Get Back in Your Box and Other Such Nonsense

One of the most difficult things for me to deal with as a woman is the social pressure to be less, smaller, quiet. I am none of those things. And while I've always cared about other peoples feelings and social pressure, I've never been those things. I am big. I am loud. I don't like to be behind the scenes. And I have lots of feelings. Unfortunately, because I am intelligent, I am often in conversations or environments where those things about me, particularly my big feelings, are treated as a liability rather than an asset. I cannot tell you how many seasons of my life I spent trying to tame the beast that is me. I tried to be quiet, to be small, to be less. I am, sadly, still given that opportunity from time to time and it is a difficult thing to resist. 

And yet there is this other raging voice that comes in and wants me to burn it all to the ground. It makes me want to throw in the towel and just rage at everyone and everything that might want to correct me, change me, reason with me, disagree with me, etc. This reaction to refusing to get back into the box is normal. It's part of how we deal with a philosophical shift. We react in a big way and lean hard in the other direction. I also believe this "box stuff" is triggered by my church trauma and so being reactionary also touches on an area of grief and loss for me. 

The problem with living in this world with a black and white brain is that I've come to the point in my process where my life is giving me opportunities for a middle ground. I will not get back in the box, that much is absolutely secure. And yet, can I live in community with people who are in those boxes but are not willing to get out, or who do not agree that they are a problem or who claim they love their box? Am I strong enough to resist the temptation to climb back in? Am I discrete enough that I won't jump in to their box and rip it from them? Can I respect their process?

I can't imagine that there are only a few boxes and we're all in them or out of them, but rather that each person has boxes that they stay in, burn down or reason with. So my box might work for someone else but it is bondage to me. Can I be shaped by or vulnerable with someone in my old box? I feel my life knocking on this door and I want to run so badly. I want to burn it all down. I am afraid to face those boxes, even as a stronger, more confident version of myself. I want to stop fighting growth because growth hurts and moderation is for suckers. Becoming more mature and healthier is so, so hard. I'm scared. And yet, drawing a line in the sand, and declaring "I'm done sitting in my stuff!" to the world feels like losing. I know that the more I go down this road of personal development, the more growth, joy, peace and freedom I will find. No one can put me in the box again. But being unable to be around my old boxes is just a new kind of box, isn't it? I will not let my fear dictate my life. I won't. 

The Night I Cried Doing Downward Dog (No, That's Not a Euphamism)

It's funny sometimes, practicing yoga. It requires you to breathe, to tune in, to sit in the tension you carry and then to release it. It's particularly funny to practice yoga as a caretaking perfectionist in crisis during a holiday week. Tonight I dragged myself to class, with my family limping around without me (everyone's sick but me), barely able to get in the door for being so stiff and terribly undercared for. 
I lie down on the mat my beloved teacher set out for me (because I was late). Just curling my legs into my chest, I feel them coming. The music is playing. The lights are dim. Tears. I am so fucking tired. Everyone needs a piece of me. There's not much left tonight. And so the tears come. In this one clumsy, stiff hour, I have so many wounds to bind up. The anxiety of trying to feel better in the one hour I've got juxtaposes with the amazement that I have a whole hour to myself to stretch every muscle that is locked down in tension. Penny is not asking to be held. Dinner has already been made. I am alone with others. My favorite way to recharge.
Going through all the positions, some feel wonderful, others really difficult, the tears slip out, one by one. Hiding under the sheath that is my undone hair, little by little the tears give way to release. Bone-deep, soothing release. Release leads to rest. The rest I long for. The rest I desperately need. The rest I cannot always allow myself in this time of crisis (Tim is still looking for work). 
I came home and read my little Cheryl Strayed book of quotes Brave Enough. One of the nuggets of truth that jumped out at me was this, "The particularity of our problems can be made bearable only through the recognition of our universal humanity. We suffer uniquely, but we survive the same way."
Sometimes it's surprisingly hard to be a person. I have so many beautiful people in my life. I've experienced so much grace and mercy when we weren't sure how something would work and it just has. But sometimes you just want to hide in a room alone for a month. Tonight, I had one hour. An hour I moved through with tears. But I came away having done what I needed to do. Exercise, yes. But really, I needed to cry. Don't be afraid to sit in your tears. Perhaps it's the only way to walk back out into the cold and into the fray. And ultimately, to survive.

Learning to Spot the Villain Within

Yesterday in my counseling session, my therapist and I were discussing if I was ready to decrease the frequency of our sessions. Of course, she turned it around on me and asked me if I thought I was ready. I went on to discuss for the entire session how the process of therapy has helped me in that last year and a half. One of the ways I've grown is that I no longer have to villainize someone in order to feel good about disagreeing with them. Before, if I wanted to validate my own feelings or thoughts, I had to make sure that the opposing viewpoint was "bad" or at least, "less than" my own. And, if we're going way back, I used to feel the need to belittle the motives or the very personhood of those holding opposing viewpoints because I truly couldn't imagine anyone who was (insert positive attribute here) and believed those things. 
I find this personal evolution to be of great value. To be frank, I'm really proud of and happy for myself! It's allowed my black and white brain to hold things I used to deem mutually exclusive as both true in some form. For example, when we were fired from ministry, we were hurt very deeply. The very process of being fired, especially from something so all-encompassing and personal as ministry, is deeply disturbing. It rocked our world. It was also painful because we felt it was handled poorly. In the process of grief and in the passing of time, I've come to the conclusion that the job loss was a life-altering event for both of us, that some of what happened was truly wrong and that those involved in the hurting are not terrible, hateful people. Those three things couldn't all sit together in my mind before, particularly those last two. If we were hurt and we decided that "they didn't know any better" then we were dishonoring or dismissing our pain. And if they did know better, then they were hurting us intentionally and we don't want to have anything to do with them (this also makes the brain conclude we're nothing like them). And the "we're all human" band-aid people love to put on pain is really just a free pass on anything we don't really want to feel. Now, I can hold both realities. I was hurt. They messed up. There was some truth to some of the things they said and did. They cared about us. They didn't want to crush us. But they didn't want us to run the ministry anymore. That's a challenging reality to be in. But this is the reality. 
I've had the pleasure of engaging in a lot of sensitive dialogue on social media lately. Our nation is wrestling with so much. And man, I am a passionate person, particularly about anything related to social justice. I believe the part of me that gets irate on behalf of the welfare of others is a good thing and is from God. What got me in trouble before (and that still makes itself known on occasion) is when I lose sight of the humanity of those I oppose. When we stop listening, stop imagining what it might be like to be someone else, stop seeing the good intent behind what we deem a wrongly held viewpoint, we awaken the villain within. I'm pleased to say that I no longer feel the need to use my anger (that's sometimes righteous) as a weapon to validate myself. I'm learning to hold two opposing realities. This is making me a better listener, a better lover of people and even a better advocate. We can get so much more done when we discuss sensitive things in a kind way. But the kindness has to be real, not patronizing. If you're not feeling kind, don't post! Read and learn from others. Our world will be a much better place when we tame the villain within and open our minds and our hearts to the possibility of change.  

The Value of Failure

I've been reading a novel I picked up at the library recently. I find such joy in reading books and it feels like a special treat when one surprises you with a "truth nugget" right in the middle of an otherwise normal narrative. One of the characters is as nostalgic as I am. As she's processing her divorce, she comes to this conclusion. "It's funny what comes to mind when the worst possible thing happens. After Jim left, I thought my life was over. I had tried so hard, and Jim had stopped loving me anyway. But failing isn't proof that nothing matters or that we were fools to care. We fail even though things matter very much; it's the possibility of failure that makes them matter even more."*
Grief causes us to go back to what we lost and to reassess its value. Sometimes we overvalue what is was, living in the "glory days" and remembering everything from that time through rose-colored glasses. Other times, usually when we don't want to feel the pain of loss, we try to convince ourselves that what we had before was not as good as it really was. It allows us to squash the grief we feel so we can limp forward in search of something better.
I love what this character is saying. When something fails (loss is all failure of some kind: death is failure to live; divorce is failure to work things out, etc.) that does not diminish its value. In fact, we put more value in things that have the potential to fail. Relationships fail. And rather than saying that, in order to grieve that failure, we must carry it forever (rose-colored glasses) or devalue our experience (denial of pain) of it, she's saying that the very act of failure gives evidence of its meaning. 
This idea blows my mind. I often find myself so disappointed when something fails. As an achiever and a perfectionist, I try so hard to make my life (and the lives of those I care about, see: caretaking) work. And when things don't, it's so easy to want to reduce the value of that experience. The pain of loss is so great, and often I take on the responsibility for that failure regardless of the situation. So on top of grief, I add on a heaping measure of shame. It's so much easier to say that whatever failed was not worth the effort it required to continue. 
She goes on to say, "At fifty-three years old, I almost lost what I had somehow known from the time I was a small girl. I almost lost the knowledge that made my life work...the faith that made three decades of marriage possible and everything good that happened in those years: the family we had, the friends we made, the laughs we shared, the tears, the everything of it. At fifty-three, I almost forgot what Avis Briggs always knew. It all matters." 
She's saying that just because her marriage didn't last forever (and believe me, she's grieving that in a big way) does not mean that their thirty years together were a waste. Just because she's crying now, her years of laughter still happened and still matter. I find this idea so beautiful, so comforting and so, so true to my life. I want my experiences, both painful and beautiful, to have meaning. 
I have no control over how my life will go. I know everyone reading that last line will have a gut check reaction to that truth because we so desperately want that to not be true. We want our good behavior to control the future, that bad things won't happen to us if we behave ourselves, that we will not experience failure in the places that are the most vulnerable in our hearts if we just keep trying. We want to box in our world, our God, our choices, whatever it takes to know that everything will be okay. But the joy of this narrative, both in the novel I'm reading and in the life I'm living is that experiencing pain does not erase the experience of joy. 
As a black and white thinker, I often paint things with a broad brush. If the teen girl gets pregnant, then she shouldn't have had sex with that boy. No matter that she loved him, no matter that she wanted to, no matter that she learned something. She shouldn't have done it and now she's reaping the consequences of her choices. But this is life. The joy of sex and the fear of parenting. The safety of a thirty year marriage and the shock of divorce. The fun of loving your babies and the grief of them moving on. On and on it goes. We want to live in a way that we think we can foresee the consequences and learn to avoid them. Or that the foreseeable ones shouldn't hurt as much as they do. Of course, there are obvious high-risk choices and some of us are more prone to them than others. But there is no way to have complete foresight, no true security in life. 
While there is a lot of fear in acknowledging this, in some ways it comes as a relief to me. For one, it's true in what I've seen and experienced and when I stop denying my heart, I find peace. Two, it takes me off my high horse. It's a lot easier to judge people when you think you've got this life thing all sorted out. Three, it creates community. The lack of security we have in this life fosters dependence on each other in a way that is beautiful, sacred and ironically, security-giving. When we know we have hands to catch us, falling is not as devastating. Four, it takes the pressure off needing to figure everything out, being the one who always needs to be the giver. It levels the playing field, this acknowledging of our collective human experience. We have so much more in common with each other than the areas in which we differ. Five, if we know failure is part of life and therefore, inevitable, does that not make the victories more sweet? When things work out, isn't it almost an unexpected surprise? When we pick up a random novel off a shelf and we find hidden gems of truth, this is the sweetness of life. It's pure, unexpected and resonates with the truth in my heart. 
* For anyone who's interested, the novel is called We Are Called to Rise by Laura McBride.

Sometimes I Really Miss the Box

I've always been an adventurous person. I've been on many wild trips around the world. If you haven't sat me down to tell you stories, you'll have to ask me someday about the time I got chased down by creepy men in Mexico because of my long blonde hair or the time I was mistaken for a prostitute on my 19th birthday in Paris. How about the time I thought I could go ice climbing in Interlaken, Switzerland and instead spent the afternoon on the back of a moped with a would-be Abercrombie model. Remember the 10 days I spent singing in a band on the streets of Russia when I was 14? Or the countless nights I've spent on a benches in foreign train stations and on the floor of British airports. I've got anecdotes about clubbing at gay clubs in London and the summers I've slept in tents for weeks at a time in Northern Ireland with unshowered teenaged boys. How about when I ate only gelato for an entire weekend in Venice without getting sick or when I almost flew through the window of a bus in Argentina? The list goes on and on. I absolutely love being out of my element, flying by the seat of my pants and just seeing what happens. This is greatly juxtaposed by my rule-following, religious perfectionism and care-taking. It's really hard to live inside a box (narrow theology) and outside of it (wandering sojourner). I've waffled between the two my whole life. 
Theologically, I'm very much living into that adventurous spirit and running far, far away from any boxes at all. But on days like today, when I'm still in my pajamas at noon, caring for a fussy toddler and trolling through my Facebook feed, sometimes that damn box nostalgia kicks in and I feel sad. 
I went to private school all through my childhood, culminating in a high school experience that was a real faith high. It's a time in my life filled with treasured memories, wonderful friends and a total certainty about Jesus. This world is a place where "Jesus" is everywhere, where struggle always has a purpose and where everything fits together. Everything is viewed through the lens of faith and nothing works outside of it. Sometimes I really wish that had been enough for me. I genuinely do. I see pictures of old friends children dancing excitedly on a stage with "Jesus" scrawled on the wall behind them. Dancing for Jesus looks so fun and safe. His name comes up in every conversation. He pertains to your day, your politics, your health, your relationships. (If this sounds like I'm mocking this life, I'm really not. I'm being genuine when I say I miss it and I in no way judge the faith or lives of these people.) I remember when I saw him everywhere. There was a certain comfort in having his name written on the back of every puzzle piece of my life. Somehow everything really did fit together.
I don't deny that Jesus could be in the childrens dancing. In fact, I wrote a piece not long ago that clearly stated my awe and reverent feelings witnessing the community experience of my daughters school performance. And I'm not saying God won't someday put the pieces of our lives together in a beautiful tapestry that suddenly makes sense. It would be pretty amazing if he did. I'm just no longer operating under that assumption. That's just not how I view the world; it's not how I frame my experiences or how I fit together the stories of people all around me. I'm not going to force my Jesus stake in the ground and declare a parcel of land for myself. I'm not in a place to authoritatively put his name on my choices, my views and my circumstances. I don't want to pull out Bible verses at the ready and speak with confidence about how everyone should be living their lives. I'm not sure what I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, so why would I put that on other people? 
Perhaps this is the difference between faith and hope. "Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see." (NLT, Heb. 11:1). I hope God is here. I really, really do. I think he is. Am I confident that everything I hope for will come to pass? No. I'm not sure how we can truly be confident about that which we cannot fully know, see or experience in the present. But man, do I hope. Oh, I hope for so many things! And like any deeply-held hope, these things shape the way I see the world and how I live my life.
Above all, I hope that God is good. Man, I really hope that's true. That's the one that I base all my other hopes on. I hope that God made me human on purpose, that his love and my humanity are enough for Him, that I don't have to be ashamed of myself or pressure myself to be more than I am. I hope that the Jesus who loved the pariahs and called out the proud elite is still relevant. I hope that being a good neighbor, accepting and loving myself and living into my personal values brings good into a sometimes very shitty world. I hope working on my own emotional and spiritual baggage will benefit my precious daughters and the world by extension. I hope gay people were made by God as gay as the day is long, that he does not condemn that which he has made inherent and that they will be given the dignity, equality and justice they deserve as human beings. I hope that blacks and whites can come together as two sides of the same coin, having been made equal and beautiful humans. I hope that we learn to identify ourselves in our racial power struggle and fight for equality, even when that means admitting we're part of the problem. I hope everyone experiences the glory and the all-encompassing grace and love of God whether in this life or the next, that all that has been lost will be made whole, complete and perfect in the end. 
I may not live in total confidence and assurance, but living in hope has become enough for me. Don't be afraid to step out of the box if those walls start to close in on you. I really do believe that God is big enough and exists outside of all the lines we want to draw on his behalf. Perhaps there's hope for all of us after all. 

Frozen (No, Not the Movie)

I'm taking a break from my series on personal values tonight to discuss the angst my perfectionism sometimes creates. Living in the brain of a perfectionist is really tough and can leave you feeling frozen. We don't value process, only result. This inevitably puts pressure on every endeavor (however small), to bring about the expected result and in a timely, quantitative manor. When you add in my care-taking tendencies, any kind of personal development efforts become very uncomfortable. I want to grow, but I don't want to wait. I want to branch out and take risks, but only if I can see how they benefit others, leaving any personal gratification as a nice byproduct. This is why it was a big deal when I went kayaking. It was something that was just for me (and Danna) and it was just for fun. I didn't earn any money, I didn't improve my health (unless you count the exercise), and it did not directly benefit my family (although I came home happy). These seem to by my criteria for venturing out: financial gain, improvement of health (so I can keep taking care of everyone else) or some obvious benefit to my family. Yikes. How sad is that?
These feelings are cropping up tonight because I peeked into the life of someone else and I was left wanting. I saw her heart on a page and it was beautiful. And I wanted the pieces of my puzzle to fit together to look like hers. Does that ever happen to you? You see someone at the end of a long journey and want to be where they are, rather than in the middle of yours? Maybe it's the youngest child in me or the perfectionist, but I don't want to go through the work. I want to be able to do it easily or not at all. Boy, does that limit me! 
It makes me tremendously sad, these feelings on nights like tonight. I want to believe in myself enough to know that my puzzle will look beautiful too. It may look a lot like hers and it may not at all. I want to be the kind of person who is encouraged by the success and story of another, knowing they're someone who I have a lot in common with, someone who is a comrade, not a threat. Maybe this comes from a feeling of scarcity*, that if she finds her calling, that somehow there will be less left for me. I know in my heart, that's not true. That one person's personal success does not disqualify me from having my own. 
I've always felt a little caught off guard by my peers who have "for real" careers. I went to a great college and sometimes it hits me anew that I know people MY AGE who somehow ended up becoming doctors, lawyers, professors, activists (you get the idea). I always feel this weird paranoia, like, "when was the conference on how to have a grown-up career and what was I doing instead?" I mean, do people really know how to do their jobs? And if so, HOW, exactly? When did everyone become something? Can I become something? I see the end results around me and wonder what my "in process" state will lead to. Is it leading somewhere? I'm honestly wondering, guys. 
I want to feel like each season of my life matters, that this time at home raising small children, going to therapy, writing, being in relationship, processing my theology and taking risks (I'm taking an art class right now!) has a significant purpose. I know that it does. And, despite everything I just said, I'm not wishing it away. I'm so happy to have my sweet little girls and I know I will treasure these years. I've never been one of those people who was really career-minded. I always figured I'd dabble. I'm not someone who was going to be one thing forever, and frankly, I prefer that (perhaps that's the globe-trotter in me, never stay too long in one place). 
I feel like this is a season of preparation. For what, I don't know, exactly. Maybe I just need to be patient. Ha! That's a good one. But no, seriously, I'm curious to see what my final product will look like. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
*This idea of scarcity is a common reason for what I see as American greed. Maybe that'll come up in a post on personal values soon. 

"In the End, Only Kindness Matters" - Thank you, Jewel

Unfortunately, writing a blog about being a perfectionist does not negate the voice in me that wants each post to be complete in my heart and in my head before I post it. While there is something to be said about not just word-vomiting out there for all the world to see, I realize that my perfectionism may just be getting in the way of my writing...about my perfectionism. I'd like to share my story while it's happening, as I'm learning, in the middle of my process. That means that I may change my mind. I may later read my posts and be embarrassed by how unenlightened they may seem to me in the future. All I can say is, this perfectionist is willing to take the risk.
Perhaps that's why my post about no longer going to church created such a wave among the people I know and love, because most of us don't read articles by people who haven't landed on a conclusion yet. We don't speak in the dark night of the soul. We suffer in silence and speak again once we've come out on the other side. And then we do so with authority. It's a lot more vulnerable to put your story on the internet while it's still being written. 
But that, my friends, is exactly how my series on my current values began, with honesty. It's not surprising to me that kindness is the necessary follow-up topic. My definition of honesty includes vulnerability and a willingness to be wrong. It's about breaking down walls. But honesty, without being tempered by kindness, can actually have the opposite effect. I've seen many walls being put up in the name of honesty. It comes down to posture. 
It's not just about what I say or why I say it, but where is my heart in that moment? Now that I've been through a major job loss and identity crisis, I no longer assume that my life is secure, that the things I have are deserved or permanent. This gives me the humility to be gracious to the people around me. It allows me to share my money, my time, my humanity without being an asshole in the process. I don't assume I'm right, better, or safer than the person next to me. 
This is probably my specific church background talking, but I often felt that being right (having the right biblical interpretation and applying it) was way more important than being kind. That kindness meant communicating the truth we had no matter how offensive it may seem to the listener. If we love the people around us, that must mean that we need to tell them how fucked up they are, right? That's what God would have us do. 
But let's face it. It's not "good news" to tell the world around us that they aren't enough; they need to do more, be more, be better. That their choices are wrong, their political beliefs are against God and they're going to hell. 
I'm not saying that truth has no value or that there doesn't come a time when we have to say hard things (nor am I saying I still believe the aforementioned ideologies). Real relationship includes conflict. I just think our priorities are wrong. If our goal was mercy, the love and grace of God would pour out of us and I am CONFIDENT that it would change the world. 
So many problems in our world would go away if we spoke and acted with kindness as the goal. Often, I find our conversations and actions are motivated by pride (needing to be right or prove a point), fear (needing to be in control), or ignorance (an unwillingness to learn from others). What would happen if we looked at others as equally deserving as us? How would we treat the people around us if we knew what it was really like to be them? What thoughts would run through our minds when we witness a young mother with multiple snot-nosed kids in the grocery line cashing WIC checks or using food stamps? Would we think about how they're such a drain on the system? How they need to get it together? Or would we instead think for a moment about what it would be like to be that woman? How hard it must be to not have enough money for food? Or even more radical, admitting to ourselves that THAT COULD BE ME. We are all one moment away from being that lady. So, don't be annoyed when her multiple transactions take longer. Smile and be patient. 
The people around us need grace, not grief. The world needs more kindness, more mercy, more listening. And when I say "the people around us", I mean US. We've got to stop being so hard on ourselves so that we can extend grace to the people around us. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to your neighbor. This is the work of God.

Living Honestly

Disclaimer: many of my discoveries living outside of the church environment are based on my specific church experiences, personality, personal hangups, background, etc. My posts are not meant to be a full reflection of what American Christianity looks like or what I think other believers should be doing. It is purely my experience.
Last week, I posted about why I no longer go to church. It was a big move for me and not surprisingly, I received a lot of feedback. One of the amazing things about this season of my life and the experience of sharing my story is that I am learning to receive all kinds of responses without feeling required to react immediately or to respond at all. This is why it has taken me 10 days to post. I'm learning to mull and live out of an incredibly empowering place that isn't reactionary. That being said, I'd like to thank each of you who read my post and contacted me in some way. There was a lot of concern and kindness coming my way.
After careful consideration, I'd like to take the feedback from a very supportive friend and share what patterns and values I am building into my life as a result of leaving church (as opposed to merely presenting what I'm not doing). Getting out of the church environment, I've been given more space to carve out my own personal values and live into them. (Some of this is a direct result of being in professional ministry, rather than just being a Sunday churchgoer). I'm no longer pouring myself out at church, which leaves me with much more energy for the very real self-work this season of my life is about. 
The first value that I have more space for now is honesty. Honesty is such an invaluable quality, and something that has required a lot of space and counseling for me to live into. Not because I am a big, fat liar, but because of my ministry baggage and the care-taking tendencies that ministry rewards, I completely lost touch with my feelings and thoughts. The ones I did experience were internally judged and put through the filter of what was God-approved or disapproved based on our particular interpretation of the Bible before I reacted to them. I could identify which thoughts were "temptating" or "selfish" or "Godly" and respond accordingly. When I took off the filters and began to listen to the stories of the beautiful people all around me, the thoughts in my own heart, and incorporate what I'd personally experienced, I found my place of honesty. And you know what? In my honest place there are a lot more "I don't know's" than there were when I thought I had an answer to most of the big questions. 
I find a beautiful correlation between honesty and vulnerability. If we're unwilling to be honest with ourselves, our relationships with others can only go so far. When we all have our guard up, conversation remains superficial because we feel like everyone else must have their shit together. Guess what? They don't. So they're either hiding it too or they aren't ready to see their own mess yet. That's okay for a time or for certain places. Everyone starts there and some environments aren't a safe place for vulnerability. But I live in deep relationship with those who are ready to see themselves and the world with the humility and grace that comes from knowing things aren't as black and white as we wish they were. We sit in the difficult reality that not everything that happens in our lives is a direct result of our choices. We acknowledge our lack of control. Let's face it. Shit happens. To everyone.
This is where community begins, with honesty. When one person lifts their veil, they're giving you an opportunity to lift yours. This is an act of huge generosity. This is the beauty of giving and receiving. In the church environment, I felt that giving was celebrated and receiving was shameful. (Let's pretend that I'm not tempted to rant about Christians shaming those on public assistance right now.) 
We cannot be honest when we view the world from a posture of always being the giver, the speaker, the one who knows. We are not in touch with our very real human struggle. We see ourselves as the ones who have and others as those who have not. That tragic perspective keeps us from being open. We are quick to speak but UNABLE to truly listen. I find this attitude is more pervasive in churches bent on engaging in American culture wars and politics. And I know without a doubt that I am not the only non-churchgoer who is vehemently turned off by it. We've got to embrace our humanity.
Living in "the world", I see tremendous value in receiving. You cannot receive the generosity of others if you aren't honest enough to show your need. It's a beautiful, frightening relief. Give yourself a chance to exhale. There's no reason why we all need to be independent. Independence is a high American value but to me, it creates isolation. We need connection! Instead of building higher fences in our backyards for "privacy," we should be engaging in the world around us.
Honesty requires an openness to being wrong, to re-think what you thought you knew, to listen to the stories of the people around you without judgment. It requires us to be willing to be uncomfortable. It gives us a chance to try to see things from another perspective, to walk in someone else's shoes for awhile. It also creates space for people to judge us, as we have possibly judged them in the past. Let people in. It's a fine line because I've let a lot of things in and I've also set some better boundaries by sending things out as well. The thing is, I get to decide what informs my values, my theology, and my faith, not my pastor, my husband, my church, or one interpretation of the Bible. 
I imagine living honestly looks differently for everyone. For me, it looks like not cleaning my house before people come over (unless I actually want to) and not apologizing if it's messy. No one wants to visit with a friend so they can see how much they don't have it together in comparison. And if I pour myself out cleaning before they get there, I'm not able to be as present in our conversation, really enjoying that time in relationship. What's the point of getting together then? To impress each other? I'm wholly uninterested in that. (This is also why I didn't wear makeup for more than a year. It's okay to show your real face). 
A big piece of living honestly for me was learning to say no. It begins with listening to my inner voice and then actually using it. I can't imagine how much of my self I've wasted on things I have no passion or gifting for because it was asked of me and I thought I should. The world would be a much healthier and honest place if we all did away with "the should's" entirely. 
I could go on and on about honesty. It's one of the greatest joys in my life right now. But I'll conclude with this: I've gotten some great feedback from writing this blog and I'm really enjoying the process. The most common reaction I get from readers is a commendation on my honesty. It takes courage to be honest (courage will definitely be a topic in this series of posts) and the world needs more of that. We respond to what we wish to see more of. The world around us needs our honesty, no matter how scary it may feel to lift that veil. In lifting my own veil, I've discovered that people a lot more alike than I ever thought we were. What a beautiful gift we give to humanity when we focus on our shared experiences rather than on our differences. This is the kind of giving that I can get on board with, not the guilty, rote or obligatory tithe, but the gift of vulnerability, the decision in the moment to lift the veil and to take a risk. 

The Story Within The Story

As a perfectionist, I want to categorize everything, particularly as "good" or "bad." Today would have typically been categorized as "bad." I woke up with a migraine and two small children that needed my care. I was able to get Macy off to school okay, but once it was just me and Penny, the adrenaline wore off and I started throwing up. Today is, by the way, the second time in a month that I've been alone with Penny and vomiting from a migraine. I've been working on my migraines my whole life, my most recent effort being a major diet overhaul. So, on top of the pain and nausea, there is a sense of soul-sucking frustration and defeat. I want to feel good. I want to have energy. I want to live my life the way I see fit without always having to think two steps ahead of my body's reactions. 
That's the big story of my day. Feeling terrible for most of the day. Being exhausted and discouraged. Missing my husband. Feeling sorry for myself. But the story within the story was this: I am loved. I am not alone. My friend Amy came at the drop of a hat and took Penny to play at her house with just one text from me. That gave me several hours alone to recoup. My friend Jenna knew I wasn't well (we had plans I had to cancel) and left me homemade hot soup (that I can actually eat with my food intolerances!) on my door step right when I felt really hungry. I found out that my best friend in San Diego was having a terrible day and the encouraging book I had bought her on amazon arrived at just the right moment. Once I was well enough to get outside, I realized it was a gorgeous day. I even got to watch my kids play outside with the neighbors for awhile.
And while I can't say today was great, I'm trying to pay attention to the story within the story. In life, perfectly wonderful days (and their counterpart, perfectly ghastly ones) are few and far between. But are there beautiful moments within a terrible day? There are and I don't want to miss them. They make a difference. They tell us something about our lives. For me, friendship has always mattered greatly. So it is no surprise to me that on a day that I feel pain and isolation, my life would reap the rewards of genuine friendship. I'm so grateful for the people in my life.
I hesitated to write this post because I don't want to minimize the truly terrible days. I hate it when people make me feel bad for feeling bad about something that really is to its core, bad. But maybe, after we've already decided we're having a terrible day, we miss a moment of good, a moment where our values and our lives are being reflected back to us. For me, today that means that while my health is unreliable, my friends are not. And that's all the good I needed to feel like I can make it another day.

On the Cusp of Something

I'm in that weird vortex between two seasons of life. We all are. I've got one foot in fall and one foot in summer. Macy starts 1st grade on Wednesday. In some ways, this is awesome! I love the fall and frankly, I'm totally over sweating. I want to break out the skinnys and the boots. I want to have pumpkins on my porch and my child in school all day. I love her, but she is my mirror. And sometimes it's hard to look at my precious firstborn and not see myself in all my glory. I see her pleasing. I see her perfectionism. I see her enthusiasm. I see her insatiable need for love and attention. I see her wanting more and more from her loved ones. I hear her voice talking on and on. I see her passion, her anger, her smile, her fear. Sometimes it's overwhelming. Sometimes for my own sanity, I want to set her on a shelf for awhile. It's terrible, but it's honest and there's no way I'm the only parent who feels that way. I'm just that person who always outs themselves in brutal honesty.
I'm ready to slow down. I'm ready to take more time and energy for myself. I'm ready for some quiet. But the perfectionist in me also feels let down. Summer is over. All the things I wanted to do this summer that I didn't get to do are scrolling through my mind like a parade of shame. All the hours I let my kid watch TV while I hid in my room, I remember. I really tried to cut myself some slack this summer, but I still wish I was capable of more, that I could just go on forever. There's a grace in me being unable to do and be everything I want to be (and everything I feel pressure to be). Because if I could go on forever, I would. I would not eat, sleep, rest. I wouldn't. And that is one of the beautiful things about being human. I don't have a choice. Thank God for that.
As a caretaker, I often pull up short when my own needs present themselves. I don't realize I need to eat until I'm starving. I tuck self-care in the nooks and crannies of taking care of everyone else. This is common for women in this "season of life" when you have small children. But when I have noticeable emotional needs, it surprises me. Gah!
When I was in college, my therapist mentioned to me that small transitions require extra self-care for me. (Yes, I'm in therapy now and I was in therapy then. Best time/money spent ever). I need to give myself a little extra grace when the seasons change, when my schedule changes, when my friends leave and when new ones come. The changes don't have to be "bad". In fact, they are often the changes that I anticipate that throw me the most.
This seemingly small transition from one season to another is greatly exacerbated by Labor Day. I know, weird. It's such a non-holiday. But in our family, it has served as a benchmark of pain the last few years. 3 years ago, it was on Labor Day that we walked away (not by choice) from ministry forever. It was on Labor Day weekend last year that I took my husband to the ER and had him admitted for pervasive suicidal thoughts, with 7 week old Penny in tow. He then went to a respite facility for 2 nights, finally with dear friends for 3 weeks in town. In those weeks, I was raising our newborn alone (with MASSIVE support from friends and family), caring for a traumatized 5 year old starting kindergarten, and myself in a frightening post-partum experience. It was, by far, the worst thing I've ever endured. I learned I was capable and that I need help. I learned that marriage is a choice and depression is not. 
Well, Tim had a minor surgery on Thursday that landed me in a medical facility waiting for his medication and discharge for 2 hours with 2 hungry, tired kids. We then ended up in the exact same ER as last year 90 minutes after he was home from the surgery because he was vomiting all his pain pills. I missed Macy's Back to School night because I was juggling my now very mobile daughter while my husband was treated. And since then, I've been racing around caring for the 3 of them on our final days of summer. It's all way too familiar. Tim will have to get a stent removed from the surgery sometime this week, which means there will be another procedure. I've found myself crying in parking lots, crying in my kitchen, crying now at my computer. This is an anniversary I wish to never revisit, a season of life I would like to bury forever. I wouldn't wish the way I witnessed my spouse a year ago on anyone. Sometimes life has a way of sticking it to you, right in your weakest places, making the world that I usually see with naively rosy glasses suddenly feel cold and untrustworthy. 
I know today is not a year ago or 3 years ago, for that matter. As familiar as this feels, it isn't the same. This weekend gives me an opportunity to continue to grieve the pain that was last year and previous years. But it also serves as a reminder that we've come a long way. I choose to sit in that rather than focus on how far we still have to go. But sometimes on nights like this, it feels heavy. I try to be present, to sit in the mess. As you can imagine, perfectionists don't like messes, particularly emotional, familial un-fixable ones! I have a savior complex. Being "in process" myself, not being able to control the processes of my family members, and waiting for simple moments that come more often now but not often enough is not an easy thing for me. 
I'm learning that we don't get to choose our life, only the way we're living it. I choose to live mine honestly. I choose to tell my story when I'm crying in parking lots and when I'm laughing with my kids. It's all part of my story. And I have to believe that ultimately, my story is good, that I'm part of a greater story that matters. Our suffering has value. It's not a punishment. It's a reality, a critical piece of our human experience. In some ways, it is what most greatly unites us. I want to connect with the people around me, with their humanity, with their compassion, with their story. I don't want to live in an ivory tower, rising above everyone else. Of course, I'd love to get out of the trenches for awhile. I don't want to stay here forever. But if being in the trenches makes me a more open, honest, compassionate and generous version of myself, is it worth it? I think it just might be. Luckily, it's not up to me to decide if I stay in the trenches or not. We usually stay in longer than we thought we would or intended to. We're antsy and ready to rise above the ground. I believe I will, stronger than ever, in time. But for now, I'll be down here if you need me, in the trenches. 

Righteous Indignation or Hatred?

I'm wrestling with something. I've always struggled to sit in my anger. I feel like I have to apologize when I'm angry. In some ways, I think this is because I'm a woman. Our culture seems to value male anger as authoritative and female anger as bitching. So I tend to repress my anger, partly because it's difficult for me to advocate for myself (see: caretaking issues) and anger tends to draw negative attention. It also does not appear "nice" which I think our evangelical culture pushes on women a lot in the name of "service". 
I say these things because I am angry about something. There have been Facebook threads again this week highlighting the intensely bigoted statements of a well-known evangelical pastor, Mark Driscoll. The statements are old (10-15 years) and they are highly offensive. You may think that because they are old, he should not be held accountable for his words. But his theology is very present both in his old statements as well as in his current ministry. He's genuinely anti-women. He sees us as lesser, weak, temptresses in need of being lorded over by men. He preaches these ideas in the name of God. He's also incredibly mean about it. Feel free to read up on him. He's unapologetic. 
I responded to a thread recently where a friend of mine posted this article, stating that he should not be in church leadership. As people were agreeing with her, I posted a pretty angry, name-calling agreement venting my frustration with people who follow this guy. It's more my theological grievances coming out again and it's further exacerbated by my own sexist church baggage and my long history with taking on causes (again, caretaking issues). 
A man responded by saying that we were only fighting hatred with hatred and that this was sad. I felt him shaming my anger and I almost agreed with him. I have a long-standing conditioning that says when questioned about my feelings, they're probably too intense or even completely misplaced. But then I really sat in why I was angry. I was angry at the bullying that theology like Mark Driscolls fuels in church culture. I'm angry at the way this theology makes people feel about themselves, about their inherent value (or lack thereof) and most importantly to me, about how God sees them. This theology perpetuates exactly what I'm fighting: that who we are inherently is not enough, that because I'm a woman with a voice or because my friend is gay and loves God or because my husband is a tender, loving father, we are warped, wrong, less, invalid. And not just according to some extremist in Seattle but according to the God who made us! 
I'm going to let you in on a secret, the conclusion I've come to in my anger. I believe my desire to advocate for the bullied, to come alongside the marginalized, to find my voice, to listen to the stories of others, is not in fact, hatred but obedience to the voice of God within me. He tells me to be brave, to speak out, to listen. I know my theology is under construction. As a perfectionist, I want an "end date" to that process, but as an earnest seeker of truth, I hope I remain under construction til the day I die. But even if I don't have a lot figured out, I've figured out that anger can be holy. 
I know God doesn't need me to defend him. I know that even my fellow comrades in condemnation (according to Driscoll) don't need me to be their voice. But that outcry comes from within me. And I will not be silent. 

Whitney Houston Had it Right

I view my role as a mother primarily as one of response. My child presents me with a need and I respond to it. While this may seem simple, it certainly can keep me on my toes! My oldest is 6 and I believe I know her the best. But as she is her own person and constantly changing, many times the needs she presents take me by surprise. We have a certain rhythm between us, things we say and do. There is no easier rapport than a small child and her mother. As she grows, there have been many times, however, where I have had to go back to the drawing board in how I respond to her. She does things that are new, takes on different attitudes, grows into herself and so as a mother, I must adapt. 
Of course, I'm changing too. I'm growing older. I'm gaining life experience. I'm working on my own problems and that is making me aware of where I fall short. My daughter, Macy, is a lot like me. In fact, Tim says he can't think of an area of our personalities where we differ. This is a great joy to me and also a terrible burden. I see my own perfectionism in her 6 year old mind. I see her struggle to make her work exactly right. I hear herread an entire book over again if she makes a mistake. It breaks my heart. But I'm happy to say that as I'm learning new life skills (extending myself grace, making my own choices and owning them, dispelling anything that smells like shame), I am simultaneously sharing them with her. We talk about shame and grace. I apologize. I empathize as she struggles with her frustration when her abilities do not reach her high standards. 
I'm writing about this tonight because while I've had many seasons of adjustment with Macy, I'm going through my first real adjustment with Penny. She's 10 and half months old and she is starting to need me less. Don't get me wrong, she fusses when I leave the room, even to use the bathroom. But she's nursing less often. She's sleeping through the night. She's kissing her daddy voluntarily! (I have yet to share this joy). She's feeding herself more. She's walking. You get the idea. And while I'm ready in a lot of ways for a longer leash (it's been a tough year), I have to say, I'm still sad! Penny is our second and last child. 2 incidences of postpartum depression, the second of which was severe, will definitely inform your fertility choices! But she is my little treasure, an absolute joy to my heart. And she's ready to be shared with more people. Our tiny circle of 4 is starting to bust open. 
It's tricky being in an unequal relationship. A dynamic where one person's needs dictate your level of interaction. It's not that my needs don't matter or that I understand the value of setting boundaries with my kids (or at least, I'm working on it) but I believe the parent/child relationship will never be a fully 2-way street. I enjoy a friendship with my parents as an adult, but they will always be my parents. And I expect the same to be true for me with my children. 
I find a lot of parenting philosophies feel like the parents leading the children, enforcing the rules, showing them who's boss, etc. But I feel like in this relationship of response, it's the opposite. My children show me the way to be their mother. Sometimes I come in to reprimand and find they need a hug. And sometimes you nurse a baby every 2 hours until all of a sudden, you realize she can wait half the day at this age! (Sometimes I'm a bit slow on the uptake:)
Maybe this doesn't make me seem very powerful or commanding, but I'm happy to let my children lead me. I respect that they are people, very much a part of me, but entirely separate from me as well. I believe they have things to teach me, thoughts to inspire me, and love to fill me with joy. Yes, of course, I have things to teach them as well. But I'm working on teaching them the lessons they're asking for, moment by moment, as they lead the way. I know I've only been a mom for 6 years and there is a lot of new territory ahead of me, but this is what's worked for me so far anyway. Though I will say, one of the many things I've already taught my girls is that it's okay to change your mind.

"Lived in" Theology

I have many thoughts on theology and they're very different from what they used to be. But my life is very much "in process" and has been for some time. This July, it will be 3 years since Tim (and I) got fired from ministry. That was such a significant loss. If you've never been in professional ministry yourself, it can be hard to understand why this is so much more than a job loss. At the risk of sounding dramatic, we liken it to a divorce. Our church was where we spent the majority of our time. It was where we worked, where we learned, where we found support, where all our relationships came from, where we introduced our precious child to God, where we found purpose and identity. It was our life. Many people who attend church share some of these feelings. It's your "go to" place. Obviously, when you work there, this is taken to another level. And while it is a "family", for us, it was also our livelihood. Leaving your church, when you're as invested as we were, is very disorienting. Many people wanted to know "what happened" when we were fired, but to be honest, nothing happened. Like some divorces, it's a million little things that just don't add up to a marriage anymore. There was no major infraction. It's like, they fell out of love with us. There were things we were unhappy about in our relationship with the church too, and we're not at all claiming that we never made mistakes. But it's a painful reality to sit in that you can be dismissed from your "family." Your family can literally tell you that you no longer fit in it. After all this time, just writing those words brings tears to my eyes.

When we worked at church, our life was a lot more structured. We knew what we were about, as individuals and as a family. There were a lot of mission statements, tiers of leadership, committees. We knew where our life was headed. Our path was set before us. The weeks, months, years just flew by. We were so busy. There were things we felt God pulling us towards (reducing our consumer patterns, being present in our neighborhood, doing less, investing in deeper friendships) that just weren't possible in that environment. We were too distracted by the immediate tasks at hand and were trying to fulfill everyone's expectations of us. I haven't met a minister yet who didn't struggle with people-pleasing. There just wasn't enough space for growth in these areas. I think this is because when you get hired (marry your new church), they ask you where you stand on all sorts of theological issues. You get hired based on whether you and the church are compatible in these areas. The problem is, if you change at all and your church does not, you will eventually outgrow it and vice versa. So you either don't allow your theology to evolve or you try to drag the church with you. I'm not going to lie to you. Every single precious friend we know in ministry carries wounds from this reality. It's very painful. And no matter what anyone says, it most definitely is personal. I think what happens a lot, to quote an amazing Chumbawamba song (yes, I just dated myself), they just "get knocked down, but [they] get up again. You're never gonna keep [them] down..." You just keep going, keep praying, keep trying, keep crying, keep leaving. Until eventually, many of us just get too hurt or too tired to go on. Some of us barely escape with our faith, while others lose it entirely.

There was a new-found freedom to leaving ministry. We could hang out with whoever we wanted to! We had time to build a life for ourselves based on our personal values and needs. We could be in transparent, two-way relationships. We found out we weren't the problem or the solution. We were just regular people trying to make our way in the world and be decent to those around us doing the same thing. We got to ask the questions instead of having to give the answers. We realized we had a lot of unmet needs and a lot of theology to reevaluate. It was the first time in our lives that we were free to believe what we wanted, without feeling the weight of a bunch of other souls soaking up our influence. We gave ourselves permission to wrestle, to grieve and to change our minds, over and over again.

To be honest, we're not nearly done. But all of the things we wanted to be different in our lives are now. It's pretty amazing. And when the shit really hit the fan this year with the postpartum depression, we had the relationships we needed to keep us afloat. We could not have had that level of trauma in our old life. We would have had to stifle it or at least try to contain it. (Ever try to contain grief? Works great, right? Depression...sure, it goes away if you deny it long enough. Ha!) We probably would have lost the job then anyway. Churches don't like to employ openly messy people, especially if this includes their theology.

As a Christian, my theology is the lens through which I see the world, my life, myself. But there comes a point in your life when crazy, unreasonable shit happens. And the frame that you're putting around your life isn't big enough. Your life suddenly becomes an 11x14 and your frame is still an 8x10. What are your choices at that point? Either cut your life back down to an 8x10 (denial, shaming yourself, repressing your feelings, jumping into another situation without processing your loss) or you embrace the mess and get a bigger frame. I firmly believe in a God who's bigger than any frame I've used so far. He's not threatened by my broadening theology. And yes, I would love to pretend that I'm completely open now, living outside any proverbial box. But is that really a fair expectation for myself? I think we all have boxes regardless of our personal theology. Would it be cool to have none? Sure. But at this point, this perfectionist is just happy to know that mine is a bit bigger than it was before.

Balance? Ha! I laugh in the face of balance.

Balance is completely out the question for a perfectionist. It's all or nothing all the time. It's not a very practical way to live and frankly, it's really scary and difficult to navigate the world sometimes. I am often hoping to find a middle ground; in my thinking, habits, relationships. I'm so thankful to have a therapist who helps me sit in the tension of this challenge. It's so much easier to stay extreme or run away.

One of the things I'm working on in my life these days is fun. I know this sounds silly, but my second pregnancy and subsequent post-partum season required my world to be very small. I had problems with my joints in pregnancy, to the point that doing one errand would put me in bed the rest of the day. Before I got pregnant, I was running 3 miles a few times a week and feeling energized by it. 2 weeks after conception, I couldn't walk down the stairs. Needless to say, I didn't do much for those 9 months! It was a challenging season of life, for sure, but I learned the invaluable lesson (of which I had intended to pursue for some time) of doing less. On purpose. 

Friday night. We party hard.

After Penny was born last summer, we were hit with a major bout of post-partum depression. Each day was just about staying afloat. As we're coming out of that fog as a family, I'm really working to prioritize my individual needs. It's surprisingly difficult. There is always a reason to put myself last. Before it sounds like I'm either a saint or a martyr, this would be the point where it becomes painfully obvious that I have caretaking issues. Turns out, there's a series of behaviors called caretaking, where your choices in relationships cater to the thoughts, feelings, and perceived needs of the other person, sometimes to the detriment of your own needs. I've got this. I apply it in all relationships but especially with my immediate family, which is typical with any psychological issue. It doesn't help that the evangelical world praises such behavior as “having a servant's heart.” I remember being told that our priorities should be “God first. Others second. Self third.” While that might help someone else be altruistic, it encourages a compassionate perfectionist to have unhealthy boundaries and priorities. There's some sort of middle ground between being completely self-absorbed and having no gauge on your own needs and interests. Frighteningly enough, left unchecked, caretaking can lead to massive resentment. I believe resentment is one of the biggest threats to healthy, loving relationships and needs to be taken seriously. This makes having fun surprisingly important and difficult for me to pursue. 

Getting ready for adventure.

So, I'm working on figuring out what I like to do, what gives me energy and life. Some of these things I never lost touch with. These include reading, public speaking, having one-on-one conversations with friends, and spending time with children. That one's easy since I have my own now. Things I'm rediscovering include: writing (what,what), home design, being outside, exercise, listening to live music, painting and crafting.

As part of my pursuit of fun, I found a groupon for kayaking. I immediately texted my friend Danna to see if she'd go with me. As expected, she was totally up for it, so I bought it and we reserved our day. Well, Penny is teething. BAD.

I ended up at urgent care with her the day before to confirm nothing else was going on before the big 3 day weekend. She was deemed okay, though the doc thought she might have a virus as well. She was really unhappy Friday night and I am her favorite person thus far in her little life. Tim is definitely the next best thing but he also had a commitment in the middle of my kayaking reservation. We had already arranged for a sitter (who,encouragingly, has not been made to brush my teeth yet). As a mother, it's very difficult to leave your child in another person's care when you're pretty sure it's not fair to either of them. I didn't sleep well Friday night. I knew how much I needed to be on that water. I also could not reschedule it based on the company's policy. This had been on the calendar for at least a month. And maybe being on the river for 3 hours seems like it shouldn't be that hard to arrange. Sometimes it's not. And sometimes it feels like the hardest thing in the world.

Well, I woke up to a happier baby. Not her best, but a far cry from the night before. Her fever was way down and she wasn't as insanely cranky. Tim and I agreed that I could

reasonably go play (as a caretaker, I'm working on not needing his permission, but it is really helpful for me when I have it. It's hard for me to enjoy something if it is causing tension in my relationship.)

Hoping my arms will work.

So, I SPENT 3 HOURS IN A KAYAK! As I climbed into my kayak alongside Danna's, who had never been by the way, I have a deja vu from college. I spent my sophomore year at Pepperdine in Heidelberg, Germany. We traveled independently every weekend. One weekend, I went to Interlaken, Switzerland for a girls weekend. If you've never been, plan a trip. NOW. No, I'm not kidding. It's heaven on earth. Seriously gorgeous. We ended up finding a group of boys from our house having a guys trip at the same hostel. While the ladies planned a day of hiking, I was intrigued to find out the boys were planning on riding mopeds. I thought, huh, that sounds like fun. Granted, I don't know how to ride a bike. I know. It's actually super embarrassing for me to admit that. But, it's pertinent to the story. Not sure why I thought I could ride a moped by myself with a bunch of experienced boys on icy mountain roads in Switzerland. But I did. Needless to say, I crashed in the parking lot with the owner scowling at me.

Proof that we are exceedingly cool.

Good thing I had a helmet on because I definitely hit a tree. The owner of the bikes was an asshole, but that's beside the point. Perhaps being the child of two entrepreneurs makes me think if I will it in my mind, it will be so? My consolation prize was that I spent the day on the back of the most experienced boys bike and it was amazing! Mainly because I was forced, for my own safety, to hold onto his INSANELY NICE abs all day while taking in the view. Ah, that was a good day.

Back to kayaking. I climb in thinking, is this going to be another Alps experience? Is it possible that I killed myself working through psychological and logistical issues just to get here and capsize repeatedly? Or, if I'm really slow, will this “tour” not complete its route? Turns out, it was not an Alps experience. Danna and I killed it.

So happy!

There was a super slow person on the tour and he had to trade kayaks with the bad ass female instructor (who had a baby 6 months ago, natch) just to keep up. And though I'm sore today, I feel amazing! I love being outside! I love having coffee date-type conversation on the water. I love that I got home and Tim and I took the kids to the park. I love that my babysitter had a princess tea party with Macy while I was gone.

Best sitter ever.

Perhaps living a life of balance is an impossible goal, especially if we're talking about achieving that every day. But once in awhile, you get a day that is EXACTLY what you need. Maybe life isn't about feeling bad about all the days that don't measure up to impossible standards. Time to call that a wash, I say. We never “arrive”, which is a major bummer for us perfectionists. And frankly, I bet we'll keep trying.

Feeling a bit better

But, every so often, you will get a glimpse of what's possible with hard work, risk and a lot of luck.  

It's about to get real...

I have many lighthearted type of anecdotes to share on here at some point, but I tend to run deep so hang on tight. It's gonna get real today, people. I want to go on the record as a married person who has gone through 2 seasons in her life now where she has fantasized about being single. Yes, I'm a nice person with a great husband (whom I love dearly) and 2 precious children who bring me great joy almost every day, which is pretty amazing, really. But occasionally I think back to my globe-trotting single days and think yeah, I'd like to go back to that time when things were simple. I was a viable, virginal girl (because let's face it, Christian woman find singleness more intimidating when they're no longer virgins, regardless of the reason) and the world was my oyster. I hesitate to speak frankly on the idea of singleness fantasies because I've never heard a married person say these truths and what if (eek!) I'm the only person out there who sometimes wants to think for 1 instead of 4?!?! A few years of wandering in Europe sound pretty good sometimes. I sleep well on trains and somehow avoided the Taken scenario the whole year I lived in Germany at 19. The fact that my many amazing single friends aren't currently wandering in Europe and aren't any happier than I am is entirely beside the point. 
There are many reasons for said fantasy. I, for one, am a runner. I hate to admit it because it feels like I'm shaming myself, but perhaps this is the fate of a perfectionist. Relationships aren't all good or all bad. And I hate that! Growing up in an evangelical household (which included our home, church, and school) life was painted as a series of good decisions and bad decisions. Your future mate would be a "godly" guy - knight in shining armor stuff, and there was one RIGHT person who was specifically designed by God for me. And in the meantime, marry Jesus! He's a pretty great husband, right? Though, I think we all know, JC never married. I have literally participated in 2 fake wedding ceremonies to Jesus in my life. Spring this on a silly kid and at best, it might plant a seed of loving God in their heart or at least stop them from having premarital sex. Do this to a serious perfectionist and she'll end up breaking up with her incredibly safe, chaste boyfriend out of commitment to her new husband. (I broke up with that wonderful boy 3 TIMES, poor guy). 
Needless to say, these attempts at teaching us that TRUE LOVE WAITS also taught us that true love is perfect, pure, and safe. Perhaps that's true about agape type Jesus marriages. But relationships between two people who are honest and who have had crazy shit happen in their life together get messy. The beautiful thing I'm coming to terms with is that IT SHOULD. Messy is real. True love isn't pure (meaning without fault, blame, mess, mistakes, fantasies of no one talking to you before 9am, resentment, grief, and heartache). Perhaps we're still in the process of figuring out what true love looks like.  
I think my perfectionist mind thinks relationships are either pure (childhood standard) or a trap (stay no matter what). This is the curse of being a black and white thinker. It's one or the other. It's good or bad. It's wonderful or it's awful. Turns out, it's both and. It's good and it's bad. Because even I, perfectionist who wants to save everyone, who's been on a pedestal her whole life (we'll get to that later:) am both and. Wonderful and mean. Loving and resentful. Honest and self-serving. Committed and restless. I don't think this means something terrible about me, my life, or my marriage. I think this means I'm human.

I gotta say, just STARTING a blog as a perfectionist is stressful. I've got to both remember my Google password AND name this thing?!?! You may think I'm being facetious because both are fairly simple things yet in my world, I've already lost a good 30 minutes to this task. Doesn't the big bad Google know that I never use the gmail account that my tech-savvy husband set up for me because I'm one of the only people whose primary account is still with Yahoo? And every time I try to retrieve my password, I struggle because the only password I use isn't "strong" enough for them? Don't they know that my brain is already cluttered enough after caring for 2 darling daughters and trying to figure out all my crazy shit that I have a TOTAL lack of interest in details like, remembering passwords that are approved by the Google empire that is slowly (or not so) taking over our world, one password at at time?!?!
Okay, rant over. Ish. This experience is such a great summary of my world - anxiously wanting to purge my feelings and thoughts but in the process of trying to share my crazy with the world, I inevitably experience some sort of roadblock. Thus making the process of purging said thoughts less and less rewarding and more and more tedious. Everyone knows that a stay at home mom living their life around a teething infant gets 10, 15 minutes max to take care of themselves at any given time. You gotta make those windows count, my friend. I don't have time for details like passwords and titles...this mama's gotta move, people, before the toilet needs to be fixed (no, this is not an exaggeration) or my stomach requires food AGAIN (does anyone else find their body's constant need for care irritating, or is it just me?) 
So, as scary as it is to put myself out there with a goal of not constantly second-guessing every line based on how others may or may not perceive it, here it is. My first blog post.