, very, very faint positive--one of those lines you could barely see.  I remember staring at it in disbelief, because though we'd been trying for a few months, I couldn't imagine that now, after all the chaos of the day, after my demand that we move, that now  we would find out we were pregnant for the fourth time (our third living child, as we lost our middle daughter to stillbirth in 2007).

I wasn't even sure it was positive, and not just a trick of my eyes--I'd brought it to Rashieme and asked him if he saw a line, and he was as unsure as I was.  In my heart though, I thought I knew--any line was a line.

I was pretty sure I was pregnant.

That night, I remember cleaning up a little in Shay's room, and I found a picture from her Sunday School class of Noah and the ark.  The picture had a rainbow, and it stated that God kept his promises.

I remember looking at that picture, at the rainbow after the storm, at the message, and wondering if God was telling me that the rainbow was coming.  That our prayers had been answered, even if the timing didn't seem ideal.

A couple days later, I took another test, and sure enough, it was a clear, unmistakable positive.

I picked Rashieme up from work that night, parking in the "reserved for parents with children" spot at the grocery store on the way home, asking if he knew what that meant.  Even though he might have suspected it from earlier that week, he seemed totally surprised at the news, and we laughed, and hugged, and it was wonderful.

Ten days later, I remember crying over that picture of Noah and the rainbow.  On October 23, we miscarried early--five weeks along.  I was shocked, because even though we'd kept the news pretty private, knowing that miscarriage is fairly common in the first trimester, I didn't really expect it to happen to us.

Not after we'd already buried one child I'd carried for six months.

It just didn't seem fair.

I wondered what about October was.  October 29 was Jasmine's due date, so every year, when the leaves change, I find myself thinking about what she would have been like.  How different my life would have been had she lived.  What she would want to be for Halloween that year, and if she and Kaliah would be close, or if maybe they'd argue all the time, being only two years apart.

Now we could add a housing disaster and a miscarriage to the list of October misfortunes.

I was struggling spiritually and emotionally, but what choice do you have except to keep moving forward?  I threw myself into my job, my family, Ravens football, church, really, anything I could find to keep myself busy... but I tried to be honest with God about my frustrations, my disappointment, my anger.

We conceived again on New Year's Day.  I'd never thrown out that Noah's ark picture, and I remember having come across it again shortly after that test turned positive.  This is it, I had thought.  This is our rainbow after the storm.  It made sense to me--because, obviously, if the first pregnancy had been viable, we wouldn't have been able to receive this new blessing.  New Year, New child.  This must have been the way it was supposed to be.

And then, on January 24th, on the exact same day as in the October pregnancy (the first day of week five), I miscarried again.

This time, "rage" is the term that most accurately describes the way I experienced the loss.  It happened at work, and I remember driving home and just sobbing and yelling.  I was done trying to rationalize.  I didn't have it in me then to be consoled by anything.  I just cried all the way home, and when I burst through the door and collapsed in my husband's arms, that was when I had told him we had lost another baby.  He didn't know we were pregnant for the fifth time--I'd ordered a onesie to surprise him with the announcement--it arrived a couple days later.

We went to see a specialist soon after that--more than anything else, it was because I didn't think I could withstand continuing to go through losses.  We wanted to make sure there wasn't a medical reason that should keep us from trying, something putting us at risk for abnormal pregnancies.

Thankfully, there was nothing terribly wrong.  Most of you know that we're now pregnant yet again--and that this time, I'm 25 weeks along (one more week than when we lost Jasmine), and everything looks good.

Here's something that's truly amazing--at least, I think it is.  Our due date?

January 24th.  The exact same day we miscarried most recently.

Some people would say that's just a coincidence.  Maybe they're right, but I don't see it that way.  One of the ways that I have consistently seen God show up for me throughout my life is in dates and numbers.  Case in point--out of all the possible days Shay could have been born, she shares a birthday with my late father.  The very first time it snowed after she was born?  That was the date my father passed away (or as I prefer to think of it, the anniversary of the day he entered heaven).  Here's another one--for a long time, running was a big part of my life.  The first time I ever entered a race (which I was very nervous about doing), my bib number was 316.  John 3:16 is the most well-known verse in the entire Bible:  "For God so loved the world, He gave his only begotten son, so that any who believe in Him would not perish, but would have ever lasting life."  As I was wondering what I was doing as a non-athlete who had somehow arrived at the questionable decision to show up and pay money to run against actual athletes, that number was confirmation for me that God approved of what I was doing.  I went on to run dozens of races after that, placing in the top three in my age group in many of them--I even ran a full-marathon the year I turned thirty.

Those little signs in the numbers and dates have always been confirmation to me that there is a God who loves me, that He has not forsaken me, that I am not forgotten.

Some people see that as naive.  Some people see that as weak, as needing to believe in something greater than one's self.

I agree with that second part--but given the choice, that's the kind of world I'd rather live in.  I don't want to live somewhere where I'm in control, even when I think it's obvious I know best.  I've messed it up too many times on my own to see that my track record is not enough to inspire confidence that I would run things better than God can and does--even the stuff I don't understand.  There are heartbreaks in this world, ones I've experienced and ones I thank God that I've been protected from, that I can't explain away.  But I don't think God calls us to do that.  I think He just calls us to trust Him in spite of them, to love Him in good times and bad, even when we're honest enough to admit that we're really hurt, truly angry, or hopelessly confused.

So as I sit here writing this, one year after waking up to the aftermath of a huge storm, and a metaphorical one that kept on raging for quite a while after--I'm choosing to be thankful.  Thankful for all the parts of that story, even the painful ones that I'd rather not have gone through.

We're buying our first home together.  There are still times when I wish it could have been different with Dad's house--when I wish I had the talent, the resources, the time to tame this forest and restore this home to something beautiful.  But the thing is, I tried.  I put in thousands over the years, and it was always one step forward, two steps back.  I'll miss the memories--sitting and looking out at the trees, remembering how my neighbors and brothers and I ran through the woods and jumped on the trampoline and played in the tree house.  I remember swinging on the porch on the rope swing Daddy built us, swinging in the yard in the tire swing.

But the thing is, I'm not my dad.  I tried my best, and it's just too much property for my family.  Sometimes things don't go the way you think they will.

But sometimes that's because there's something even better around the corner.

Here's a photo of Shay in her brand new bedroom:



And here's to making new October memories:  we close on the 25th of this month, and I'm looking forward to a future where Octobers are less stormy... but whatever is in store for us, I'm hoping to remain grateful.

By the way, we decided on Ivy's middle name:  Faith.

Ivy Faith McFadden.

Failed Cakes, High School, and Other Disasters.

So, my oldest daughter is officially a middle school graduate.

Don't ask me how that happened.  One minute I was this nervous expectant mother in my early twenties, unsure of what the future held, terrified of what it would mean to be a mom.

These days, I'm only slightly less terrified.

But somehow, we made it.  Through preschool, kindergarten, elementary school, and now--middle school.  The middle school days are over.

To celebrate, I baked a cake.

Now, one thing you should know about me before reading on:  I do enjoy experimenting in the kitchen, but baking is not my forte.  I make the world's best chocolate chip cookies--they're huge and soft and chewy and ohmyword delicious.  But that's all I got.

Still, this cake came in a box, so I figured it couldn't be that hard.  I read the directions.  I mixed the batter.  I baked the cake.

My daughter arrived about halfway through the process to tell me I was doing it wrong.  I showed her that I was, indeed, following the directions, and I pointed to the part on the box that gave specific instructions for using a glass baking pan, which is what I was doing.

I'm still not sure what exactly went wrong.  It may have been, as Kaliah claimed, the pan, which was square, but had slightly angled sides.  It may have been, as my mother supposes, that I used only one pan instead of creating layers (nowhere on the directions, by the way, does it claim that this is a hazard).  But here's what happened:

The timer went off.  I removed the cake from the oven.  I stuck the toothpick in and it came out clear.  I left the cake to cool.

After waiting the recommended time (fifteen minutes), I dumped the cake out of the pan and onto a cookie sheet to ice it.  Before I saw the problem, I first heard "uh-oh" from my husband, who was observing.

Turns out, the cake had not baked all the way through, despite the misleading toothpick stick.  So, the edges of the cake were done, but approximately half of the project, the half that was buried beneath the golden brown exterior, was still in a soup-like-form, and I ended up dumping a half-baked, half-battered conglomeration of gunk onto the cookie sheet.  The sea of batter spilled over that of the cake which was formed, as I gazed on in amazement.

So, what now?  I did what any good baker would do. I scooped the entire mess back into the pan and threw it back into the oven, checking it every ten minutes.

Now, I did have plans that day, plans which did not allow for an extra hour of baking time for a half-finished cake.  So at some point, I removed the cake from the oven, pressed FIRMLY on the previously undone portion with my finger to make sure it had actually turned from a liquid to solid this time, and then threw the whole mess into the refrigerator. 

In the meantime, in typical high-schooler fashion, my daughter came out to laugh at me, declared that she would not be eating any of the cake (indeed, pleaded with me not to "make her"), and then proceeded to consume some of the icing straight out of the can.

The following day, I yanked everything out of the fridge to try again, including the icing my daughter had opened.  I ruthlessly scraped all of the cake out of the pan, spatula style, mashing it down into a sort-of-square as I remolded it into a not even kind of pleasing shape.  I then slathered it with icing, which of course, was not easy to spread, as both cake and topping were cold.  Bits of cake crumbs were spreading along with the icing.  Other portions of the cake were crumbling beneath my attempts to cover it in frosting.  My three-year-old arrived to look on eagerly, stroking my arm and restoring my ego as she breathed, "Oooh!  It's so beautiful!"

Mind you, this cake was the opposite of beautiful.  This was the most unbeautiful cake that ever was.

But my sweet Shay continued to look on in awe, exclaiming, "It's so beautiful!  And you're so gorgeous!"

And at that point, I couldn't help but laugh until I was crying.  Because in my head, I still had the vision of yesterday, when the goop of uncooked batter was splattering all over the broken pile of baked cake as I stared on in horror.

But today, Shay saw only a beautiful cake.

So we continued to cover it in chunky cool frosting, and then I let Shay shower it with blue sprinkles in an attempt to further beautify my disaster.

Despite the less than smooth path to creation, it ended up tasting a-okay.

Even Kaliah said so.  And no, I did not force her to eat it.

Attitude for Days

My church has begun an awesome new series entitled "Habits of Success."  Last week, Pastor Brian spoke to us about having a humble heart, which he characterized in many ways, but the attributes that stuck out to me were yearning for continued learning, thinking of yourself less (not thinking less of yourself), and serving others.  Yesterday, the sermon addressed the second habit of success:  having a positive attitude.

This message really resonated with me because I immediately understood its importance.  There have been times in my life that I think I did a decent job maintaining a positive attitude in the face of difficulties.  Just as often (if not more often), I've blown it completely, falling easily into the woe-is-me mentality when confronted with heartache, injustice, or challenges (whether events be entirely circumstantial or caused in-part or in-totality by myself).

One thing Pastor Brian said that I thought was noteworthy was this:  "I don't believe in mind over matter.  But I do believe what's on your mind matters."

Wow.

He went on to explain that you can't control every thought that knocks on your door--but you don't have to invite them all in and give them a seat in the living room.

As someone who has struggled with depression in the past, I do believe there are medical and psychological factors at play there, too.  I used to get myself so worked up dwelling on things that were completely out of my control, working myself into a darker and darker place as I replayed situations in my mind, trying to imagine different outcomes, and blaming myself for both my own shortcomings and many of the ways other people had failed me.  Some of those negative thought patterns might have been present because of the way I was wired; some of it may have been that I waited too long to seek medical help to manage challenging life situations (I've known that I have a tendency toward major depression for years--so why soldier on alone when it's obvious that a visit to a counselor may have been in order?).

But no matter how you are wired, I think Pastor Brian is right.  We all have the ability to control, at least to some extent, what happens in us, even when we don't have control over what happens to us (I'm paraphrasing the sermon again... for a much more inspiring version, you can watch it here).  I've worked hard on trying to rewire myself to be more positive over the past several years, and those who are closest to me could still tell you without hesitation that even so, I've got a lot of work left to do!

Inspired by yesterday's sermon, I spent a few more minutes exploring scripture to find additional passages about attitude.  (There, now even if you check out Pastor B's sermon-- which I highly recommend, as it will no doubt be much more powerful than my summary--you get a bonus for visiting my page today).  Here's what I came up with:

"...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you." Philippians 4:8-9
I love this verse.  We're surrounded by such negativity on a daily basis, but if we take the time to look around us, we can find truth and honor, fairness and purity (okay, yes, sometimes you really have to look!).  The "worthy of praise" part is a little easier for me.  I don't enjoy jogging as much as I used to (truth), but when I make the time to go and get alone with my thoughts, it's easy to look around and find, in my scenery, that which is "worthy of praise."  And while I hate running on a treadmill, the truth is, even if I don't have the sky, the coast, or nature's countless other splendors in front of me to be thankful for, I don't have to think very long to recall dozens of times that God has shown up for me in my times of need--and more than that, my blessings are pretty much infinite, even when I'm in the midst of a legitimate storm.  I'm thankful for my husband, my children, a roof over my head, a vehicle that runs, a career that I love, multiple talents and hobbies that allow me to live out my passions, and the list goes on and on... summer days!  Herrs sour cream and onion potato chips.  Chocolate.  Roller coasters.  As long as you're breathing, you can find something (even many somethings) worthy of praise.

"Do all things without grumbling or questioning, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world." Philippians 2:14-15

This one's a struggle for me (I imagine it may be for most of us, at least in certain situations in our lives).  "Without grumbling" reminds me that just because I can complain about something, doesn't mean I should!  So, when faced with challenging situations in which my natural response is to grumble about factors beyond my control, I am trying my hardest to remember this verse.  I view the "questioning" in terms of questioning authority--because I do believe the God who created us loves our inquisitive nature, and wants us to question the world around us, particularly when it comes to analyzing our imperfect selves, and resulting imperfect systems.  But in situations where a supervisor tells us or a spouse requests us to do something, even something unpleasant, so long as we don't have moral objections, I believe the lesson here is similar to Nike's slogan--just do it.

"And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." Colossians 3:17

I've heard it said before that we should have an attitude of gratitude.  And if more people believed this, imagine how pleasant our daily interactions would be!  I think it is entirely possible to continue to strive for more, to pursue admirable goals, to refuse to be satisfied with where you currently are in life... all while remaining thankful for what you do have, what you have accomplished, and even looking for the lessons in the trials you are currently undergoing, or those from the past which you will probably not ever fully understand.  I think it is a good practice to be content, but not complacent.  And that is something I strive for everyday.  What's more, if you're really working as a representative of Jesus Christ, how much more likely are you to achieve what you set out to do?

Pastor Brian began this series by sharing several popular definitions of success, including one of his own:  Success is accomplishing all that God created me to be and do.  My prayer for you this week is that you accomplish all God created you to be and do over these next few days.  And if you enjoyed this, and you're local, please join us for service next Sunday!  It's Mother's Day, so it's a great day to visit--we've got muffins for moms and free professional family photos.  :) Visit Oak Ridge Baptist's website for more info, and have a blessed week!

The Preciousness of Patience

Scrolling through my Facebook feed last night, I came across this beautiful sentiment:

And I thought, wow!  That is such a sweet and amazing gesture.

I also wished it would have been practiced at several of the weddings I attended throughout my time as a single mother (one of which, I now admit with chagrin, I straight up dove for the bouquet, basically colliding with and fighting for the bouquet with another bridesmaid.  I was proud of winning it at the time, though I banged up my knees, arms, and probably the other girl, a little).

This got me reflecting on patience.

That story to me is funny now that I am happily married.  It was also funny back then, I imagine, watching grown women battling for a bunch of flowers over some crazy superstition, which clearly has no merit (it was years after catching this supposed symbol of good luck before I finally tied the knot).

But it also struck a nerve with me, now, looking at this beautiful idea in comparison with the silly games we play at weddings (and I'm not knocking the game, really--I threw my own bouquet and enjoyed doing so--and my now-sister-in-law caught mine, so that was pretty cool!).  

It struck a nerve because I was so worried back then.  I knew while I was single that I would have to be patient, and yet, I was doing desperate stuff like tackling bridesmaids.

I used to pray for patience.  I'm reminded these days that I still need to.

Patience is an area of my life that constantly needs attention; I constantly require God's direction.  When I was with Rashieme in my early twenties, I was impatiently waiting for a proposal.  When our relationship fell apart, I impatiently struggled to adjust to single life, wondering if God had anyone for me.

It was when I stopped trying to force things to happen, took a step back, and finally decided to trust God--that was when what I wanted most of all came to fruition.  When we do allow patience--not complacency--to fill our lives, I have found that God often blesses us beyond our desires.  I thought Rashieme and I had broken our relationship so badly it was never going to be able to be repaired.  But as I prayed for a Godly man and focused on making myself into the woman I thought that sort of man would deserve to be with, God showed me that Rashieme was becoming exactly the kind of husband I'd always dreamed of.  I am fortunate enough to be married to the one I've loved since seventeen, despite all the ways I'd messed that relationship up before, when my priorities were selfish (not horrible, but definitely selfish).

I'm still growing.  I'm still selfish at times.  I still need more patience!

I have been struggling with patience in the area of my writing for several years.  I know God gave me this talent and desire for a reason, yet I have consistently run into dead ends on my journey to publication.  But I am choosing to believe that God's pauses are not "no"s.  They're just "not yet"s.  And in the meantime, I've tried to focus on what is within my control, getting back up and dusting myself off, and continuing to try, asking God to clarify how I can better honor Him and care for others in my quest.  This last part, I think, is the key.

My home is another area that requires patience.  My dad's property is the definition of one step forward and two steps back.  I get frustrated sometimes, because I knew my father would have known what to do, figured out how to prevent problems I'm currently trying to fix.  Living in over an acre of trees (it's like the lottery, guessing which one is going to fall next.  But unlike the lottery, odds are are pretty good that a tree is going to come crashing down) in a fifty-year-old home when you have little to no talent, time, or money to devote to the types of responsibilities this kind of property entails is, quite honestly, exhausting and frustrating.  But I'm making up my mind to try and do my best each day, and look to God for direction about what comes next.  I'm asking the Lord to help me be less materialistic, even as I ask Him to make a way for us to create a safe and beautiful home for our children.  And I try to worry about what is within my control, and minimize my complaining about what is not (and this is definitely an area I am still working on.  Just ask my husband, who gets the brunt of my complaints!).

I believe that God also uses the little stuff to teach patience, though.  I said this aloud to my daughter, yesterday, as we were preparing to go to Dunkin Donuts.  I love Dunkin, and I have the app (which, in my opinion, is less than amazing).  But I try to use the app every time we go, because I want my purchases to result in points, which can be redeemed for free coffee.

Yesterday, though I've done it hundreds of times before, the app was simply not letting me add more funds.  

I mean, if I went through the series of steps once, I probably did it a couple dozen times.  Hitting the same screens, typing in the same numbers, waiting...

And, nothing.

And then, randomly, on a last ditch attempt right outside the restaurant... 

It went through.

And I said to Kaliah-- "God does this stuff on purpose. He's testing me on these little annoying things, because I continue to fail."

I was half-joking, half serious.  Do I think God uses the little stuff to talk to us and get our attention?  Absolutely.  Do I wonder if the Great Almighty orchestrated a deliberate technological glitch in a Donut app to teach me patience?

I don't think God causes all things.  But I think He uses all things.

How do I know that I still need to learn how to better exercise patience in the little stuff?

Case in point--this was a couple months ago.  I call this story "The Great Fax Machine Debacle."

One day, I needed to request that an old doctor of mine fax some paperwork to a new doctor I was seeing.  Don't get me started on why they can't just email this crap by now--you can't tell me that secure servers that deliver information to someone's private password-protected inbox are less able to be infiltrated than random pieces of paper sitting in a fax machine's delivery tray.  But anyway, I digress.

Here is how I easily managed to complete the required documentation process in several simple steps:

1.  Look up old doctor's number on the internet.

2.  Call number.  Realize they are closed, even though it's only 3 o'clock.

3.  Repeat step one several days later.  Call and speak with a nice lady who tells you that before she can send info to the doctor, you have to fill out a form.  Ask her to email it; she says it needs to be faxed.

4.  While on the phone with said nice lady, email our heroic administrative goddess, asking her for our work fax number.  She answers within seconds, because she's awesome like that.

5.  Give woman on phone number.  Figure the ordeal is coming to a close.

6.  Run upstairs from your office to the office where the fax machine lives.  Successfully obtain paper that has been faxed.

7.  Fill out form.  Check document for return fax number and assume it is the number that has been printed on the edge of the paper during the faxing process.

8.  Get crash course in sending fax on this particular model from administrative goddess.  Jam paper several times.  Finally get fax sent.

9.  Go downstairs to leave for the day.  Gather up belongings in office and head for the door.

10.  Stop to answer the phone.  Find out you did not fax the return form back to the intended doctor's office, but rather, a random pharmacy whose number, during the fax process, was printed on the edge of the documents you received for no apparent reason.

11.  Ask kind pharmacist if he happens to know the correct fax number for said doctor.

12.  Learn that he does not.

13.  Call the doctor back.  This time, get referred to an answering service.

14.  Wait on hold until answering service picks up.  Tell answering service you need the fax number for the doctor.

15.  Obtain the fax number.  Write it down on a post-it.

16.  Go back upstairs with papers to be faxed and fax number.

17.  Drop post-it in hallway.  Realize you dropped post-it in hallway when an attentive colleague calls down the hallway after you, "You dropped this."

18.  Try to refrain from dissolving into hysterics as you imagine yourself ashamedly returning to administrative goddess's office to once again attempt the faxing process without the fax number.

19.  As you re-fax document, reflect on how what should have already been accomplished has, instead, taken you nineteen steps.  Jam paper several times before effectively sending the fax.  Imagine yourself flying into a rage and destroying the office, starting with hurling the fax machine across the room--but don't stop there.  Visualize yourself picking up and throwing multiple items (including but not limited to books, the desk phone, mail from office mail boxes, and the trash can) all over the room in a fit of fury.  It's a fantasy, so go ahead and imagine yourself toppling the bookcase and smashing the windows as well.

20.  Smile and say goodbye to the administrative goddess.

21.  Go home and enjoy the weekend.

22.  Return to work the following Monday and receive a voicemail from the new doctor's office, who claim that the old doctor's office did not send them your records, but instead, requested your records from the new doctor be sent to them (which makes zero sense, because you are not a current patient at the old doctor's, so why would they want your records--that you don't even have, because you are a NEW patient who has yet to even see the new doctor!).

23.  Call the old doctor's. Learn that you filled out the paperwork incorrectly, putting the new doctor's info in the old doctor's spot, and vice versa, hence explaining why the old doctor asked the new doctor for your records instead of providing the new doctor with your history.

24.  Ask politely to have records sent, rather than requested, explaining that you are no longer a patient with the old doctor, and have not been in twelve years.

25.  Learn that you must fill out paperwork again.

26.  Try not to cry.

27.  Explain that you struggled mightily with the fax machine last week and that you need the information sent before Wednesday.  Ask them to please just send what they need to via email.

28. Learn that, once again, email is not as secure as a piece of random paper.  Also learn that you have a thirty dollar balance that needs to be paid to your old doctor.

29.  Get transferred and pay balance via credit card after pleading with first person on the phone that you will re-fax everything.  Get her word that she will send documents now while you are preparing to re-fax.

30.  Realize you no longer have the fax number.

31.  Take a break from all this, because you have an actual job to do.  Go teach a class.

32.  Return to office and call old doctor.  Ask for and receive fax number.  Again.

33.  Re-fax documents and hope for best.

34.  Go to new doctor on Wednesday.  Learn that old doctor did not fax documents.

And, there you have it, folks.

Because I did not smile through these 34 steps.  Because I did not model Christianity through this process (though I also didn't cuss up a storm, which I think deserves at least some kudos).  Because I felt my hair turning grayer and imagined myself engaging in destruction of property.

Because of all these reasons, I know I still need more patience.

May your day today contain fewer aggravations than the aforementioned example.  But in the event that you are being tested, remember:  

We all are.

God uses the little stuff, too.

And I'm just trying to do everything with more patience and reflection than I would have yesterday.  The big stuff.  The little stuff.  The aggravations and celebrations.

All of it.

Have a Happy Tuesday.  May you find the wonder in this week, even if you're tested heavily, in matters large or small.

The Wild, Wild West of Parenting

Parenting is hard.

Anyone who is telling the truth will tell you that (unless they aren't parents.  Or unless they are parents, but they aren't spending enough time with their kids).

Don't get me wrong--it's worth it.  1000% worth it.  And sometimes it is easy, and sometimes everything is wonderful.

But just as often, as a mom, I'm faced with decisions I don't know how to make.  I'm stuck questioning myself after I've made a choice.  I'm wondering if I'm messing it all up most of the time.

But I've written about that before.  And in case you missed it, my great big takeaway has been that if you are trying your best for your child, then that is enough.  It has to be.

Our children don't need perfect parents--they just need parents who love them, and give themselves to their kids day after day.  Of course we're going to make mistakes along the way.  But if we're willing to admit them and learn from them, that's really all we can ask of ourselves.  Since there are no perfect people, there are no perfect parents (even if that mom down the street bakes gluten-free everything that still tastes delicious, and even if her bod looks rockin' in her yoga pants, and even if her kids are well-behaved in church each Sunday, and each child has mastered a different specialty in sports, music, and/or academics by age 12.  No perfect moms or dads out there--none.  They don't exist).

But that's not what I wanted to write about today.

Today, I want to be honest about parenting a teenager.  Because that's a topic I haven't tackled before.  But before I get started:

Full disclosure, my teenager is amazing.  She is goodhearted, sweet, and earns grades that are higher than both mine and her father's ever were throughout middle school.  She is a talented musician, an extremely gifted artist, and a helpful big sister.  She cares about people and loves animals.

Despite all her wonderful qualities, I still feel like there are times we are living on completely different planets, and I have no idea how to relate to her anymore.  You know the saying, Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars? 

They should add Teenagers are from Pluto.  Because that's how far away from her I feel sometimes.

When I became a parent at the relatively young age of 22, almost 23, I worried about the immediate:  I'd never changed a diaper.  I didn't know how I'd adjust to having a kid and trying to finish graduate school.  I worried about how my relationship with my husband (then boyfriend) would change.  I analyzed my own spiritual life, recognizing how messed up I was in terms of my life priorities, and I started rearranging my life to try to better honor God, knowing that I had the biggest task of my life ahead of me:  to be a role model for someone else.

But that last part, the role model part--somehow, somewhere along the way, when my oldest daughter was just a sweet little girl who worshiped me, who thought I could do no wrong--somehow I found myself believing that lie along with her.  I'm not saying your best isn't good enough--it absolutely is!  But for me, so much of my oldest's childhood was spent in a haze of innocence, with her not questioning or pushing me, that when it finally started happening around the cusp of adolescence, I found myself completely unprepared.

It's the Wild Wild West of parenting.

Because practically overnight, your adorable little angel who has placed you on a pedestal has realized that you're a real person who makes real mistakes and you might not belong up there.

And of course, children should still respect their parents. But as they get older and form a more complete view of who we are, with all their front row seats of the mistakes we sometimes keep confined to our own homes, I'm guessing most of them begin to realize exactly how far from perfect we are.

And this realization comes amid the new boundaries teens want to test.  It comes amid a sea of hormone changes and raging emotions.  It comes with wanting to date.  With buckling down in school because college is on the horizon.  It comes with body issues and self-esteem concerns.

It comes with freaking technology!!

I guess every parent ever has always felt that the world was changing, that they grew up in a different world than their children are being raised in, because, let's face it--it has been!  And we do all experience a different world than the generation before us.  My parents struggled to keep up with computers and the danger of the internet the same way my husband and I fret over smart phones and apps and social media.  And even before technology took over the world, talk to your grandparents:  Didn't they distrust the changes in music, in fashion, in the way young people viewed society and their role within it?

The opportunities are endless, but the dangers and missteps real.  And when I became a parent, my worry about being a role model was secondary to my worries about how do I feed my baby--breast or bottle?  How do I make sure I keep her safe from SIDS, and how do I baby proof the apartment, and what do I need to do to make sure she eats a healthy diet as a toddler?  And I'm not saying that these aren't important concerns.  I'm saying that in my naivety, I figured they would be the biggest issues.  That once I got her safely through early childhood, we would sail through adolescence and into adulthood in a smooth, sitcom-worthy way, with every conflict happily resolved inside thirty minutes.

I was and still am completely unprepared to navigate teenage life. 

And I am doing my best--I talk with my teenager daily.  I express my concerns when I have them.  I monitor her technology use, and try to stay on top of the influences that I know I can't eliminate, but should at least be aware of.

But it's hard in the Wild, Wild West.

I pray about it a lot.  I try to be a good role model, and I also try to be honest.

I'm also pulled in a quite opposite direction in daily life, as my youngest daughter is only three.  So my days are divided, schizophrenic almost, in the sense that I'm balancing the older child's hurt feelings from a teenage argument with the younger one's need to learn to share.  I'm in between conflicts over how often to practice the clarinet and guilt over whether or not my younger one is being read to enough (because she does love her iPad, and technology influences tiny children, too).  I'm taking turns playing the fashion police and negotiating with a toddler regarding administrating antibiotics.

I sometimes want to laugh at how clueless I was as to how hard this stage would be.  I think my relationship with my own mother, always close, set a false precedent for me, helped me to form an idealized view of what all mother-daughter relationships should be.  I should have known from my time teaching middle school that my own relationship with my mom was an exception, and not a norm.

And even though we were close, I was still far from a perfect teenager, just like I am far from perfect as a woman, wife, mother, and person.

So as I give myself grace for the motherhood journey, I need to remember to do the same for my daughter throughout her teenage voyage.  I need to realize she is going to make mistakes, just like I did, just like we all do.  I need to try to instill values in her to guide her away from the biggest temptations, the most dangerous choices.  But I also need to recognize that she needs space.  She needs to not feel unrealistic expectations from me.  How hypocritical it is, so often, when we realize our own imperfections but force our children to adhere to a higher standard.

I'm working on me.  Far more than I ever thought I would have to as a parent.  When I became a mom, I thought it would be all about growing up another person.

Turns out, it's about growing us both up.  And though I was young when that little voice first called me mommy, I don't think this is a lesson I would have or could have learned any differently, no matter how old I might have been before entering motherhood.

The Wild West is always going to be unknown, until you step into it.

Still

I'm no poet, but every once in a while, I like to try my hand at poetry.  This topic's been tugging at my heart lately, even though it happened nearly twelve years ago.  I call this one, "Still."

Still
You were still
No moving
No crying
Still

Still
Still I held you
Still I loved you
Still I wept
Still

Still I wonder
Still I miss you
Still I imagine your face
Your eyes, your smile, your nose
I see you in my dreams
Your curls, your hands, your toes
I remember the butterfly kicks
Would you be short, like your older sister?
Tall, like your younger one?
Maybe in between them--average height?
You were, after all, the middle sister,
My middle child.

Still I cry, sometimes.
Still I miss you
Though I never knew you--

But I knew you.

Still remembering
The hope I had
Still wishing
Still wanting
Still

Still I cry
Still I mourn
Still I remember

Still
Still...

Still I smile
Still, I hold your sisters
Still, I love blue skies and sunshine
And sometimes, the feel of raindrops
Still, I celebrate your life
Still, I thank God
For you.

Still.