My Writing Says it Best

My Writing says it best

A flame flickers behind the glass encasing the autumn candle nestled on the farmhouse coffee table where I probably shouldn’t be resting my feet. Worship music emits softly from the boombox radio on the bottom shelf of a curated bookcase, and the hesitant notes of my six-year-old’s piano lesson round the corner into this cozy nook where I wait for him to finish his lesson. I don’t want to rush it. It’s so easy to feel Jesus in this space. God doesn’t mind that there’s a lesson going on in the other room, or that I brought a book to read. He knows that I am a captive audience, thirsty for His own lesson. He chose to call me here, on this plush white couch, and put weight into the tears I’ve been holding at bay all day in what becomes a beautiful release.

Borrowing a phrase from a small counseling group I facilitated this afternoon with six-year-olds, today felt like a total “wipeout.” I missed every opportunity to ask for help, to vent — I couldn’t summon all my troubled thoughts and corral them into words in time for an adequate response that would do any justice to my feelings, so I pretended like everything was okay with a simple “I’m fine” or shake of my head. If I paused to collect my thoughts, I feared someone would find discomfort in the silence, jumping in to speak for me.

A note in my Bible beside James 1:2-3 presents the idea of “productive pain” — and God has a way of getting to my heart when I am hurting. In the same way that He makes His presence known when I need rest — when I long to, as Emily P. Freeman says, “sit down on the inside” — when my mind is racing. I need rest. Mostly though, I need solace.

solace | comfort or consolation in a time of sadness

I’m not good at communicating my inner world. Words are my most valued commodity and I have always used them sparingly and with great consideration. I calculate how every word is presented, I anticipate its delivery and reception before it is formed on my lips. I place a great weight on my words, because they represent the deepest part of me. And so in order for me to share my heart with someone else, I need a quiet place to stir my heart to form exactly what it is I’m trying to express. I’ve been misunderstood enough to know that I need to be earnest in my intentions, direct with my words, and honest with my thoughts. I’ve been told countless times, “You don’t say much, but when you do, it is so powerful.”

Sometime I just want to shake my own freckled shoulders and look into my big blue eyes: “Sweet girl, just SAY what you want to say instead of pretending like the status quo does not bother you. Your frustration later will not be worth it, the processing over and over how you should have responded, formulating better words with each new draft. Just say it. Just say it! Give feet to those precious wishes on your heart that don’t want to be camped there forever.”

I used to think that my biggest pet-peeve was a “story-topper,” someone who swoops in to tell of a bigger and better experience they had even as I stumble over my own storyline. Comedian Brian Regan jokes that he wishes he could just respond to those people with, “I walked on the moon.” Boom. Mic drop.

But as I get older, I begin to realize that this happens often between introverts and extroverts, when the latter takes advantage of a segue to have the floor and the former lets it happen, the ever-patient listener. I leave the conversation feeling used, a professional listener and an introvert by nature. I’m learning that my deepest thoughts require a time and a place — a quiet, slow, deep place– for me to draw them out in hopes that they will resonate and be validated.

Besides my husband, I didn’t tell anyone when I initially found my tumor last year. I’m fairly private by nature, but that’s because sometimes I can’t handle other people’s reactions on the spot. I’m also afraid of becoming an emotional wreck and losing my opportunity for authentic words, even though my emotions would represent even more authenticity. I don’t want to burden someone else with my troubles. I have a hard time asking for help.

I didn’t tell anyone the last time I changed jobs, either — at the time, I was reading through a Bible study that advised against announcing big prayer requests. (Seriously, it really said that.) Ever the rule-follower, I still hesitate to share big news. In the next few weeks, I’ll begin to hear back from several opportunities, ideas I’ve planted, so to speak, but in order to protect myself, I limit my sharing and thus can avoid having to follow-up with disappointing news if my ideas don’t come to fruition or aren’t accepted readily.

I was quick to tell three people when I first became pregnant in 2011 and then I had to relive the subsequent heartbreak when I had to tell all three people that I had lost the baby. My heart of hearts longs to spill forth, but I keep my circles small.

In my mind, it’s easier to present a tidy analysis after the fact, once I’ve had time for the dust to settle and to process my own experiences and feelings before I attempt to invite another person along.

I know, I know –this muddy thinking is all kinds of wrong. It isn’t healthy.

This raw place I require to process comes only in deep introspection, and it’s hard for me to get there in my everyday life with the constant noise at home and at work. After all three boys are asleep, I’m physically exhausted, my resources drained even when my heart is ready for a slow opening. I long to spend time pouring over my thoughts the way apple cider is best when mulled slowly over an open flame.

mull |

  1. think about (a fact, proposal, or request) deeply and at length.
  2.  warm (a beverage, especially wine, beer, or cider) and add spices and sweetening to it.

A text from a friend today had me in tears. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m all ears.” Its sentiment was sweet, simple, and affirming. Those words were life-giving as I pondered how I could even begin to summon all my fears into a coherent stream of thought. In her offer alone, I felt validated. Even as I fear that it would cheapen my thoughts to attempt to explain them. I fear I’d lose confidence unless I had the proper space to rehearse, and knowing I can’t do that leaves me frustrated with myself, even as I know my gift is in my written word.

I’ll admit, in my anger today, I did not have immediate access to what helps me best cope. I was standing in the misty rain, replaying the day’s criticisms and frustrations and feeling ashamed. I had my son with me and 100 sets of eyes driving past me, and it took every once of professionalism I could muster to stand there and pretend that I was okay, to go through the motions of my job and act like it’s all okay when my inner world was a fiery chaos — everything I’ve been keeping inside for a very long time. Too much to even relate in a single blog post.

And I need a break so desperately. To plan my next steps. I need a spiritual retreat where I can listen to God and just be with Him. Even though I know it is not God that has taken a step back from me, I blame myself for refusing His persistent call over the past few years. I know I’ve been too far from Him lately. Burning the candle at both ends, I give, give, give, but filling myself with Him feels too selfish, too indulgent, even though I know it’s ridiculous even as I type those words in this vulnerable place. Lately I have put my focus on what comes most easily and yields results most quickly, instead of allowing space for His slow process.

This afternoon I finally arrived home with my oldest, who, luckily, thrives on routine and sat right down to finish homework and squeeze in one last practice before his piano lesson. I had already arranged for my husband to pick up the younger kids from the sitter, so I stole a few minutes to myself in an attempt to reset my surly attitude. I set my campfire mug of hot pumpkin coffee on the side table I procured from HomeGoods for such a time as this and collapsed into my favorite paisley chair in my library. I adjusted my earbuds and accepted the invitation of my Bible’s pages, my pen poised over blank pages of my own. This was the fastest path to damage control I knew in this season. It also happens to be my favorite.

I may not be the best at thinking of my feet, but I know recovery. Perhaps that is why people expect so much of me– I can present a neat package if left alone. I’m constantly wondering whether I set the bar too high for myself. I get so jealous of young moms who already have the wisdom to recognize when they need a break, but even moreso, when they give themselves permission to take it and embrace it fully and unapologetically. I question why I can’t do that for myself even as I feel like I juggle more and more despite my best intentions to simplify life with three little boys. I have had such a hard time this year articulating this sentiment without hurting someone’s feelings, but I saw it written best here:

“To protect your energy it is ok for you to say no, and have it not be because you are too busy, but because you don’t want to be too busy” (@mamabirdandco, Instagram post 10.6.18).

Last year I went to The Homestead for four days and took my nursing baby with me. It was for a work conference, and I carried him in my Tula to every session. That was the closest I’ve come to alone time. But a solo retreat sans babies? A girls’ weekend? A vacation with just my husband? I feel like I could have never treated myself to such indulgences — I’ve been pregnant, miscarrying, or nursing with no break since June 2011 and have not had a weekend to myself, although I desperately need one. It’s taxing for an introvert like me, to be so needed by little ones, physically, mentally, and emotionally, no matter how accessible and approachable I seem. I dream of places I might go on a solo retreat once I am able, to stake out a table in a small European cafe to write or explore the cobbled streets of faraway places.

As a mother, I am always responsible for someone. I may be in my library with earbuds in, but I’m aware of what my son is doing in the next room and the reality that my younger boys are both still at the babysitter’s. I know I’ll have to wrap this up in about ten minutes to rush off to the next thing. I am always, always responsible. It seems to come with the territory. At work, even if I want to take off any amount of time, I have to write substitute plans, which takes hours and is usually not worth the advance effort — ask almost any teacher!

“What if?”

I spend a few minutes allowing myself to entertain dreams onto the fresh thin lines of a new set of mini notebooks, four bound together in one unit by camel-colored leather branded simply with the word “Notes.” I write out the most audacious of thoughts, in rambling form, to think about later. Seven ideas in all.

Seven “What ifs?”

I notice that if even one of these come true, the rest would fall into place. And that is both exciting and terrifying.

God, help me to commit to writing out my prayers to you more frequently. To find the quiet places and carve the time to rest in them, even if “rest” means a brain dump to quiet my thoughts, knowing that are out on paper and in your care. Lord, I spend an inordinate amount of time yearning for quiet and solitude, but also SOLACE, to validate my racing thoughts and corral my ideas into coherent sentences. I have always been able to make sense of them through my writing. And I don’t know where the disconnect falls, but writing brings forth personal acceptance, depth, and raw emotion–my own personal truths. Before I even write a word it is composed in my heart, ready to deliver to the paper. It’s as if the message is sent to the pen instead of my mouth. Because I know the paper is ready and braced to receive my words in a way that human nature might not be ready for. I worry too much about how my words might be received by another person, so they (usually) leave my lips highly filtered and thus drastically altered in translation. This is the start of my frustration in trying to audibly process all that is spiraling in my inner world. How do I dare convey this to another soul? This raw, unfiltered , deepest version of me? Do I dare share it with the world? I bring it to you, Lord, in my writing, and thus you use my frustration, even, to draw me closer to you. And maybe that is its purpose, after all. “Productive pain.” Amen. 

 

 

Finding Time to Read

Finding Time to Read

“When do you find the time to read?”

I don’t know how to respond to questions like this, because I don’t have a one-size-fits-all answer that will work for someone else, and it would be naive to think I do. In fact, you could ask, “When do you find the time to [insert any activity here]” for any activity, and I can’t claim to know anyone’s schedule or specific season of life except my own. I have seasons when I have more flexibility than others. I’ve probably read twice as many books this year already than I did total last year, and the only thing that has changed is that each of my three kids is one year older than before. But that one year of development makes enough of a difference that I’ve been able to take better care of myself.

I don’t know your unique work hours, what time you wake up, or what time you go to bed. I don’t know what requires your time during the day, or who needs your attention throughout the day. I don’t know what your priorities are and where you choose to invest your time. So I can’t offer a magic answer.

If I’m being honest, questions like that make me feel like my time must not be important if I have time for a hobby. I have flashbacks of my first evening in a women’s Bible study. We were to go around the circle and introduce ourselves and share our hobbies. I talked about my love for reading, writing, scrapbooking, playing flute, and making jewelry as a side-business on top of my career as a school counselor. Immediately, almost every woman in that circle sneered, “Oh, you must not have any kids!”

As a mother now, I get where they were coming from, but at the time, their comments really stung and even brought me to tears. Because what they didn’t know was that at that very moment, I was already a mother. I was miscarrying my first baby even as I sat there in the circle. That lost baby was the very reason I was even sitting in that room, trying to pick up the pieces of the dreams I had been carrying. I was desperate to find hope in that circle of women and in the book of Ruth.

The miscarriage involved so much more than the months of scary medicine and blood clots the size of baseballs falling out every time I so much as moved. It was more than the painful visits to OB/GYN waiting rooms with glowing pregnant mothers. It was more than the visit to the ER with a young resident who didn’t know bedside manners yet. It was more than passing part of my miscarriage in an ancient staff bathroom as the fire alarms blared at my school, having to clean up and evacuate in case it were a real fire (I still managed to get out and give the all-clear for myself on the walkie when they called for me, a miracle in itself). It was more than volunteering at a grief camp for kids while I was grieving the baby I lost. The loss was its own unique season. (And even despite going through it, I don’t ever claim to know exactly how someone else feels going through it. We all endure experiences differently and it actually hurts me when people say, “I know EXACTLY how you feel.”)

Despite the last half-dozen years of not having much time for myself at all, I know that I have to make time for self-care, and for me, it requires quiet time to read and create. I’ve seen the hot mess I become when I’m running on an empty tank, and it’s scary. I’m not proud of what I say or do when I am exhausted. A couple weeks ago, by the time I got to Friday, I was running on a combined total of five hours of sleep from the past three nights. I was at work, and I was an absolute mess, walking through the halls and feeling like I was trying to trudge through a swimming pool and not able to be alone without crying at my desk. And yet I still had to teach and be “on” all day, because writing sub plans and going home would have required more work than just staying put.

I watched an Instastory today where someone listed the parts of her life that she CAN control. I frequently use this exercise with my students, and I totally understand her sentiment. She listed the times she wakes up and goes to bed as within her realm of control. I really wish I could say the same for myself, and maybe someday I will again, but I can’t completely control either of those right now and that boils down to my specific season of motherhood. So I also won’t attempt to tell you a magic answer for finding extra time in the 24 hours we are allotted every day.

I know that not all of those 24 hours are within my control, but I also know that as an introvert, I have to find ways to recharge after a day at work where my job relies on small-talk, problem-solving, intense conversations, and planning with coworkers.

I am literally around 750+ people all day and when I come home, the four other people in my home demand my attention as well. Not only do I need quiet time, I also recharge by creating, and so I carve out time for that through writing, designing, and other creative projects around the home and for my kids. My other favorite way to recharge is through reading, and so I have to get creative with my time. I’m going to break down how and where I do it in very practical ways.

I usually have about four to seven different books I’m reading at a time. Sometimes I even end up finishing a few of them at the very same time. I post any that I finish on Instagram using a few hashtags that archive them for me all in one place. I only post books AFTER I’ve finished them, because I abandon a LOT of books when I find that they are no longer worth my time, even if I love and respect the person who recommended them to me. My “Books to Read” note in my phone is way too long to ever get through as it is! Up until recently, I couldn’t abandon books, but I’ve learned how without feeling guilty.

In “Make it Happen,” Lara Casey describes how reading one book leads to finding another, and then another, and I have found that to be true for me as well. I’ll read a book, and that book references another title or author, and it resonates with me enough that I’ll add that one to my list. And if I love the author, I’ll look to see what else he/she has written, and it becomes a beautiful, unfocused rabbit trail of discovering new books to read.  My “Books to Read” list gets longer with each book I read, not shorter. All that to say, my list is long and I don’t finish every book I start. I finished two books this week, and so I posted about those (on my personal Instagram account), but I also abandoned two others this week.

I do like to get up before my kids. But in reality, I can’t control when my one-year-old is cutting molars all night and he decides to wake up for the day at 11:30pm and my night is shot, and my work alarm will still ring regardless of whether I’ve slept yet. Getting three kids up, dressed, and fed before we leave the house before seven is its own unique puzzle, but we come up with systems that work for us and I’m grateful for the routines in place and for my husband.

(Can I just say that he just walked into my library as I typed this, and he announced that he was going to the grocery store to do all the shopping for the week and that he was taking our one-year-old, three-year-old, and six-year-old with him. Bless him. I cried actual tears when he said that! On top of that, he’s sick, and so are they — I”m the only one who has escaped so far, probably thanks to 11 years of #teacherimmunity.)

One system that usually works for us right now is that I shower at night and have everything ready for the next day before I finally lay my head on the pillow: the boys’ clothes are picked out and put into an organizer for the whole WEEK on Sunday nights. All five lunches are packed for the next day, and I pick out my clothes and pack my school bag the night before. I’ve had to do lots of research on how to sleep on soaking wet curls so that my hair is not destroyed by the time I wake up, necessitating my CHI straightener because, hello, there’s definitely no time for that in the morning.  

So when my feet hit the floor, I escape downstairs and eat breakfast, drink coffee, and read while I eat. For breakfast, I read my Bible and a devotion, because that is the time my mind is the most open and focused all day. Whatever devotional I’m reading stays on the breakfast table until I’m finished, sometimes weeks on end, and I only read it in that setting so that I can always find it.

While my boys get dressed and I get ready for work, I listen to podcasts or something light and upbeat. Driving to his school (where I happen to work), my oldest is super quiet (like I am), and so I actually use that time to listen to a book on Hoopla (my free library app) or continue with the morning’s podcast. I can’t listen or read at all during work. Listening to a book usually only happens in the car, so that particular book stays in that context, even though it’s on my phone.

On the way home, my son is chattier and eager to unwind after his day of holding it together at school, and I turn everything off and spend that time dedicated to him. By the time we get home, I’ve picked up both of my other boys as well, and the four of us arrive home to unload the car, get a snack, work on homework, practice piano, and all of the other demands that the afternoon brings. But in this specific season, my youngest is ready to nurse right when we get home, so I make a snack for myself (usually popcorn) and we sit in the library so that he can nurse while I read on my phone — a physical book is too heavy for me to hold while I nurse, and anything audio is too loud as he settles down, so usually I’ll read a book on my phone while the other two boys eat the snack that is already out waiting for them when they get home. After their snack, they play dress-up, acting out whatever scenarios they’ve planned on the short drive home from school and daycare. Lately, it has been elves or rescue workers. I download the books free on Hoopla or OverDrive.

I try very hard to have a consistent bedtime system for the kids, but again, my baby’s nursing usually dictates how much time I get to spend with the older boys at bedtime. I love reading to them individually in their rooms and giving them much-needed one-on-one time with me, but sometimes we end up reading in one room if the baby has already begun crying for milk, or my husband will read to them while I’m with him in the nursery. We’ll usually read books they’ve recently picked out from the library, or old favorites, or longer chapter books, or, like now, seasonal fall books. In the nursery, I’m sitting in the dark by the light of the oil diffuser, so if I am reading, it’s only on the glow of my phone with no audio other than iHeartRadio that we listen to as the baby falls asleep (usually Hillsong radio).

Once all the boys are asleep, it’s a rush to get done anything that needs to be ready for the next day in a short window of time. By then, we’ve already packed lunches, but there are always cloth diapers to wash, laundry to fold, dishes to wash, school papers to sign, and those sorts of things. I also make coffee to take to work, iced, the night before, so that is sitting out to cool.

If I do end up with about 30 minutes before I fall asleep, I’ll use that time to read an actual, physical book, usually in the genre of Christian nonfiction memoir, because I can focus and annotate in the margins or take notes in my journal. That book generally stays on my nightstand so that it’s also in the right place when I need it.

If I begin a book on my phone and I absolutely know I want to annotate it as I read, I might order the physical copy so that I can finish it that way, but I also know that I can’t own every book I’ve ever read, nor do I want to, so I always check the library and Hoopla first. When I was little, I always owned a huge collection of books, but I also frequented my local library just as much, and so I try to find a balance for myself and for my kids that is affordable and offers both variation and the comfort of well-loved stories.

This is my season now, and I’ve created this system of balancing my responsibilities at work and as a mother of three little ones as best I can. To quote Myquillyn Smith quoting an old proverb, “A beautiful thing is never perfect.” My systems are imperfect, but they allow for the beautiful and messy moments that I hope to remember. They are one long learning curve! I’ve been a mother long enough to know that while these systems seem like they’ll work for a long time, I know that they’ll need to look different even next year when we’re all a little older and my kids are just a tad more independent. At this time last year, my oldest son and I would spend the afternoons after school playing on a quilt on the floor with the baby before he could crawl or walk, and it was glorious. I thought that season would last forever, but it was just a blip. And so I also want to make sure to practice mindfulness when I am spending time with the boys, which is why I don’t listen to books on the way home and I only read on my phone if the baby is sleep-nursing in my lap.

So that is where I am. Those are my current systems. Imperfect and messy and flexible, but they work. And while I’ll be happy when the seasons of teething and tantrums end, I also don’t wish them away because of all the joy that accompanies those ages and milestones. This has turned into more of a day-in-the-life post, but these are the posts I’ll treasure. I love looking back at the ones I wrote on my other blog because then it puts the days in perspective for me — they change so very much!

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2-4).

These are the verses that come right before one of my favorite passages in the Bible, and they are a valuable lens through which to view this season, and all the ones I’ve thought about as I’ve written this today. There was beauty in each of them, even if they felt messy, or even like failures and hardships. They were indescribably difficult, and those are the places where I learned and grew the most.

I hope that you find this post not as a quick fix, or a solution, because I know your day unfolds differently than mine does, but as a way to open your mind to places in your own life where you can create margin for those things that you love but get put on the backburner so often. You are doing a great job right where you are and you deserve that for yourself. You really do.