Grace & One-Way Love

I had a difficult conversation with someone this morning. Not difficult as in confrontational; Difficult as in emotionally raw. Vulnerable. Tender…Difficult. This person was needing and asking me to extend a measure of grace and without hesitation, although perhaps (and then again, maybe not) against all reason, or odds or…I don’t quite know…history? I freely gave it. I didn’t have to think twice. They did not specifically ask for grace– but that was the tone of our conversation. And I did not specifically say, “Here is grace. Please have it.” That is not usually how grace is exchanged. But there is a moment when one person has a need or weakness and another person simultaneously has the terrifying power to so easily and unnecessarily hurt or cause suffering…and chooses not to. And it is so soothing and tenuous and frightening. And I am not acting as a self-proclaimed Grace-Giver here– spouting off about it would be the antithesis to graceful. I almost feel as though I am observing it objectively– because let’s be honest and clear– I do not always give grace. And I do not always give grace freely. In our base humanity, there are times each one of us gives “grace” with many many spoken or unspoken conditions attached. And this is not grace at all.

And so all day long I have ruminated about the nature of grace. About what it means. What it feels like to give grace and receive grace. About unmerited favor. Undeserving mercy. And it has kept the tears close to the surface. There is something achingly beautiful and fragile and fervent about the nature of grace that is undoing me today.

And perhaps that is why this morning’s conversation is affecting the landscape of my heart so deeply today. Because life is hard. And grace makes hard things easier.

What, exactly, do I mean by grace?

“Grace is love that seeks you out when you have nothing to give in return. Grace is love coming at you that has nothing to do with you. Grace is being loved when you are unlovable…. The cliché definition of grace is “unconditional love.” It is a true cliché, for it is a good description of the thing. Let’s go a little further, though. Grace is a love that has nothing to do with you, the beloved. It has everything and only to do with the lover. Grace is irrational in the sense that it has nothing to do with weights and measures. It has nothing to do with my intrinsic qualities or so-called “gifts” (whatever they may be). It reflects a decision on the part of the giver, the one who loves, in relation to the receiver, the one who is loved, that negates any qualifications the receiver may personally hold…. Grace is one-way love.” – Paul Zahl, as quoted in William Tullian’s book, One -Way Love.

And so may we–more often these days–find ourselves on both ends of such love and grace. Because in the end, we are all just walking each other home. (Ram Dass)

This is Why We Tell Our Stories

Not long ago I received a call from a good friend in total distress. A young woman he knows had lost her husband suddenly and tragically. He didn’t know what to do or how to handle it. He was shaken and looking for direction. Knowing I had walked this road before, he called me first. With tears in my eyes, my heart was already silently breaking for what I knew lay ahead for this girl. I gave him some advice and then choked out the words I sort of dreaded to say: “When are the calling hours? I’ll go see her.”

Flashback to December 31, 1998: I have just been gifted with the American Flag from the United States Army on behalf of a grateful nation for my husband’s military service. With my little boy by my side, I am walking down the aisle of the church. I have just sat through my husband’s funeral service. I am numb, but not so numb that I don’t feel slightly annoyed and frustrated when someone pulls me to the side and says there’s someone I should meet. Seriously? Who could I possibly need to meet right now? Whoever it is, surely there is a better time than this. But then I see her. A child standing on either side of her, half-smiles cloaking their mild embarrassment and it’s as if I already know.

This woman. This stranger with whom I was prepared to be annoyed with, warmly grasps my hands in hers and tells me how sorry she is for my loss. And that she understands. That she knows this pain. A few years back, she lost her husband too. And honestly, after that, I don’t remember another word she said. But it doesn’t matter. Because in that very brief meeting that could not have been more than two minutes long, this is what my brain processed: “She survived this. She lived through this. Her kids are standing next to her. They are here. They are alive. They seem okay. One of them is even smiling. They survived. They are here. I am not alone. I may live through this. My children may be okay someday. We might recover. We might make it.”

To this day, I don’t know who that woman was. I never saw her again. I don’t know if I said thank you or just nodded my head or cried or what. But I know this– in the middle of my absolute hurricane of shock, grief and despair, a total stranger came to see me for two tiny minutes and do something extraordinary: Plant a seed. Give me strength. Show me that I was not pioneering this road; That there were those who had gone before me and survived. It was barely perceptible that day, but it was there: Hope. Possibility. A future. I would look back on that meeting for years to come. When the way seemed too dark and too hard to navigate, I would think of her and remind myself, “People survive this.”

And so I hung up the phone with my friend and made plans to attend the wake, if only for a few minutes. Because this girl needed to see me. She needed to know what I already knew. There are those who have gone before us to pave the way and report back about giants in the land and roadblocks in the way. About the cracks where the light will shine through and the spaces where it is so dark you cannot see. But that there is a way through. That there is hope. And this is why we tell our stories.

What is it in your life? What part of your journey does another weary and wandering traveler need to hear? Have you run a marathon? Lost the last ten pounds? Finished your college education? Started your own business? Found freedom from an addiction? Learned to live with a chronic illness? Every single one of us has something we have made it through— and the proof is that we’re still here.

There’s healing in the telling and there’s hope in the listening. Tell your story. Because someone needs to hear it.

5 Things (it’s okay) to Tell a Struggling Friend

When people we care about are struggling, it can be so hard knowing the right thing to say or do. And even though pain, grief and loss are such a universal part of the human experience, for some reason we suddenly feel so awkward on how to handle it. There are lots of WRONG things to say and you can find those here or here. But to be honest, the worst thing to say is NOTHING. To ignore it altogether. To pretend it didn’t happen or that you don’t know about it. That. is. the. worst. For the love. Don’t be that person– use one of these instead:

1. “I‘m so sorry you’re going through this.”

“I’m so sorry you have to walk through this.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“I’m so sad for you.”

Any variation of “I’m sorry” is a good place to start. C’mon. You can say that. It’s not that hard. This is the universal sympathy phrase for a reason. It’s easy to get out of your mouth. You should use it. And please don’t ever qualify this with a “But…” As in, “But I don’t agree with your divorce.” (That must be so hard for you. Because I lose sleep at night over whether or not you agree with my situation.” Smile. I’m kidding. Obviously.) “But you deserve it.” or “But I told you so.” No. Stop. Don’t do it.

2. “That must be so hard.”

“That must be awful.”

“That would be so hurtful.”

Validation is a gift. People who are struggling often keep apologizing for all of their emotions when it’s probably all very normal. In the midst of chaos and pain, it’s a wonderful thing to be told, “It’s okay that you feel this way.” When you tell someone, “That sounds horrible”, it’s not a sudden revelation to them. They already KNOW it’s horrible. But what you’re really saying is, “I see what you’re going through and I can see why it’s so hard.” Do this.

Important side story~

When I lost my first husband, everyone thought it would be helpful if I attended some sort of support group. Except there weren’t any support groups for 26 year-old widows. (What I really needed was a support group for 26 year-olds who had to attend a support group) Ultimately I ended up attending a group filled with– wait for it– people over 65. I was mortified. It only continued to point out the rarity and devastatingly “bad luck” of my situation. Except for one unforgettable moment that night. Everyone had to tell their story; Who they had lost and why they were there. As I listened to tale after tale of people who had been married for 50 years, people who had to discontinue life support and feeding tubes, people who had needed Hospice, it was my turn. And as I told of my husband being killed in a car accident and leaving behind myself and our two small children, the elderly gentlemen sitting next to me grabbed my hand, looked in my eyes, and said, “You must be in hell.” I wept with relief.

Finally. Finally someone was acknowledging exactly what it felt like. How bad it was. How hard it was. Naming it for me. To finally NOT hear that God must have needed another angel (more than my kids needed their dad??) To NOT hear that I was so young– I would surely find someone else (as if the true problem was the vacancy and filling of the position of husband and father). To NOT hear that everything happens for a reason (because there is no reason thorough enough that would justify this loss). Finally. Validation of the hell I could not escape. I never went back to that support group. But I also never forgot the words of that man. It was a healing moment in my grief.

3. “I may not completely understand, but I can sit here and listen.”

Most struggling or grieving people have a need to talk. And talk. And talk. If not right away, eventually. External processing is a powerful way of understanding and sorting out the jumbled mess of emotions locked up inside. No one is looking for you to have any answers or come up with solutions. And really, don’t. All you need to do is sit and listen. And then get used to responding with simple phrases such as, “That’s awful.” or “That sounds so hard.” Or even, “Mmmmm.” There are very few requirements to be a good listener– a little bit of time, a compassionate heart, and gentleness. Lots of gentleness.

4. “What would be helpful right now?”…And then offer something specific. Or just do it.

Most of the time, people will add, “Is there anything I can do?” And in the middle of grief, it can be very hard to answer. Ideally, if YOU can think of something thoughtful and helpful (as long as it doesn’t cross any major boundaries), just do it. Or offer something specific that requires a yes or no response. “Can I drop off dinner on Tuesday night?”, “Can I do all the driving for baseball this week?” If none of that seems right, stop by for 5 minutes with a coffee, muffins, beer, a new purse, shoes, anything with a bow on it…Wait. Sorry. That’s maybe only what I would like. But. You get the point.

Another important side note~

Sometimes when my girls are struggling or sad, I say to them, “What would make you feel taken care of right now?” The answer can be as simple as a cup of hot chocolate, a nap, snuggle time with me or a quick date somewhere. I especially like that this teaches them to recognize what they’re feeling and then ask for what they need. And it teaches me, too. I think women, especially, are bad at this. Or maybe it’s just me. I’m bad at this. But my girls won’t be. They will know how to ask for what they need.

5. “You are not alone.”

Grief and loss. Pain and struggle. It’s all very isolating. The rest of the world is moving on while yours has stopped. It’s a very lonely place to be. Depending on your relationship, it’s such a relief to hear someone say, “You’re not alone. I’m with you in this. Text me or call me 24/7.” And then, even if you have to set a reminder in your phone, YOU text THEM every few days with some love and encouragement. A friend and I stumbled upon a little code– when one of us is feeling really low, or thinking about the other one, and we don’t really want to talk or don’t really know what to say, we will text ” …” And it just means “I have no words. I’m here. I’m with you.”

And believe it or not, it helps. Easy. Small. Simple. Gentle. Kind. You can do it.

Happy Birthday to Me

If anyone is a little bit over all of my social media lately, I don’t really apologize. I mean, I’m sorry if it’s annoying, but not really. And here’s why: Tomorrow is my birthday. The big 4-2. And a year ago at this time, I literally did not think I was going to make it. Not “make it” as in having a few bad days in a row. “Make it” as in, I cannot go on- I may collapse under the crushing weight of my circumstances- I will never be okay- My heart feels beyond repair- I can’t breathe- This is too hard- What will life feel like a year from now?

And here it is, life a year later. And you know what? I’m okay. I’m so much more than okay. I’m happy. My kids are healthy and happy. We’re peaceful. We are enjoying life. We are enjoying each other. And it’s amazing. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Um. Your blogs make it seem like you’re kinda still struggling.” Well of course I am. I’m a struggler by nature. But I’m also a fighter. I want to understand myself and my life and my God and blah…blah…blah… It’s a lot. I know. I’ve been professionally diagnosed as an Over Thinker. My counselor told me this week that I needed to stop thinking. So, um. Something to shoot for this year. I think?

But here’s my point. Not only am I committed to enjoying life more than ever and rocking the hell out of 42, I want a record of it. For me. For my kids. Because life comes in waves. “This too shall pass” applies to the bad times AND the good times. And whether it’s tomorrow or next week or next year or 5 years from now (PLEASE LET IT BE 100 YEARS FROM NOW), I will need a reminder. A reminder that pain doesn’t last forever. The weight of grief changes. I can do hard things. I know how to press on and keep going. And maybe someone else reading this needs to be reminded too. For better or worse, you won’t always feel the way you do today. Please keep going.

So here it is~ Happy Birthday to me. And may I have many, many more.

Another Round of “What Not to Say to Your Struggling Friend”

But wait! There’s more! In my ~~aggravated~~ haste, I missed some of the BIGGEST offending phrases! BIG as in WAY too awful to be left out! If you missed the first list, check it out here. And listen, we’ve all been guilty of being in a tender spot with a struggling friend and not known what to say– myself included– but there are still some things better left unsaid.

So please…Join me for another round of “What Not to Say to Your Struggling Friend!”

God has a better plan

Sighhhh. Of course He does. That would be just like him, wouldn’t it? How sweet. And maybe next week or next month, or next year, I will see that and find peace in that. But today, right now, I wanted THIS plan. MY plan. And I’m sad and disappointed that my plan did not work out.

God must have something really special in store for you

I am totally calling bullshit on this one. I have heard this line for 20 years. Maybe He does, maybe He doesn’t. Because maybe–just maybe–this is just how life goes. Sometimes, really crappy things just happen. And the only reward for living through it is…living through it. (Which, you know, IS a big deal, but still…)

Don’t Cry

Don’t tell me what to do. K. Thanks. Because I am crying. And when you say “Don’t cry”, now I feel like I have to fake my behavior because you’re uncomfortable. People cry. We all survive. Trust me. I would’ve drowned by now.

Someday this will all make sense

Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Today, it doesn’t. Today it sucks. Can we please just acknowledge the suck of today?

And finally…(but certainly still NOT a conclusive round-up!)

Things could be worse

SIGH……(I’m yelling now) WELL OF COURSE THEY COULD BE WORSE! Let’s now list all of the ways things could be worse. I don’t even know where to start. It’s long and involved and ranging from the house burning down to starving children in Africa. The only way you can use this phrase– THE ONLY WAY– is if you look at your very, very close friend and say it JUST LIKE THIS, “Shit could be worse. I mean, you could have bad hair. Or ugly feet. Or no style. On top of everything else you’re going through.” And then, after that, buy her a beer. Because you both know you’re kidding. Period.

{A perfect example of what NOT to say to your friend.}

I loved hearing YOUR input on the first list! If you’ve got more, lemme have ’em!

And I promise– A list of helpful, validating, gentle things to say is on its way…

5 Things You Should Not Tell Your Struggling Friend

1. Cheer Up

Really? Cheer up? Thanks. Because I never thought of just “cheering up”.

2. You shouldn’t feel that way

That’s so weird. Because I DO. So. One of us is wrong. Feelings are NOT wrong or right. They just are. It’s what we do with them and what actions they illicit or inspire that give them dynamics. You are allowed to feel what you feel. You have wide and varied reasons for feeling what you feel. You do not need to defend them or explain them. Period.

3. Here’s what you should do…

Big. Heavy. Sigh. Thanks. I know you mean well. Really. But your suggestions for fixing my life are unsolicited and not helpful. And, whether or not I’ve already considered your solution, it’s usually not that simple. And if you’re a Christian and you proceed to tell me what the Bible says when I am smack in the middle of my pain and my process…Lose my number. There might be a delicate time and place for that– this is not it.

4. You think THAT’S bad….

I know. I KNOW what you went through. I get it. I get that your situation is/was/will be ten times worse than mine. But pain is relative. Your pain doesn’t make mine better or worse and vice versa. Pain is pain. And it hurts.

5. I thought you were over this.

Great. Now I’m not even struggling right. My timing’s all off. Well I’m not over it. And I wish I was more than YOU wish I was. Sooooo….when I get over it, I guess that’s when we can be friends. If you don’t hear your phone ringing, that will be me. Not calling.

Believe it or not, I’m smiling as I type this. There’s no resting bitch face, there’s no animosity or bitterness regardless of how snarky I sound. (Um. Okay. Maybe just a teeny bit. Working on that…) I have been guilty of ALL of these and I hate myself for it– but I’m human. We all are. It’s just that I know so many people struggling right now who just get railroaded and corrected and shamed for their personal process of grief and recovery. Which is kinda like pouring salt in the wound. It hurts.

What would YOU add to this list?

Next Up: 5 Helpful Things to Tell a Struggling Friend

Scenes From a [temporary] Break Up with Jesus

As I was bustling about my prep work one morning, a co-worker whom I adore asked if I wanted to hear a horrible joke. Assuming it was a sex joke, which, you know, I’m always down for because I’m a terrible person– I said yes. But it wasn’t. It was actually a Jesus joke– and had I known that, I would’ve said no thanks. Sex jokes are funny and naughty and even if they turn out to cross every boundary you have, you can easily forget about them. Not so much with Jesus jokes. The joke was short and to the point and as soon as it was over, I gave a fake laugh and a half-smile and said, “Sorry- nope. Can’t do that one. Not funny.” I didn’t want her to feel too bad about it because the truth is, this person really has no idea about Jesus-y things. If I can be so presumptuous and naive to say this– she doesn’t know better. But as I turned back to my work, my heart was heavy and tears pricked my eyes.

I’m gonna be honest– over a year ago or so, I told Jesus I was breaking up with Him. Maybe not forever, but I needed a break. I even used “It’s not you, it’s me.” (Although He and I both sort of knew…it kind of WAS Him.) And since then, I have struggled and wrestled with Him. I have cried and said mean things to Him and shook my proverbial fist in misunderstanding and hurt feelings and unmet expectations. I have cried into my pillow at night and whispered worries and gratitudes and short prayers for loved ones. But we both knew things had changed. I have heard Him whisper, “Please come closer–” and I have held my arms tight across my chest like the passive aggressive girl that I am and turned my head, all the while silently hoping He wouldn’t leave. That He would ask again. And again. I needed space. I needed time. I never wanted to see other people. I just didn’t know if I wanted to keep seeing Him. Or how He and I were going to bridge the gap that now felt like the Grand Canyon.

And you see as of late, my faith has been questioned. My love for God. My devotion to Jesus. And maybe rightly so. There was a collision of sorts happening all at once– the final undoing of my marriage intersected with the most profound spiritual awakening and insights I’ve ever experienced as an adult. And while some of these were good, necessary things, they were messy. Painful. Confusing. It’s sort of been an ongoing thing to wrestle with the deeper questions of love and faith. Of God and His somewhat unknowable ways. I have, at times, screamed in my heart, “Is this a game to you?! THIS IS MY LIFE!” And yet, like the girlfriend who just can’t let go, I’d always come back around, feeling shy and a little guilty for my bad behavior. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” I’d timidly point out. “I just don’t know what to do with you.” So feeling those tears– having hurt feelings and a heavy heart– on behalf of Jesus– was a beautiful, bizarre gift to me. Because hearing that joke was like hearing something rude about one of my kids or any person I love. The kind of thing where you think to yourself, “If you really knew them, you’d never say that. Because it’s so not true.” And though I wished I could un-hear it, I’ve come to see that it’s because I love Jesus so much. That’s why it hurts. And though I don’t need to prove that to anyone else (because I never really could anyway), maybe I needed to prove it to myself.

Fail. Regroup. Repeat.

“Your child will follow your example. Not your advice.”

Every time I see this quote my knee jerk reaction is always the same: A moment of panic followed by screen shots of my life flashing before my eyes. And it’s never the highlight reel. It’s always the cutting floor. The scenes I wish I could delete and pretend never happened. I used to read it and think about how far I had to go. How much better I needed to be. That I wanted to be a perfect parent for them. But here’s what I want now: To be real. To be fully human; Which means flawed and messy and trying my hardest– but not perfect. Perfect isn’t real. Or true. Perfect is exhausting. A cruel task master. Perfect does not help my kids or anyone else in my life. Perfect makes my kids feel alone. Unworthy. Unacceptable. Unloved. Rejected. Abnormal. Perfect does nothing to help them grow and develop and come into their own. To love and enjoy life and other people. An expectation of perfect teaches my kids to perform instead of participate in life. It creates a fear of failure. Of even trying. A fear of never being good enough. The expectation of perfection for any of us creates an atmosphere of shame where we need to hide our true, imperfect selves. Barf.

If I’m living way up in my ivory tower, polishing away so that my kids have an “ultimate example” to follow, then what I am NOT is a safe harbor for them; For their mistakes, their struggles, their confessions, their true selves. Instead, I’m a judge. I’m a critic. I’m a master of performance and image and they become my slaves. And sometimes it means I’m silently holding them to a standard I have yet to meet. They need to see some cracks in my facade. They need to see me mad, watch me cry, hear me swear, hear me pray. Struggle with life in all it’s pain and glory. All in the same day. And listen- please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not talking about inappropriately allowing my kids to see parts of my life that are not meant for their young hearts and minds. But I AM talking about allowing them to know parts of me and my story that ARE appropriate and relevant to them: The 22 and 16 year-old NEED to hear me tell them that their bodies will want to have sex long before their hearts and minds are ready. They need to know there are times I’ve had too much to drink and how that went down. They need to know if I’ve ever used drugs and how I feel about it now. They need to hear about my young and foolish love stories. It’s how they come to know the real me– and it’s during these honest, awkward, sometimes embarrassing conversations that I come to know the real them. (Although the 11 year-old was once heard saying, “If you girl-chat me right now I will jump out of this moving car.” Um. Ok. So I tread a little lighter with her…)

Before our kids are barely a few months old, somehow parents latch onto this anxious notion of hoping and praying that our kids “turn out” right. And suddenly the drive for perfect parenting, that will in turn produce perfect kids, is born. But what does that even mean? For a kid to “turn out” right? That he doesn’t go to jail? That he goes to a great college? Perfect SAT scores? If he works at McDonald’s, did he still “turn out”? I’ve got news for you: We are all, each one of us, authors of our own story. There is no “turning out”. . .I have my story, you have your story, and our kids will each have their own story. Some chapters will be better than others. There will be nail biters and page turners. Chapters we want to re-live, chapters we wish we could burn. Chapters we only dream of that never quite materialize. But our stories are life long, epic tales. If I were to judge mine right this minute, I quite possibly have not…turned out.

Ruining your life is actually kind of hard to do. This thing called life is pretty resilient. And so let this now be my example: Fail. Regroup. Repeat. Fail. Regroup. Repeat. I don’t have all the answers. Nobody does. So say no to the bad things and yes to the good things– and when you get the two confused, double back and fix it. Choose all over again. Make a thousand mistakes and own every single one of them. Say you’re sorry. Be brave. Be kind. Live hard. Love God. Love the people around you. THAT is life abundant. THAT is living. And the bottom line is this: YOU ARE OKAY. Today. Just as you are. You are okay. You are on a life- long adventure and so am I. It’s okay to not care about sports. You don’t have to be good at everything. But it’s okay if you are, too. It’s okay to like things that no one else likes. It’s okay if sometimes you’re cranky. Or cry for no reason. To wrestle with jealousy. And temptation. Or if you sometimes have weird thoughts you don’t really understand. It’s okay to be a Yankees fan. (Just kidding. No it’s not. Please be anything but a Yankees fan.) Fail. Regroup. Repeat. I hope that’s my example.

“I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Mosaic of Motherhood and A Tribute to My Mom

I hate that I have never written this post before.

In my head I have written and re-written it a thousand times. I have started and stopped. Tried and failed. Left it halfway. Left it undone, incomplete.

I cannot write a blog post honoring my mom and describing her because I don’t know where to start and how to finish and how to make it complete enough and accurate enough and beautiful and fitting so you get it. So she gets it. So it feels like I’ve done her justice. I’m afraid it will fall short and I will be sorely disappointed I didn’t exactly represent her the way I wish to. The way she deserves. (So. No pressure.) But it’s the week of Mother’s Day- which also happens to be her birthday this year–and so it’s time.

(But first let’s all pause for a moment to please acknowledge the big suck of Mother’s Day and your birthday being on the same day: Big suck. Sorry, Mom.)

And so… My mom. My mom and I think the same things are funny, which means I like being around her. Because, you know, it’s US. And what I love about my mom is that one of her core values is to really know people– because when you really know them, you can celebrate them. She has forever ruined my birthday expectations by making birthdays such a big deal. But how fun, right? She notices and appreciates important life moments and then celebrates all of them. With surprises. And food. Lots and lots of food. She is the ultimate hostess, setting the loveliest tables I’ve ever seen. Because she cares. Because she wants to make life moments treasured and memorable.

My mom is a giver. She is rarely ever a taker. When people say she’s beautiful and then follow it up with the ultimate compliment: “You look just like her”, I beam. I want to look like her and be like her and love my kids the way she has loved me. I know there are no paths my feet have traveled that my mother’s prayers did not first pave the way. I know there are few depths my heart has felt that my mother’s heart did not also clench in agony or beat in exhilaration, too. There are few tears I’ve cried that she has not also tasted their salty sting. And there are at least a million smiles and laughs and memories we have shared with equal joy.

We sort of joke sometimes, my mom and I– because I have had a rather eventful journey- and I have needed her. A lot. Some weeks I promise to lose her number. When she hasn’t been holding my hand, she’s been holding me up from behind. I hesitate to start listing things she’s done, ways she’s cheered and supported, ways she has “shown up” for me, because really, there is no end and no beginning. I simply, literally, could not remember it all. And most of them are really not isolated, listable incidents anyway.

My mom has a way of just being. When I was 18 and pregnant, I lay in her bed for 3 days as she tried to help me figure it out. And when we finally did? She said, “Now it’s not a problem–it’s a baby. Are you hungry? Let’s feed you.” She was in that delivery room for my firstborn. And then for my second born. And my third born. Because there is no one who quite comforts me and gets me like my mom. She took the phone call when the news of my first husband’s accident came–and then had to tell me–and then never left my side.

Years later, as I faced a very difficult confrontation, I remember her charge:

“You are woman enough to handle this.”

I believed her. And I still hear those words echoing in my heart. Someday there will be a moment when I say them to my own daughters.

My mom was not, is not perfect, because that’s impossible. But she was good. Really good. And twenty-two years into motherhood myself now, I have firsthand empathy for what mothering asks of oneself. Of what it requires. Of the ingratitude and relentlessness of it. Of the dailyness. Of the restless nights wondering if you are truly effing up this whole thing beyond recognition and repair. (“Effing” I must point out, is NOT from her.) I understand the absolute treachery and harrowing exhaustion of trying to create a beautiful, meaningful, whole life for your children while you are still in the midst of growing and morphing and realizing your own self. The continual sacrifice of one for the benefit of the greater good.

Mom, you have given so I can take. You have said no so that I can say yes. You have stayed back so that I could shine.

And so in the most poetic and exquisite way, there is blood on your hands, Mom. Because those hands of yours, your fingerprints– are on nearly every inch of my life, creating a mosaic. You have taken your own cracked life pieces and my fragile broken shards– and you have helped craft this shimmering, fragmented life with me. Bit by bit. Moment by moment. Forfeit by forfeit. And so I am clutching it to my chest, this mosaic. And I understand it better now, seeing the blood on my own hands from trying so desperately to craft a mosaic for my own children. Big pieces. Tiny slivers. Jagged edges. Ill-fitting. Impossible. It is whole. It is shattered. It is achingly and devastatingly beautiful. It is mine. And it is yours, too.

And so I want to end this, probably prematurely, despite my best efforts; presumably falling short and failing miserably, by saying the one thing every single mom on this planet wants to hear:

You did a good job, Mom. You did a great job. Every day, you still do an impressive job.

My kids think you are hilarious. And loving. And creative. And fun. I’m proud of you, Mom. Thank you. And I’m raising my glass to you, Mom. My coffee cup. My teacup that belonged to your mom. My wine glass. My beer. My Bible. My apron. My 13 X 9. My ice cream cone. My dust cloth. The leftovers. The birthday parties. The posters. The babysitting. The ball games. The report cards. The acceptance and rejection letters. The birth certificates. The death certificates. The marriage and divorce papers. The heartbreak. The hell. The happiness. The paid-in-fulls and the debts I cannot repay.

Cheers to you, Mom, and the perfectly imperfect mosaic you’ve created for all of us.

{If I failed in epic proportions, please let Michael Buble say it better~ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoEWmc60wJY}

It’s Easter Week and Love Wins

It’s Easter week, Peeps. Jellybeans. Chocolate. Jesus. Food. I’m Italian and Polish so it’s an ethnic fantasy of food. Something about this week has always felt special to me. There is an anticipation in my heart that feels sort of tender and raw as I think about the significance of Easter that is hard to explain. It’s different than Christmas. I’m not a huge Christmas fan. Christmas requires preparation that makes it feel like a part-time job for me and admittedly, I can never quite get entirely out of my own way to make it different. Easter holds none of this for me.

Tomorrow we will make our annual trip to Broadway Market- a Buffalo landmark for all things food, culture, and this week, Easter. I’ll make my girls get a picture with the Easter Bunny. We’ll color eggs. Make some candy. If we say it once, we’ll say it ten times that it’s the best ham or rye bread we’ve ever had. I think back to the people and places I’ve shared Easter with. Polish sausage with my Lithuanian and Polish grandmother. Easter Pizza and Pineapple Ricotta cake with my Italian grandmother. Years spent around my parents’ dining room table wherein my mom so beautifully and gracefully combines the best of these traditions. I think of Easters in Virginia where a best friend and I would Easter shop and then stuff and hide eggs late into the night–over tired and silly–making memories for ourselves and our kids. I think of Easters spent on Fort Riley, Kansas. Sunrise Easter morning service. Church potluck breakfast. An egg hunt. My little boy in a pastel plaid tie and my baby girl in a hat and bloomers. The ultimate small town celebration. Always smiling faces. Full tummies. Happy hearts.

And Jesus. I think, of course, of Jesus. Growing up, on Good Friday afternoon, we were made to play quietly and respect the hours during which Jesus was thought to be crucified. I suppose we probably hated being stifled that way–and yet as a grown woman, I’ve replaced it with watching The Passion of the Christ. It, too, is not a fun activity. I do not look forward to it. There is no popcorn. And yet I sit with rapt attention, knowing what my eyes are about to take in and how it will pierce and hurt my heart. Because I already know this story inside out, backward and forward. But I want to watch. I need to watch. I need to see and feel and be brutally reminded of my Savior’s love. The lengths to which this unstoppable love drove Him. For me. For this life I continually call my messy closet. I think of Mary. I think of her mother’s heart and it’s almost too much to bear. And so I watch because I forget. I’m ashamed to say just how very quickly, quickly I forget. I’m so much quicker to question. To doubt. To wonder. To shake my head, shake my fist, let my wild heart be shaken than I ever am to remember the cross. And I need to be reminded of how the story ends. The anticipation that builds in my heart as the movie is coming to a close. There is brutality. There is fear. There is death. There is grief. But then. Ahhhh then. It is glorious. He is glorious. He is whole. He is resurrected. And He wins. Jesus wins. Life wins. Love wins. Life conquers death and love wins. May my heart remember, there is life after death. And love wins.

Truly Julie

"I am mine before I am ever anyone else's."- Ralph Waldo Emerson