painting the rain.

It was quiet.
Just her voice and mine.
Hers much louder than mine.
And the rain.
The rain was soft, but it made itself heard as it bounced off the roof.
The room was still.
Still enough for the moment to move.
And did it move.
It moved more than the brush across the paper.
It moved more than the rain running down the window.
The moment moved like it had somewhere to go.

She saw more than my unintentional plus sign.
She breathed life into my unplanned.
"A cross. Jesus." She said.
"Of course. That's exactly what that is."
"It's a cross."
Thank you, Jesus.

His name makes people uncomfortable these days, Jesus.
As soon as people hear it, read it, see it, they think they've seen enough.
It's sad.
Really sad.
We let poor examples of Christianity, preconceived notions, and unanswered questions drown out his name, Jesus.

Lucky for me today, she didn't.
She didn't hear the clamoring noise against his name.
The only thing she heard was the rain.

Amidst the scattered mess of paint and paper, she looked for more.
She looked for more, she saw more, she found more.
She found Jesus.
Right there in front of her, as if he had been there all along.
And he was.
Waiting for her to see him.
As the rain sang pitter patter, she found him.
He was right there with her, painting the rain. 

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the rest of the picture.

She was wearing an orange and purple, green and blue, tye-die tube top and very large, what looked like men's, red, black, and white, plaid pajama pants, with badly worn beige sandals, as she carried her three month old baby boy in his car seat. "He's really big for three months," she said. "He is, he's bigger than my seven month old," I said. It was hard for her to carry him in the car seat, and if you've carried a baby around in a car seat, you know the difficulty I'm talking about. She carried him far, and I mean far. She was visibly tired by the time she made it to her car. "It's almost easier to carry him without the seat," she said. "I know, I usually put mine in a carrier or a stroller," I said. We shared a smile and I told her to enjoy the rest of her day. I got in my car, she and her baby got in theirs, and we parted ways.

It's wonderful how social media has streamlined the "sharing" process. It keeps us connected, it gives us new perspectives, and it challenges us along the way. But life via social media, blogs, forums, etc., doesn't always give us the whole picture.

When all we do, all we are, and all we hope to be is thought to be seen by everyone, we make sure we approve of what we allow others to see, and we let what we see of others determine the value of ours. For some of us, this may be a constant struggle. But I can almost guarantee, at some point, we've all seen the way someone portrays their life, via social media, and thought to ourselves, "They're so much better at ______ than me." 

It happens. To the best of us, it happens. At some point in time, we saw something on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest, a blog we follow, YouTube, something, somewhere, that struck a nerve. For some, this nerve might be struck over, and over, and over again. For others, it may rarely be struck. But this is for the people who's twitchy nerve likes to get the best of them...

Look at yourself, your life, your worth, your dignity...through a better lens, and try to see the rest of the picture.

In regards to motherhood and social media, I see what other women do, how other people seem, and there are days, there are times, when I fail to measure up. And I will never measure up, because very simply, I am not them. Even though we share universal sentiments, my motherhood looks like mine,  and your motherhood looks like yours. For this reason, yours and mine are just as beautiful. I can't live your life and you can't live mine. And as much as social media likes to count and measure approval, you can't measure beautiful.

One of my best friends reminded me the other day, motherhood doesn't look the same for everyone.  Some moms take time to get all prettied up in the morning, some moms don't. Some moms speak gently to their children, some moms are a little less patient. Some moms stress the amount of veggies their kids eat, some moms don't. Some moms rock the best baby gear, some mom's don't. Some moms sing to their kids, some moms don't. Some moms always play outside, some moms don't. Some moms work and want to, some moms work and don't want to. It doesn't matter where you fall on the spectrum, or if you change this mom scenario and fill in the blank with your specific situation, none of this matters if you are looking at your life through the right lens, one that shows the rest of the picture.

The rest of the picture shows just how bad a** you are, and how you are probably doing the best you can. Our society would have told that young mom with the non-matching, loose-fitting tie-dye/plaid outfit, messy hair, and no-makeup face, that she wasn't beautiful. That her afternoon wasn't worth "liking." But when I saw her that day, non-matching, and smiling at her baby boy the way she did, I saw the rest of the picture. A mother who did her best to make it to her baby's doctor appointment, a mother who may not have much for herself, but who gives all she does have to her child. A mother who didn't care what anyone was thinking because she was exactly where she needed to be.

If I had taken a picture of her and tweeted it (hypothetically, because I don't have Twitter), or put it on Instagram (my new favorite!), or Facebook, or any other social media outlet, she wouldn't have been portrayed through the same lens she was captured. Her picture wouldn't have been liked by many, there would have been very few approving comments, and some would have judged her along the way...but if I could take social media out back for a sec., and give it some serious sass and a stern talking to, I'd say..."I don't really care what you think you see, or what you think you portray in this one glimpse of this woman, in this mother, because there's absolutely no way you can capture, as hard as you try, the entirety of who you think this woman is, you can't, and you never will. You may not see it, she may not even see it, but she is beautiful, and I bet if she looks at herself with a lens, one that's much better than the false lens you provide her with, one that shows her the rest of the picture, she'd see just how beautiful she is, too."

For when we look at what other people have, and when others look at what we have, that which is shown online, through the internet and it's jaded viewpoints, we have to remember, it's never the full picture. We can't assume we know how good or bad others have it based on their social media sites, and we can't judge ourselves on ours either. We can't forget how worthy, dignified, and beautiful the rest of the picture is. 

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these days.

I want to remember the sweetness of these days.

Not the lack of sleep.
Not the exhaustion.
Not the schedules, or lack thereof.
Not the whining. Not the tantrums.
Not the nonexistent "me" time.
Not the diapers. And the zillion changes.
Not the constant cleaning and picking up.
Not the laundry, please, not the laundry.
Not the disappointment, the frustration, or the guilt.
Not the tough on myself moments.
Not the, "you've got your hands full," comments.

But the sweetness.

The smiles. The laughs. The belly ones that shake your soul. The nuzzles. The, "mommy sit down and snuggle." The smile that lights up as soon as he sees me. The silly faces before bed. The discovery. The excitement. The wonder. The being needed. The being wanted. The love, oh the love. The yummy sweetness of their big love. They may be small, but they love so big. The spirits that see more in me than I'll ever see. The ones who as far as their concerned, have a good day whenever we're around. This sweetness. This simplicity. This is what I pray I will remember of these days. Because the sweetness of these days give me purpose, give me hope, and teach me what's really important, even when the stuff that's fleeting is sometimes more pronounced than all the sweetness, all the lasting.

For all of us, I pray in life we cling to what will last. All that is now and will always be, sweetness.

two, too fast.

This weekend, she'll be two, too fast. It's hard to believe. It's hard to imagine what my heart looked like before she moved in, before she softened it like no one else could have. Joseph always like to remind me how much I teach her, encourage her, and show her how to navigate through life all around her, but most times I feel like she's the teacher. She reminds me to love with no expectations, that life is better sung and danced, and that everyone, and I mean everyone, deserves a smile.

I'm overjoyed with growing with her and dreaming of what the next years will look like as she continues to grow and blossom, but it's so bittersweet because I know how much I'll miss these days, of her being my best little companion. Days when my craziness is the coolest thing ever in her eyes, after Barney and Tinkerbell, of course. Days when we pray for giraffes, because giraffes need our prayers, too, and days when we sing songs for absolutely everything. I'll miss 'just because' hugs and kisses, and a little girl who always wants her mama's company. I'll miss it all.

Despite how hard it is, moving on and letting go of baby stages that have come and gone and will never come again, I couldn't imagine life without all these scenes, without all these changes, without all these heartaches. Because as heart wrenching as it is to watch our baby grow and change right before our eyes, we would do it all over again, even if that meant having to let go one more time. That's how much their love is worth it.

Happy two, sweet pea. We love you more each passing day.

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I build.

a tiny Marabelle and me.

I'm a builder.

I didn't know it before tonight, and even if my heart knew it, she kept it a secret, only to be disclosed on a night like tonight, when my ears would be gentle enough to listen. When my voice is the only one heard, when my husband is working late. When the sun's clocked out, on this side of the world. When my two little ones are sweetly resting underneath their blankets, one in her big girl bed, my boy nuzzled beside me, both beneath this shingled roof, directly below the stars. When I have time to spend attending to that which is mine. My heart waited for a night like tonight to share her secret.

Things have been challenging, partly because life likes to be difficult, partly because I like to be annoyingly rough on myself. It almost makes sense my heart chose to speak tonight, when I'm weary with an exhausted and sick spirit, it's as if she waited for my guard to be down. She waited for the moment when she knew I wouldn't have the energy or the will to fight back.

As I lay here, recollecting myself from my day spent wiping noses and changing diapers, singing songs that make absolutely no sense, kissing ow-ies and making them all better, cleaning up leaky sippy cups and messy floors, folding laundry multiple times after little hands let themselves in, and addressing the mound of dishes that seems to be never-ending, you can't help but hope and pray that it's all seen, someway, somehow.

Not by facebook, or twitter, or instagram, or whatever else. But seen, really seen.

And it's then when she spoke. This soft heart of mine, she spoke. "You're a builder. You build," she said.

After listening and reading some seriously touching perspectives, including Nicole Johnson's insightful imagery shared here, I started to see.

As a mother, so much of our work, our days, our struggles, our triumphs, our love, goes unseen. Especially by the one person who desperately wants to see it the most, ourselves. We often ask ourselves questions related to these, "Where did this day go?" or "What did I accomplish today?" All the while, our hearts are waiting for a quiet moment to whisper, "You built, woman. You built."

We build castles, cathedrals, temples, palaces. We build fortresses that take years, sometimes centuries to complete. We build beautiful dwelling places, ones where blood, sweat, and tears accent the mortar. Sometimes we build because we have to, and other times because we really, truly want to. But even when we feel the worst about our efforts or ourselves, we still build.

We may not be around to see the finished product, to stand before the completed castle and stare with awe-struck wonder at all that came to be, but I hope it's a warm place, with stained glass, and plenty of windows. 

I hope it's the kind of warm where cozy consumes you. I hope there's plenty of stained glass to show how perfectly the light of the sun uniquely sparkles when it bounces off of different hues. I hope there are windows, so many windows, enough windows to remind all those who dwell there, to venture, to reach, to step out. And I hope they feel love, not just a broken love from this imperfect heart of mine, but the love of God who's the only other one who would have seen the entire build, every single stone laid, from start to finish.

I can't promise I'll be easier on myself, or that I've miraculously seen the light and will never turn back or face another dark moment. But after being a mom for almost two years {cannot believe Marabelle's almost 2!} I can honestly say I can see a little more clearly than before. And I guess that's what building is all about. Having a clearer vision with every passing brick. Years go by and people will see a building but forget the builder. The castle will long outlive it's maker, so you hope the builder found purpose in her work through it all, and that she knew how worth it, all her hard work is, and will someday be. For little do I know that when I feel alone, I have His company, and every single second, tired or energized, defeated or determined, I build.

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purposeful.

We've rung in the new year, and just as Christmas has come and gone, so have our 2012 calendars. Hopefully, your Holiday season was one that you'll cherish for years to come. Ours was filled with family, family, great food, and more family...isn't that just the best?

Right after new years, Jude had his surgery for craniosynostosis - in case you missed it, I wrote a little about his condition here. Jude's surgery went well and by well, I mean the best it could have gone. There were no complications and his surgeons were phenomenal. Your prayers for our family were graciously heard, thank you for all your love.

Our last few days have been spent adjusting to helmet life. Jude will have to wear a helmet for the next 12 months to maintain the success of his surgery. And although we've trenched through a few rough moments, we're pushing through.

It's easy to cave in on yourself while staring at all the things that seem to be falling down rather than all the good building up. Like focusing on my baby boy wearing a helmet for the next year, 23 hours a day. Or not being able to feel his fuzzy hair when his head nuzzles into my chest, right under my chin. Or realizing that when I naturally go to kiss his head, when I'm holding him in my arms, my lips will land on a hard plastic shell. But as I stared at him yesterday, watching him sleep for the last time without his helmet until the 12 months are up, I realized the helmet is not a mean bad guy, but a nice guy, fulfilling his purpose. If it weren't for the helmet and having surgery at such a young age, Jude would have had to undergo a much more invasive surgery, hospitalizing him for much longer and possibly requiring multiple surgeries throughout the course of his elementary years. Not to mention, there are so many families, my heart breaks for, ones that have suffered the grief of losing one of their little ones, or ones who don't know what it's like to have a baby to hold. So, if this little helmet of his helps nip his craniosynostosis in the bud, then I should probably cut the thick clear plastic headgear some slack. And really, isn't he just the cutest little astronaut, speed racer, rugby player, 40's football star you've ever seen? I mean, a helmet's never looked so good. ;)

With realization comes clarity, a peace of mind that makes action purposeful. And purpose is really everything. One of my hopes for 2013 is to strive to be increasingly purposeful, in everything I do. To be more purposeful in my friendships, to be more purposeful with my words, to be more purposeful with my time, to be a more purposeful mom, and a more purposeful wife. And please don't get me wrong, by purposeful, I don't mean that everything must have a lengthy, involved, plan or intention. Rather, to live the life you've chosen with dignity and ownership, to give each day, each hour, each minute, the purpose it hopes to have.

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prepare Him room.

I can't stop thinking about Friday and Sandy Hook Elementary School. I can't stop thinking about the families of those who were taken too soon and all the precious souls now embraced by their Heaven. As I watched this clip of this heroic man and father, one thing Robbie Parker said, struck a chord deep within me. "As we move on from what happened here, what happened to so many people, let it not turn into something that divides us..."  Let it not turn into something that divides us. Let it not turn into something that divides us. Let it not turn into something that divides us. It's a line worth repeating. Over. And over. And over. Again.

There's already been lots of talk, plenty of opinions and exchanges of attitudes and judgments regarding the views of others. When we live in a world where unthinkable tragedy occurs, we live in a culture already full of division, where many are quick to speak, but few are willing to listen. We need more listening. And as Robbie Parker also so beautifully said, we need to be "more compassionate."

In this sacred time of year, often drowned out with excessive fluff, may we be awake and vigilant, purposeful and prepared, to offer Love room. Not by moving the couches or creating extra space for the five boxes of Christmas decorations (although many of our living rooms know this rearrangement all too well), but most importantly, may we prepare Love room, in the place He longs to dwell, in the place where music dances to a beat of it's own, in the place that sustains us all, our hearts.

This Christmas is going to be incredibly difficult for all the families and loved ones of Friday's victims. And by no means, can I speak for them or claim to know what they are feeling or going through, but if this Christmas we all work hard at fulfilling Robbie Parker's simple request, we could trade our pride with compassion, our division with embrace, and maybe, just maybe, we could ignite a tiny sliver of peace amidst all the pain and suffering. As 'Joy the World' begs, let every heart prepare Him room.

God who is Love, may we prepare you room.
Every heart.
Broken or mended.
Weary or anxious.
Tired or lonely.
Confused or doubtful.
Empty or sorrowful.
May every heart this Christmas, prepare Him room.

All the families of Sandy Hook, our thoughts and prayers remain with you.

♥ photo by one of my favorite photographers, Marianne Greig

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