Weekend Update: Music, Movies, and Cookouts, Oh My!

In an attempt to keep my blog up instead of slacking off as I have been all too much lately, I’m going to try to do a weekend update of sorts. It won’t be as exciting as SNL’s actual “weekend updates”, but at least it will somewhat chronicle our summer.

Let’s start at the beginning. On Monday, while driving aimlessly about, my kids in the back seat swinging their legs and chattering, I decided to search Pandora for a Disney station. My kids are in between ages. Ashton is too old for Mickey and the Wiggles, Atleigh is too young for all the teeny bopper Disney shows. We don’t have cable so we don’t keep up with what all’s out there. “Disney Children’s” was the first thing to pop up on the drop down list. Why not? It was the absolute best decision of my week. I’m sure I’m not the only mom in her mid to late 20’s (ok, ok... LATE 20’s) to stumble upon this channel that is chock full of classics from Disney animated movies. I about lost it. The first time Pocahontas came on, I screamed “This is my JAM!”-not kidding. Totally happened- and turned the volume almost all the way up. Pocahontas was my first ever soundtrack, on cassette. I played that thing until the ribbons wore through. I was a happy, happy 90’s child that day.

Backstory to this next part: This past Christmas we bought Ashton and Chloe Nintendo DSi XL’s. My mother in law bought Chloe’s, and I bought Ashton’s. It was my first layaway purchase not only as a parent, but ever. The first thing I bought with my own money since returning back to work. I paid on it with my very first paycheck, and every paycheck until right before Christmas. The most accomplished feeling came with carrying that box out of the store the day I made the final payment.

Chloe somehow lost Ashton’s DS in our house at the beginning of the year. A few months later, Ashton lost Chloe’s. Don’t ask me how this happened (the switching part- I know how the lost part came about. We live on top of each other in this tiny Box House. It’s easy for anything smaller than the dishwasher to get lost). All I know is, we had two expensive gaming systems that were completely MIA. We’ve torn the house apart looking for them off and on. This past week, for some reason, it really started to bother me. I said, “God, I spent all this money on these games for my kids. It would help if You could give me some sort of clue here.” Nothing. I asked my friend Missy to pray with me that they would be found. I know some of you are out there, saying “Big deal. Kids are over stimulated with technology anyway.” More than likely you’re right. Shut up. This was about more than the video game to me. This was about something I had invested in, a mile marker and a symbol of something I could never have had as a kid. It was important to me. The very next morning, I was searching for something on Ashton’s dresser, and there, right in front of me, was Chloe’s DS. I’d looked there, plenty of times before. And now, here it was. I was floored. This past Friday, the kids called me at work, screaming, “We found Ashton’s DS, we found it!” Also in a place I’d looked before, plenty of times. I’m still in shock. Although I shouldn’t be shocked over answered prayer, even in the small, seemingly stupid things. My faith was strengthened over this weekend.

Friday night we went to The Circuit (I've posted about it before) for karaoke night. Now, I've been singing on stages since I was 13. Karaoke was a first for me. I don't know why it took so much nerve, but I did it. Now I can't wait to do it again. I'm going to be brave and post the video Missy took of me singing. It's dark and it cuts off, but you'll get the idea.

Jeremy and my friend Maggie stole the show with their rendition of Ice, Ice Baby, but it was too long to upload. I'll just have to leave you all to your imaginations.


On Saturday morning we were taken with the insane fancy to go see Madagascar 3 with my brother, Adam, his wife, and their two kids (actually it was Adam’s idea. I can’t take responsibility for the insanity, only the perpetuation of it). On opening weekend. With five kids. A 2 year old, a 3 year old, a 4 year old, a 6 year old, and an 8 year old. I don’t really remember much of the movie. These two trailers left an impression:

Not going to lie. The Rothwellsphere has been eagerly awaiting Brave for the past 6 months at least. "Ach! Finally a Disney movie to rrrepresent our-ah people!" my dad cried (apparently he doesn't count The Little Mermaid as I do). There may or may not be a blog post solely dedicated to this movie in the future.

I'm a huge- HUGE- fan of Jude Law, even as an animated bad guy. Yes please. I love twists on fairy tales.

This was Atleigh’s first real movie experience that she was old enough to need a ticket for. I have similar pictures of Ashton and Chloe:

My poor sister in law, Laurie, wound up having to take my niece (she’s the 2 year old, and freshly potty trained) down the thousand stairs from the top of the stadium style theater at least three times before we realized that there was a bathroom on the second floor, with the exit a mere two feet away from us. The next three potty trips were much easier.
I can’t really give you a review of the movie. Between potty trips, kids whispering (not mine, of course!), Atleigh trying to decide which lap she was most comfortable in, it’s mostly a blur. I can tell you what I remember: The colors and effects were pretty. Kind of like an animal Cirque De Soliel. The jokes were funny but a lot of them were heavy with innuendo. None of my kids were old enough to understand, but Ashton is getting close. All in all it was my least favorite of the Madagascar movies. And yes, my children are still currently singing the Afro Circus song. So there’s at least one gem we got out of it. Professional review over.

After the movie we crossed the parking lot to a local favorite Mexican place, Plaza Azteca. If you don’t know what it is, or don’t have access to it, I’m sorry. You’re missing out. We sat at a huge U-shaped booth. I’m sure these people took one look at us, counted all the kids, and thought “Let’s corral this crazy town as far from civilization as possible.”
I love seeing my kids and their cousins all together. I love catching little expressions and quirks that are so frighteningly similar. I love how my daughters baby their “Baby Hannah”- I’m sure they’ll call her that until she’s on her way to college.  Although Ashton often mourns over being the oldest in the passel of kids, complaining about being an example and having responsibilities like passing the salt and letting the younger kids share his french fries, in general he handles in with the aplomb of a much older child (a trademark of being an “oldest child”). He mutters that he “hates being an 8 year old”, but I’m certain he’d hate even more being- horrors!- a 6 year old.

Ours is a high and lonely destiny, my boy.

The three girlies had fun jingling their way through the afternoon. If you follow me on Instagram (@mbsmoot), you'll know the jingle skirts have been a big hit at the Box House.

Saturday night we went to my in-laws for a welcome home cookout for Jeremy’s brother and his wife, as they pass through on their way from one Coast Guard base to another (Next summer, expect some pictures from Cape Cod!). More cousins, more food; fire, bug spray, and fireflies (not all together. That would be disastrous). Lots of dirt on feet and under fingernails.

This is what summer is about, right here.

Our twin nephews, Austin and Aidan

A rare moment of harmony between Atleigh and Curren

Noah definitely got the short end of the stick

I'm so in love with Curren's crazy Greek hair.

Our lives are busy in general. Our weekends, by comparison, are a happy hectic. The type of busy that causes you to fall into bed at the end of the day, when the sky is dark, the crickets sing, when long eyelashes fan across soft little cheeks, and thank God that you got to be a part of the world that day. That you got to contribute your individual breaths to the atmosphere that we all breathe. You thank God for the big things like family and food; for the little things like music that brings back a happy childhood, for answered prayers that grow the faith of an 8 and a 6 year old, as well as your own.

How was your week, friends? What major or minor miracles have you seen? What memories have you made?

-M

Summer Swell

It’s summer at the Box House. Before my kids were in school, the year lolloped along aimlessly with no real definition to our days. Summer was just an incredibly hot version of our lives, more of a hassle than anything else. Longer days made for more troublesome bedtimes. Higher temperatures had our 100 year old house sweating it out in agony, with only one window unit air conditioner to cool three rooms. When October rolled around I thanked the gods of reds and golds, azure skies, and open windows. The white hot heat of summer was something to be endured.

Now, with the kids in school, our year is vastly different. After nine long, cold months of searching for shoes and bookbags, packing lunches, homework, class parties and portraits, summer is what keeps us going. Ashton and Chloe got out of school two weeks ago, and our real life began. Atleigh finally- FINALLY- could stop asking every morning when Sissy was coming home. Ashton could finally- FINALLY- stop whining about school ruining his “staying up late nights”. The Box House heaved a huge sigh of relief, kicked off our socks and wiggled our winter white toes.

Now, at long last, summer is what it should be. Long days are lived to the fullest. Sidewalk chalk and garden hoses. Flip flop tan lines. Tank tops and sundresses. Vegetables from the garden. Nights are even better. Camping out on the living room floor watching movies. Counting fireflies as they make their way across our yard. Cold drinks sweating in your hot hand as you sit on the front step listening to the crickets.

The best part about summer is the smells. Sunblock, sunshine and sweat. Honeysuckle, cut grass, charcoal grills. Salt water, chlorine, pool floaties. The sharp tang of ozone right before a freak thunderstorm. Laundry detergent from the endless dirty shirts and shorts. And the clean, warm smell of the kids fresh from the bath, their cool skin pressed up against me, their wet hair against my cheek as we cuddle on the couch. And the sounds! Crickets chirping. The Beach Boys, James Taylor, Frank Sinatra; Phineas and Ferb marathons, Jeremy plucking his guitar, the kids laughing and screaming, dogs barking. How could I have missed all of this before? The answer is simple- I closed my eyes to the life I could be living. So summer is hot- So what? So there’s no regular bedtime- Even better.

If I can learn one lesson from summer, it should be that days may be long, but life is short. One day, sooner than I can imagine, my kids will be grown. There will be no more dirty toes curled up next to me on the couch. No more freckled, sweaty faces looking earnestly up into mine as they show me their latest leaf or feather. The days will slip by me, one after the other, endless, long days that turn out to be not so long after all. Summer, more than anything, should lend us perspective to last us the rest of the year. Something to remember; something to look forward to. Something to teach us to slow down, breathe a little more deeply.

There are dips and swells throughout life. Summer is definitely a swell. A time of fullness we can’t hold in our arms. A time to float along with the tide, making memories and dreaming dreams. Take pictures. Sing loudly. Try new recipes. Sit in front of a fan and talk in Transformer voices. Eat outside. Walk barefoot.

Make your summer as swell as you possibly can.

-M


To see how swell my summer is in pictures, you can follow me on Instagram: @mbsmoot (that's me) and @ms2photo (that's my photography).

A Little

Tonight I took the long way home, listening to Bon Iver with my windows down and my heat blasting. I watched the waves of heat swirl against my windshield, the 90 degree interior wind tangling with the 50 degree exterior. I watched an endless parade of watery yellow streetlights march by in my peripheral vision. Trees waved at me as I passed. I leaned my head against the seat and let my elbows dangle in front of me. I felt a small, twisting ball of joy in my spirit, and I thought "This must be what heaven is like." I don't think I stopped smiling during the whole 20 minute drive. I wanted nothing more than to stretch that 20 minutes into two hours, twelve hours.

I haven't felt peace like that in months. Long, cold months of confusion and fear and anxiety. Tonight a little spring of happiness welled up, as I drove home in my happy little bubble.

I know in life we have what I've heard called "A-ha" moments. This wasn't one of those for me. This was just a little thing. No grand revelations. No visions and dreams. Just me, my music, the wind, and the One who made it. I felt Him work a little oil into the dryness of my heart. Ease a little of the tension I've been carrying on my shoulders. Smile a little with me. He knew. He knew I needed just this "little" thing, that to me, was not so little.

A Happy "Accident"

I once had a theory that I felt certain was true: That the first and the last children in every family were “surprises”. It was true of my family. My oldest and youngest brothers both came as a surprise to my parents. And it was true with me. Ashton, as you all know, came as a shock. And Atleigh... well. If anything could be more shocking than Ashton, it was her.

After Chloe was born, Jeremy and I debated whether we would have more kids. We wavered back and forth, back and forth. Took precautions, deciding maybe we would try again later. After a nasty, horrible, awful run-in with an IUD, we decided to just... hold out, until more permanent methods of birth control became available. Chloe was about 18 months old at that time. 6 months later, I was pregnant. It was then, and only then, that I realized how happy I was with our “Disney Family Four Package”, as I called our little family. I’d always thought, “Well, maybe one day we’ll have another baby”, and until I was actually expecting said baby, I never knew how much I DID NOT want another baby. I took five tests in 4 days, hoping against hope that one would be negative. I cried everyday for a month. After that month I tapered down to about three times a week. By the time I got to my third trimester, I was down to crying only once every 7-9 days.

We’d always said if we had a third baby, we wouldn’t find out the sex. We had one of each, we figured we were prepared for any eventuality. I had to sign all kinds of papers, stating that the sex of the baby would in no way change my acceptance of said baby, that I was absolutely certain I would receive the baby regardless of its sex, etc., etc. In theory, not finding out the sex is exciting, mysterious, and somehow connects you with mothers from generations past: patiently waiting for your unknown little person to arrive, its name and fate undecided. In reality, or at least my reality, it only served to increase my sense of disconnect from this child that I had never asked for. Although our close friends and family knew I was pregnant, we didn’t make a widespread announcement. After about 5 months people started to notice that my fatness was taking on a shape (I was thankful for THAT, at least).

I sound like such a horrible person. The truth is, until about an hour before Atleigh was born, I had the trapped feeling of a person forced to get on a roller coaster, who realizes after it’s too late that she wants to get off the ride. I had the sense of looking down into a precipice, knowing I was about to spiral out of control, and knowing there was nothing I could do about it. I remember frantically texting my friend at 3 in the morning, after they’d decided to keep me overnight, saying, “I can’t do this. I changed my mind.” It was just... too much. One too many.

Jeremy had Atleigh’s named picked out since before Chloe was born. He wanted to use the name on her, but I wouldn’t let him, saying I wouldn’t have my kids have “twin” names like Ashton and Atleigh. We have (had) a deal- whoever picked out the first name, the other got to pick out the middle. He got Ashton, I got Nathaniel. I got Chloe, he got Noelle. If Atleigh was a boy, her name would have been Riley Nehemiah. As it was, Jeremy finally got his Atleigh, and I chose Naomi for her middle name, knowing that Naomi means the exact opposite of what my name means. Knowing that this baby was the exact opposite of what I wanted, but that God had predestined her. Naming her according to HIS plan, not mine.

Atleigh was born almost three weeks early, and so quickly I hardly even noticed it. 3 hours of labor, about 30 seconds of pushing, and this teeny little 6 pound baby with a dimple in her chin and blond highlights in her hair was placed on my chest. It’s just like in every story you read: I loved her the minute I laid eyes on her. I forgot all the tears and the whining I had done for the past 9 months. I forgot that I never “wanted” her. That didn’t matter. I needed her. She was mine. She was so little, so... unfinished. She looked like the pictures you see in books of babies still in utero, all the planes of her little face still softly smeared together, faint lines where her eyebrows should be, her tiny mouth pinched at the corners. When I picked her up, her body would curl up and out, turning her into the shape of a jelly bean. I still call her Jelly Bean, 3 years later.

Today Atleigh is the child of my heart. While Ashton and Chloe were both “Daddy’s” kids (and Chloe was decidedly my sister’s “kid”), Atleigh has always been solely mine. She is my little mini- me. She quirks her eyebrows like me, twists her mouth like me, “flounces” like me, as my parents will attest to. Her personality is 1,000 times larger than her tiny little frame. My mother tells me she’s just like my brother Ben. My mother-in-law tells me she’s just like Jeremy. I ask them both what I did to deserve that. She’s sassy and loud, bossy and wheedling, quirky and sweet, and everyone who meets her is immediately wrapped around her finger. She is the most charming person I know. She’s the only child of mine who inherited my brown eyes. I mean to apologize to her for that, when Daddy’s blue eyes were to be had. She still has blonde highlights running through her hair- a birthmark, I suppose. Her face is Puckish, with pointed eyebrows, a button nose and bow mouth, and a tiny little southwest dimple that looks like God Himself couldn’t resist pinching her cheek in the forming of her.

A few days ago I took her out for her very first “photo shoot”. I’ve done shoots of both Ashton and Chloe, but never Atleigh all by herself. I thought I would have to wrangle her mercilessly, but I underestimated the Jeremy-ness in her. She’s as big a ham as he ever was. She posed and preened and simpered without my even asking her (and don't hate me, Mom- her glasses gave off too big of a glare. When her new ones come in I'll do a whole new shoot, I promise!). Here are a few pictures I took of the happiest “accident” that ever happened to me. I thank God everyday that He didn’t let me off that roller coaster. I have a feeling that with Atleigh, I’m going to be on it for a long time.

A Sixth Love Language

I’m up late, and on cold medication, and am struck with a writing bug. This is my disclaimer. I may or may not remember what I type here.

I read a book a long time ago, when I was in an internship program at my church, and again when I got married, called The Five Love Languages. You may be familiar with it. In the church circuit, the term “love language” is as well known and accepted as “washed by the blood” and “backsliding”. The Love Languages are as follows:

Physical Touch
Quality Time
Words of Affirmation
Gifts
Acts of Service

All those years ago, my love language was unequivocally “Gifts”, with a splash of “Acts of Service” thrown in. Jeremy’s are Words of Affirmation and Physical Touch. Gifts is a tough love language to have (if all of this is Greek to you, click here). To those without the "language", you look greedy for wanting gifts, ungrateful for wanting what you don’t have. And when you give gifts to someone who doesn’t have the same love language, their lack of effusive gratitude can throw cold water on your happy little gift giving bubble.

Example: Long before Jeremy and I were ever dating, he told me how his mom had bought him special Star Wars cereal (this was when The Phantom Menace was all the hype), which he loved. Apparently it was like Lucky Charms, but better, containing superior marshmallows and marshmallow to cereal ratio. Some part of me tucked this little story away. When we were dating, the second Star Wars movie came out. I watched and waited, excited to buy him this superior marshmallow cereal. I bought 2 or 3 boxes, carted them to his house and put them in his cabinets, and waited, almost giddy, for him to discover them. When he came home, he didn’t go straight to the cereal cabinet like I figured most single guys would. Bouncing with excitement, I told him to open the cabinets, that I had gotten him a surprise. He smiled knowingly (Lord knows what he was expecting, but with his love language being physical touch, I can imagine), and opened the cabinet to find it full of Star Wars cereal. He stared blankly for a minute while I jumped up and down behind him, clapping my hands.

“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s your cereal!”, I squealed. “Your cereal that you love so much!”
“My what?”, he asked.
“You said... you said this was your favorite cereal. That your mom got it for you because you love the marshmallows,” I said, starting to deflate.
“Oh... Ok. I don’t really know how I’m going to eat all this before it expires. But. Thank you...?” He ended it like a question, not quite sure to do with a girlfriend who thought multiple boxes of cereal was an acceptable gift.

I was heartbroken. Obviously. 10 years later and it still stings. He didn’t mean it that way, of course. It’s just that we didn’t - don’t - speak the same language.

All that said to bring me to this: I’ve discovered I have a love language that isn’t mentioned in any book. Maybe I’m the only one who has it. My love language is music. I mean it. There is nothing- no gift you can give me, no service you can do for me, no amount of time you can spend with me- that will reach down and touch my soul the way music does. There is a tender spot in my heart that can only be touched by melody. I’m sure people will read this and say, “Oh yes, me too.” Maybe that’s so. But something tells me that this affinity is rare. It’s a gift and a curse, this language of mine. Not something I can control, and not something very many can relate to. Jeremy speaks the language of music as I do, although maybe a different dialect. But I know he feels it, and that has worked its way to healing breaches caused by rejected cereal.

I’ve said before that the way you can tell I really love you is if I’ve shared my music with you. When I make mix tapes (although I guess technically they are mix CDs), they’re never just random songs thrown together. I pour myself into them, spending hours arranging and rearranging track orders so that there is flow and meaning. In most cases, they aren’t songs I’ve written, but they’re songs I’ve written on my heart, and they are little pieces of me that I give away to the few people I’ve let into the crux of who I am. My life is built around music. Every turning point can be pinpointed by a song or musician. My everyday life is consumed with it. I don’t go more than a few hours without some song playing. It’s not that I hate the silence. It’s that I love the music. I can’t breathe without it. There is something so vulnerable about good, true music. And I don’t mean most of the “Christian” drivel that is played nowadays. No, not all of it’s bad, but most of it’s not good. There is no depth, no sweeping current, no true vulnerability in what mainstream Christian artists produce today. Music, above all, should be honest. It should come from hidden wells in our spirits that speak of deep waters. Look at the Psalms. More than anything, the psalms ring truth in every line, whether it’s good truth or bad. That’s what true music should be. Encompassing human nature, the precious and the ugly, the twisted defects of who we are, as well as the blinding beauty of who we can be. Christians certainly don’t have the corner on that particular brand. Here’s my advice on that score: Don’t put what you think can minister to and change your life into a box. There is so much rich, beautiful music out in the world that can truly bend the course of your life, and it doesn’t have to be found in a chapel.

Don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging. You can read a previous blog about music that has touched me, and here are some other artists, albums, and bands (in no particular order) that have been weaving their way into my heart of hearts over the past few months, Christian and otherwise. Not all of it is "cutting edge". Very little of it is, actually, now that I think of it. I don't look for the shiniest, prettiest song to speak to me. I find that in recent years I've gravitated towards music that is more melodic, bordering on folk. I look for music that will wear well. Music that can be repeated for two weeks straight without becoming stale, but actually becomes richer with each listen, that layers itself into something that can mean one thing in January, and quite another thing in May. It goes without saying (and yet here I am saying it) that all of this music is to my taste, my opinions. Which you do not have to agree with.

Bison: Quill

I have to give a shout out to this local band that are well on their way to being the "next big thing". Their music is genuine, different enough to be memorable but not so different as to be weird. Make us proud, guys.

The Frames: The Cost

I. love. Glen Hansard. If you want to find passion in music, look no further. He has it by the bucket load.

Josh Garrels: Love & War & The Sea In Between

This album is completely free to download right now on www.joshgarrels.com. Download it. You won't regret it. Here's a Christian artist I can get behind.

Bon Iver: Bon Iver

I love Bon Iver's rich melodies and harmonies. They make we want to drive for hours on a warm night with the windows down.

 Jon Foreman: Fall

Jon Foreman, of Switchfoot fame, has a series of EPs named after the seasons. I haven't heard the others yet. Fall has a little Dylanesque feel to it, and you can't get much better than Dylan. Another Christian artist I wholeheartedly support.

The Secret Sisters: The Secret Sisters

I love sisters. I love sisters who sing together with airtight harmonies even better. Their roots are firmly grounded in old school country, the kind my grandparents may have listened to, the kind that's easier for me to swallow. Some of it even smacks slightly of The Beatles' earliest albums, and I absolutely can't resist that.

Leeland: The Great Awakening

There's one song on this album that gets me every time, called I Wonder. Listen to it.

Ascend The Hill: Ascend The Hill

I found this album on www.noisetrade.com (HIGHLY recommend this site). They're a little raw, but their worship is absolutely genuine.

David Crowder* Band: Give Us Rest or (a requiem mass in C [the happiest of all keys])

DCB's last album, and I can honestly say I think it's their best work. Modeled after a Requiem Mass (hence the name), it's two hours long and worth every minute of listening.

 Paper Route: Absence

A Pandora find, also on Noise Trade right now. These guys aren't a Christian band, but what I like to refer to as Christians IN a band (that's right, folks, it IS possible!). They remind me a little bit of Mute Math's first album (another great Christians IN a band band).

 Kieran Kane, Kevin Welch, & Fats Kaplin: Lost John Dean

I haven't heard this whole album. I have one song off of it, called "I Can't Wait" that I listened to on repeat for 2 hours straight one day.

 Sufjan Stevens: Illinois

Sufjan Stevens completely charms me. He's so eccentric, writing songs with titles like, "To the Workers of the Rock River Valley Region, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament", and "The Black Hawk War, or, How to Demolish an Entire Civilization and Still Feel Good About Yourself in the Morning, or, We Apologize for the Inconvenience but You're Going to Have to Leave Now, or, 'I Have Fought the Big Knives and Will Continue to Fight Them Until They Are Off Our Lands!'" Despite the clever and goofy titles, his music is haunting and has depth that few artists can manage. He's another mainstream Christian artist that I love to support.

The Hunger Games Soundtrack: Safe & Sound

I've pre-ordered this soundtrack, which doesn't come out until next week, but this song was made available a little earlier. It. is. fantastic. Goosebump-inducing fantastic.

 The Civil Wars: Barton Hollow

I discovered The Civil Wars last year a few months after their first album released. Everyone has since jumped on the bandwagon, which quite offends me. I'm very possessive of music I love. And I love The Civil Wars more than I've loved any music in a long time. I'm going to overlook any bandwagon hopping in this instance, if you listen to them on my recommendation.

And if you’re wondering what I’m listening to as I write this (because writing and music go hand in hand with me), I’ve just picked up a little collaborative gem by The Chieftains, an Irish band that is celebrating their 50th anniversary, comprising original and traditional songs by various artists: The Civil Wars, Bon Iver, The Decemberists, Imelda May, and more. Definitely recommended.

And of course, I am always looking for new music to form a relationship with. I am open to any and all suggestions.

I Don't Know

About twice a week for the past 6 weeks, I’ve made myself sit down in front of this laptop and try to write. The results are as you have seen thus far (assuming you’ve been looking) : Nothing.

I’ve been going through one of my more intense “Disconnects”. My friends and family can tell you, I’ve been barely present, drifting from day to day, scraping by on the minimum I can do between waking and sleeping. I don’t know why I go through these periods. I don’t know what I glean from or give up for them.

I’ve spent some days of these 6 weeks reevaluating what I’m doing with What If I Said, if anything. The answer to that, again, is: I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m hoping to accomplish by vomiting various thoughts, emotions, and events onto this blog. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what this is. I do know, however, what it is not. In the 2 years I’ve been writing What If I Said, I’ve never presumed or claimed to be anything other than what I am: Honest. I promise you, my 32 readers, that I will never be other than honest. I may or may not omit some thoughts. Sometimes it’s safer that way. The things that don’t make it onto the blog could fill two more blogs.

That said, here are some things What If I Said never has and never will be:

It will never be a craft blog.
I have great respect for creative types. I envy their patience and discipline. I will never, ever go there, because I love writing too much to give up blog space for crafts.

It will never be a teaching blog.
I’ve never wanted nor tried to be the next Joyce Meyer. I try my hardest to be up front about my convictions without preaching. My convictions are simply that: mine. I don’t want to change you, convict you, criticize you. From someone who has grown up with a heavy dose of “never good enough” guilt, it is my very last wish to shuffle some of that weight onto others. I don't believe I have the only direct line to God, and what He says to me is IT, and should be IT for you too. If what I say applies to you, encourages or exhorts you, makes you want to be a better person, it’s completely coincidental. I don’t try to do that either. I write as it applies to me, and only to me.

It will never be a music, movie, or book review blog.
I love music, movies, and books. Sometimes I write about them, because it’s what I’m thinking about. But I don’t expect anyone to follow my “recommendations”, or care if they do or don’t.

It will never be a parenting advice blog.
I wouldn’t dare. I suck at parenting.

I don’t know what the point of this particular entry is. I only know that after stepping back and looking at this, I’ve come to the conclusion that I write for me. Not to reform anyone, not to reach anyone. I write because I love it. I write because sometimes my thoughts become too much to keep in my head. I’ve given up on the idea of trying to reach the masses. I’ve been beating myself up this past month, telling myself I need to blog, because all the blog magazines require at least a blog a week, and if I ever wanted to be featured on one of those...!!! I’ve given up on that idea also. I just can't keep up.
Journaling (which is really what this is) doesn’t benefit anyone other than the “journaler”. I’m okay with that. My readers are few, my “followers” are fewer. I have no grass roots cheering me on. I’m content to sit in my little corner, tapping away on my keyboard, writing the world as I see it.

So. What if I said that my blog is just that: a blog. Just good, old fashioned writing for the sake of writing. That’s what I’m doing here. That’s what I’ll continue to do.

Beyond that... I don’t know.

Labels Lie

I follow an organization on Facebook called People of the Second Chance. Just the name moves me. Their campaigns, posts, blogs, and photos challenge me every day. As I’ve said before, I like to think I’m a non judgmental person. I believe I am, in most cases. I say most, because I know I don’t have all my bases covered. There are still large patches of me that are bare, as yet uncovered by the grace I’ve struggled so long to accept.

POTSC’s latest campaign, Labels Lie, caught me with its raw, grainy photos of people stamped with a label over their faces, obscuring who they really are. This is me. Was me. I was labeled with a teen pregnancy, and I’ve felt the heavy weight of that stamp ever since. I always qualify my situation, to head peoples’ judgements off at the pass:

“I was already engaged, the wedding date was already set. There was no shot gun wedding. I never slept around. I married the only man I ever slept with.”

Somehow, the qualifications make me feel more guilty. Next month, it will have been nine years since the day I sat in the doctor’s office having my world shaken, my life forever changed. Nine long years of feeling the grime of my mistakes coat me like oil.

Slut.

Cheap.

Easy.

Disappointment.

That girl.

I never wanted to be her. And yet I became her, more through my perception of myself than anyone else’s. I’ve turned it into a hateful joke of sorts, calling myself out before anyone has the opportunity to do it for me. “I was a model child. The worst thing I ever did was get pregnant out of wedlock.” With a background like mine, that’s about the worst thing a girl CAN do. Drug addicts can be rehabilitated. Alcoholics can be set free. A girl who gets pregnant? Well, she’s stuck with that mistake forever, now, isn’t she? And serves her right, too. She knew what she was doing. Knew the consequences.

Labels lie. I’ve lied to myself for nine years, seen myself through this dark filter that I’ve accepted as my cross to bear. I earned it, after all. No matter that my son was born perfect and healthy, and lights up my life. No matter that my life has been restored, my husband loves me, my family doesn’t judge me or shun me. The good things, the grace, I never earned, and, more truthfully, never accepted. The mantle of humiliation, I’ve wrapped around me tighter than my skin. I’ve embraced the label, tattooed it upon my heart, when others long ago gave it up.

Labels lie. I lie. I lie to myself every time I say I’m not a judgmental person. When I say that grace is freely given and freely received. Because the truth of the matter is, I’ve labeled myself more fiercely than anyone else has ever labeled me, more harshly than I would ever presume to label another person. I’ve written upon my own face this label, and I see it whenever I study the mirror, whenever I look into my heart, and at times, even when I look into the face of my son. I’ve never, ever freely received any grace, accepted the truth. Instead, I’ve believed and perpetuated a lie about who I am based on what I did.

The truth is, I am whole.

The truth is, I receive forgiveness and embrace grace.

The truth is, I am exceedingly and abundantly blessed.

The truth is, I am made new. Not just restored; completely new.

The truth is, labels lie.

And I choose truth.