One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

The Lens of Wisdom

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I found out I was pregnant on a scorching July morning, one month before my senior year of high school. Swim team would begin practicing soon. I had a college tour scheduled later that week, senior pictures the following week, and I’d already chosen the ten classics required for my honors English class. Pregnancy was not part of my plans.

Honestly, I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t on a rebellious rampage, wasn’t a victim of peer pressure, wasn’t a misguided girl with low self-esteem who was trying to earn love or attention, or whatever it is people say to fit teen pregnancy into a box. I was a 17-year Christian girl who’d memorized Bible verses since she was young, but there was a disconnect between the goodness described in those verses and the not-so-good feelings and situations I experienced in real life.

I couldn’t make sense of it, and one day, it was too much. An impulsive decision set me on a path I knew I should avoid, but once I was on it, I wasn’t eager to turn back. My behavior and choices were wrong, I knew that. The Psalmist describes “sins piled so high, I can’t see my way out.” It’s a precise picture and things went there quickly, but I hadn’t expected an additional pile of consequences.

Pressing pause on my Jesus-life, I’d hoped (for lack of a better word) I could test drive the world’s solutions for pain, privately admit my wrongs to God—maybe around my 18th birthday or during those emotional final weeks before graduation—and then, having a new appreciation for goodness, I’d circle back to my faith, values, and better behavior.

That’s not how things went…

Finish reading at Mudroom.

 

 

A Simple Approach for Moving Through Transition

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My oldest daughter visited earlier this week, so the two of us and my youngest daughter chatted in the family room under the largest fan you’ve ever seen, because September or not, it’s still oppressively hot in Arizona. Our conversation revolved around life and normal stuff, and then somehow, we got to talking about mental health and the darkness that sometimes appears and just how jarring it is when outside opinions attempt to wedge themselves into mental health management and dealings that are not their own responsibility. (Note: There are a million soapboxes on this topic – this space is not one of them. Do what is necessary for your health and don’t worry about the numerous outside opinions. That’s the long and short of it.)

My oldest said, very matter of fact, “The darkest time in my life was the summer after my freshman year.” I nodded because I remember. And then she said, “But that was the summer after our move to Arizona. I’m not blaming the move or saying we shouldn’t have moved, it was just a lot to figure out.”

I found those two sentences powerfully affirming, because: 1. as a mom, there is nothing more wonderful than knowing your child doesn’t blame you for the hardships of growing up – with or without an uprooting. 2. Being reminded that time, healing, and God’s grace can work a dark time into a two sentence summary is the picture of both hope and miracles (and I need that). 3. Change is hard. I need that reminder, too.

My family is elbows deep in transition. My second oldest has a new job. My son is employed for the first time. My youngest switched to online high school. My oldest daughter and son in law are expecting their first child. These are happy changes, changes each one chose, and it’s nice to be in the choosing position, but the ripples of change are still challenging to absorb. Not in a “this is impossible, I can’t do it” kind of way, but in a “wobbly, trying to regain my balance” kind of way. I’m absorbing these changes, too, amidst my own, amidst those of our ever-changing world. It can be a lot.

In my younger days, I rushed through change, dismissing the process rather than dealing with it and through it, scrambling for full competence, an uninterrupted plan, zero resistance, and zero visible exhaustion. I made busy days even busier. It didn’t go well. That’s not a pattern I want my children to follow, so in these times of transition, I’m keeping things simple with this approach:

  1. Acknowledge the transition. Change doesn’t always announce itself, you have to notice it. Maybe a caring person in your life points it out. Either way, acknowledge it – no dramatizing it, no minimizing it.
  2. Accept your humanness. You may be agile, but you are not impervious to the impacts of change. Your body will tell the truth, it’s just a matter of when. You can be proactive or reactive. Up to you.
  3.  Adjust accordingly. My son put his early morning workout routine on pause while he learns how to balance work and school. He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s necessary and temporary. I’m more committed than ever to time blocking and less resistant toward napping. We’re all figuring it out.
  4. Advocate for yourself. Like walking in the dark, you have to feel your way through transitions. If you’re lost, speak up. If it gets too dark, ask for help. (I’m still learning this one. Anyone else?)
  5. Appreciate the good. It’s the little things, isn’t it? It’s dinner as a family because we’re finally all home together. It’s a late night run to Dairy Queen because my son is working drive-thru. It’s a picture of my daughter’s homemade sushi roll, because one of the perks of online school is she can make and eat whatever she wants for lunch. It’s watching my daughter lean more into her own independence. It’s the text when my daughter, the soon-to-be mama, feels her first kick.

There’s another good I’m appreciating, too. My early morning prayer time dropped off over the summer, but I’m back into the practice of taking my coffee outside and settling in for unrushed prayer. If you find yourself in transition or uprooting right now, pray the 5 steps above in contemplative prayer before your day begins. Ask the Lord to impress one word on your heart as a continued focus for the day.

Praying peace for you this week.

 

*Know someone in transition? Send them the 5 step approach for moving through transition!

 

Transcendence Isn’t Achieved Through Constant Striving

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I arrived at the crisis center for my weekly volunteer slot juggling coffee, a bottle of water, and a bag with my laptop and other things I didn’t really need but couldn’t be without. Mina was waiting for me, beaming as usual.

“This is me,” she said. “This is my real shape, my real body. If I ever come in here and I don’t look like this, something is wrong. Because this right here, is me.” I’d been mentoring Mina for a few months. I knew the grittiest pieces of her past, but little else. I knew she had two children whom she hadn’t seen for years. I knew she’d been sleeping on a bunk bed in a domestic violence shelter down the road. I knew when the cops found her a few months before, she was wandering the street with a broken leg. The doctor said the fracture was weeks old. Mina hadn’t a clue how it happened. I knew that every morning, Mina turned on worship music and “worshiped with her tears.” Pain brought Mina to the center. Pain brings every woman there.

Mina’s body was recovering from substances I couldn’t name because she didn’t share the details, and I was fine with that. I’d been witnessing her transformation every Tuesday, but on this particular day, she wasn’t looking at how far she’d come. She wasn’t rattling a plethora of plans or goals she aspired to reach. Mina was paying attention. She was naming her exact spot on the recovery timeline, recognizing the curvier body that felt more familiar. Her body was finding its balance, its homebase, and she was content to be right where she was. In fact, she was delighted.

Finish reading the article here.

This piece was featured first on Fathom.

 

 

Complication and Contentment

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My first place was a two-bedroom apartment with a little porch that overlooked the lush green of Richmond, Virginia. I was a single mom of a curious two-year-old, so an apartment on the third floor added an extra layer of complication to my coming and going, but I preferred the inconvenience over the sound of neighbors above me. The washer and dryer were in the kitchen, which I didn’t mind because it gave me extra counter space, and my bedroom was in direct view of the front door. I quickly developed the habit of making my bed.

After tucking my daughter in one of those first nights, I cozied into the second-hand love seat and surveyed my eight hundred square feet of independence. My furniture was an amalgamation of thrift store pieces and gifts from church people—a velour love seat the color of honey, four chairs with wicker backs and a dinner table, a black and white TV, and a chair in the corner with a too-deep seat and no armrests. A side table with screw-in legs was the only brand-new piece, a ten-dollar find from Walmart that I’d decorated with mirrored tiles to give it some charm. Pictures were hung, thanks to the hammer and nails Grandpa had packed for me—because “no woman should live on her own without a toolbox.”

My little place was heaven. I was completely satisfied with all it was and all it wasn’t, and there in the quiet, I whispered, “I hope I never want more than this.” Continue reading…