Everyday Life: A Heart Tug of War

In second grade, my teacher told me that writers have names like Hyacynth upon reading a story I wrote when she'd only asked for a sentence.

And a seed was planted.

Growing up I defined myself first and foremost as a writer, and out of that definition I bloomed.

I drank words like greenery gulps rain; I feasted on sentences like the garden does sunshine.

None of that changed when I married or when I birthed my boys.

None of that except my heart.

Motherhood grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a new name: mommy.

A name given by the two little pieces of my heart that now walk around beating outside of my body. And in that name of mother, I discovered another identity, too -- one seen clearly in the reflection of motherhood: daughter.

Beloved by my Creator and made to be a writer, yes, but a mother, yes, just as much in this season. 

And so goes the tug of war on my heart, centered around who I am.

I am always daughter; I am always beloved.

But right now, I am very mother. And in motherhood, I feel writer slipping away from me.

Because writers, well, writers

should write books.

And submit pieces to magazines.

They should carve out a few hours per day to lay down stories into print.

Keep up their clips and skill and hone their art.

But where are the hours for that in motherhood?

Time? Yes, there is time to sneak a few thoughts onto paper, time to write a mini manifesto about why feeding spaghetti to the small ones on a stressful day never actually ends in waves of calm, time to pour out small gleaned moments into black on white.

And that's it. That's all I'm willing to give it right now.

Because while I have to keep reminding myself that, yes, I will always be a writer and, yes, I will always be mother.

I will never be a mother in this season again.

And the most important story I'm writing right now is the one we live out everyday.

This piece was written live at Saturday's Creative Soul even during our Writing Circles. Want to sign up for a virtual one? Click here!

Five-Minute Friday: Voice

She asked what keeps me up at night.

I whole-heartedly shared in whole-hearted truth about the toddler who chases after me around the bed, in search of heat and snuggles.

Because, really, nothing keeps me up at night anymore; by the time my head falls onto the pillow exhaustion has long set in, and I'm long gone, fallen into sleep.

I eye over and over during the waking hours all of which is spread out before me, a tempting feast of delicious ideas and daunting dreams and deep hopes and wide realities and as the day races away I pray wisdom would be my companion and love my compass and grace my fuel.

I pray

when darkness falls

and I am blanketed by night-fallen shadows,

that if there's something worth waking to

that I would be Samuel

awakened in the night

by the very voice of God

with ears to hear and recognize His voice

instead of being sound asleep.

Bigger Picture Moments: What Only God Can Do

It begins quietly and simply.

A few-sentence email enters my inbox asking if I can attend a meeting at our church regarding social media.

Though I've long been thinking our church has needed a social media presence and I'd love to help, I doubt I can make the meeting; John is in Europe that week, and babysitters are hard to come by mid day in the mid week -- like raindrops in drought.

But there is an easy sprinkle from a small little cloud, and I'm able to attend the meeting despite all of what normally works against such possibilities; I leave the meeting, hope rising in my heart at the response of our leaders who deem social media important to implement at our church. But when I leave the meeting, though my mind is spinning and racing with ideas, I return to life as normal and tuck them away. I'm at capacity, and I can't volunteer time to any kind of project beyond what I'm already doing without something having to give.

****

Month's later, there's been no resume submitted but there has been a meeting of the minds, and there has been the Spirit of God heavy in conversations and lastly there has been a perfectly tailored job description and offer extended to me to join the church staff as the social media coordinator.

An opportunity to serve in a way I'd only thought was a dream {me? small-town girl from the middle of nowhere evolved punk-rock mistress turned cynical journalist thrown a life jacket of grace me?}.

An opportunity to reach into people's everyday lives and help them know better the God who loves and created them, help them know better the community of God within a church we've been extremely vested.

And the fine details, lined up like just right, stars in a constellation:

Working only 15 hours per week.

Doing what I've long loved, while working out of my top five strengths from my home most of the time, nonetheless.

Confirmation from daily wanderings in the Word and conversations with those who shepherd my heart.

All of this after we decide to listen to the unexplained stirrings of our heart to put our Curves up for sale ... and then meet with extremely interested perspective buyers within two weeks of our letter of intentions saying we are looking to sell.

All of this amid one of our closest family friends, who lives within minutes of the church, sharing that she'd love to babysit for our boys one day a week during the weekly staff meeting {more raindrops ...}.

All of this folded up into a beautiful package at the heels of years spent investing time and effort and thought and heart and soul into the sharing of our story, my story, here at this blog, of investments made in virtual community and social media.

Some might call it serendipity or awesome coincidence, but I know it to be more; I know it to be grace revealed, blessing given, opportunity shared.

This story, it blows my mind.

This story, it's so different from the ones I've written in the past.

Because this time, I'm telling a story of which I'm not the one striving to write

One of which I've had only a very small, responsive hand.

This time

I feel like I'm telling the story of something truly only God can do.

During the next few weeks, I'm transitioning into my new position at church all while ensuring that I'm spending time with my family and taking care of all the Curves details, so please be patient with my sparser posting and interactions. I'm so excited to share how God moved my heart into this place, as it didn't come quite as thoughtlessly as I would have expected such a thing with such worked out details to have come. Prayers are appreciated, as is any encouragement during this extremely important transition month.


Each Thursday we come together to share the harvest of intentional living through sharing a piece of life gleaned: a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week. Link up your gleaned moment this week at Sarah's!

Link your moment at Sarah's this week!

Everyday Life: Sing

Sometimes it gets all murky.

Why I come here and open the flood gate to my heart waters, sharing pieces of life I'd maybe have trouble finding words for if we were in person enjoying a morning together beneath sun while watching little ones play in the still-green grass of late August.

Why I open white pages and scrawl out our story, pushing publish without not knowing who exactly is reading our open-book life.

Why I ever thought anyone would want to come into this space and linger for a few moments of the day.

Why I open myself to the criticisms and opinions and allow voices that aren't always kind a microphone of sorts.

I go through these waters every so often when life starts swirling and churning and kicking up sands and muck. In fact, there's been so much muck and mud swirling and churning that its kind of drown out my voice and let me quiet here and well everywhere.

Yesterday a good friend, a soul friend, emailed sharing much of these same heart aches and growing pains that stir when it comes to writing our lives and stories onto pages for others to read and share.

She called it something along the lines of existentialism about blogging, which made me laugh, too, amid the seriousness of this creative pondering and I immediately thought of a song I used to sing my heart out to while driving -- Straylight Run's Existentialism on Prom Night. And as I ruminated on her words and other friends' words, I began making a playlist because I'm always so influenced and motivated and freed by music.

In the murkiness, the words from friends and the words in song were just what I needed to sit in stillness and let all of the sediment fall to the bottom around my feet until the water started getting clearer again:

"Sing with your head up,
with your eyes closed
not because you love the song
but because you love to sing."
{Copeland}

As I quite literally sang, all those whys I was asking and other people often ask me -- all the sediment -- fell to the bottom around my feet -- leaving clear water in their settling.

While I do sing because I love the song

I sing mostly because I love to sing.

And I think most of the time

we all just need to throw our heads back, close our eyes

and sing.

{If you're feeling like you might need a little encouragement to sing your passion, you can listen to my playlist on Spotify for free.}

Thinking, that's All: We're not in Chicago anymore

Beneath afternoon sun and clouds, only the shadows of tree leaves and branches danced besides our own, shading tiny stretches of sidewalk beneath our feet, as we walked with purpose and precision in search of lunch.

Though shops and restaurants, boutiques and businesses lined the brick-paved walkway, almost all had signs propped in windows quietly sharing a secret that those of us from the always vibrating and lively Chicagoland didn't know:

Closed Sundays.

"I guess we're not in Chicago anymore," I'd said aloud and shrugged my shoulders, half amused, half irritated.




As we walked the beautiful yet deserted streets of downtown Kalamazoo finding only a smattering of open doors, only a few other bodies moving along the streets, I felt our pace noticeably slow.

We drifted away from the task at hand and lunch as planned as we slipped into conversation and an rogue open doorway for a tea and coffee before we headed back to the cabin to make a meal of garden veggies and turkey slices that found their way into the vacation cooler we'd packed just two days before.

And somewhere amid closed doors and that one that opened, a wave of relaxation swept over me; as the sleepy city rested and breathed, I found myself doing the same.

When we returned to the cabin, nestled against the still blue waters of a little lake tucked into rolling hills just about 20 miles beyond the little-big city, I quenched my hunger for food, but the one for that feeling of deep rest lingered long in my chest.

And it left me really ready to let go of the shoulds and needs and musts for this week of scheduled family vacation -- this upcoming week where I'd told myself I'd press the brakes and take a break from all of our normal life affairs {how lucky are we that we have good friends who babysit our garden and our house and our business?!}, including writing -- my very first intentional writing sabbatical.

No deadlines. No schedules. No memes. No edits. No publishing. No work. No feedback.

Just my pen and lots of open, empty journal pages while my family and I enjoy time together and the beautiful spread of this lovely lay of far-from-home land.



Because, no, we're not in Chicago anymore.

And, you know, that was the point all along.

*****

While I'm on my hiatus from blogging, I have the privilege of introducing you to my little sister! 

Jill's going to be here all week telling stories -- like how she was a rock-star during the home-birth delivery of her daughter and maybe also about how our mother gave us mullet hair cuts when we were younger along with an apology letter she penned her sweet baby E regarding the former hair debacle and genetics. 

 She'll probably also try to tell you about the time I was pulling her in a wagon and went around a corner too fast and tipped the wagon thus breaking her finger. And she'll probably tell you I was being a little snot when I did that, and probably, you'll believe her because she's the charming, younger sister ... and if you do, we can still be friends. Because I don't blame you; she *is* charming.

She'll be hosting Bigger Picture Moments  HERE this THURSDAY, too, so be sure to come and share life Thursday this week as she hosts her first link up!

Five-Minute Friday: Beyond

Long chased and loved there's this dream I've carried around in the pocketbook of my heart, all folded up and tucked gently away like a love note or a picture of a beloved.

And every once in a while I've been known to pull it out in the midst of laundry and lunches and love and read it over and over again 

until I can see it alive and vibrant with breath in its lungs and soul sparkling in its eyes -- me pressing feet onto untred paths, me pressing black ink into white paper, writing their hearts, their lives into words that wander into other hearts, take a seat at the table and linger long after dinner guests normally stay 


-- invited and enjoyed --

There are long days filled to the brim with laundry, lunches and love and my heart sings for the reality I love and the boys and the husband and the life that's unfolded. 


I may not be a journalist walking tepid paths telling stories of the brow-beaten souls on faraway soil


but I've been given long-term assignment from the Editor here in this lush and hot and incredible jungle of motherhood tattooing these stories, our story onto a small screen, into a small space.

And you. You come here to share life and share words and share stories.

And it's beyond what I've imagined, what I've long dreamed and carried for so many years. 

Everyday Life: Twice

Twice.

I've stumbled twice now unexpectedly into grapevines during the past week.

Which wouldn't mean anything normally except for that this summer it sort of means everything.

Right before the beginning of the year, I landed in the text of John 15, and I just could not get away from it, both literally and mentally.

That text -- it's such a word picture painted so vividly about how we must abide in the vine if we are to bear good fruit.

And it kept following me -- this call to abide in the true Vine in the garden with the Gardener -- in devotions, in the church pew, in others' blog posts, in conversation.

And then one day this spring as I was working on a book about being fruitful and bearing ripe fruit and being kind to ourselves I heard a loud whisper redirecting.

All this talk about fruit, but how does fruit even grow?

In the garden, abiding in the Vine.

We are to live The Vine Life


And so The Vine Life was born.

The first chapters came easily, but since their completion it's been hard-coming in ways that writing normally isn't for me. There's been this stretching and this twisting and this growing and this journeying in the writing of this book that's left me ... tired. Tired and wondering exactly where to go next.

So tired and so wondering that about two weeks ago I put it aside, tabled it so I could pray, clear my head, refocus.

We took a daytrip last weekend to visit my uncle in Chicago; while the boys watched Star Wars on his big pull-down movie screen, I sneaked off to the back porch to sit beneath sun.

And there in the middle of alive and vibrant Chicago just outside the back door of my uncle's second-story flat there were these vines sprawling out across the wooden deck, thick and deep, luscious green bearing growing grapes.

There. In Chicago -- in the thickness of city hustle and busy and concrete a small garden sprawling across the deck, bearing fruit.



There in the most unlikely of places.

The Vine and the fruit in the city.



I meditated all week long on the Vine and the grapes and the fresh greenness wondering if it was divine inspiration to keep writing ... but I didn't pen another a word, still vying for clarity on the next chapters. 

Sunday afternoon we visited the Chicago Botanic Garden to rest and remember His goodness and provision during our Sabbath rest, and we veered casually into the vegetable garden.

Again, I came face to face with more grapevines spread out across the overhead trellises we'd meandered into.



The boys wandered off down the path and John followed after he noticed I was totally transfixed. I stood  there lost in more God-whispers beneath the sprawling vines marveling at their beauty, their strength, their vigor and their shear abundance.




And in the stillness of a late Sunday afternoon in the home stretch of June, I stopped wondering.


I abandoned thoughts about perfect order of chapters and which stories to share


and gazed incredulously at the answer He'd given me not just once


but twice: 

The Vine.


And so in the broken silence, I write


I abide. 

This week, we're sharing our moments at Jade's

Everyday Life: Writing Books

"Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses."
-C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

A small, newly-found voice emerges from the top of the stairs at 7:52 p.m., 30 minutes past bedtime. He jabbers away as he one-foot-two-foots down the stairs, mixing up his conversation with words we recognize as well as ones we don't yet know.

His feet runrunthumpthumprunthump across the wooden floor until he reaches the space in which I'm perched trying to write away the day and the thoughts and the growth I've been feeling stretch out across my bones.

Maaameeee! he exclaims and throws his body atop of the couch cushions like a surfer mounts his board. In seconds, I am the wave beneath his body.

He presses his forehead against my own and gently smooshes my cheeks in between his toddler hands.

"Oh, hello," I say. "Isn't it bedtime?"

I silently think about everything that's left to be done, including a book chapter that needs to be written, before I can go to bed and am tempted to scoot him right back to my husband.

He kisses my mouth and says, "O, halllo!" before snuggling his little rear next to my own and finally pressing his body into the curves of my own all while making the time that was my own into ours.

I only try to type for about 30 seconds before I abandon writing my life out loud and shut the lid to my computer instead choosing to write a few words on his heart.

I snuggle him as we talk, deeply converse about the pressing issues of the moment.

No, we're not having a snack.

Sack, he echoes as he shakes his head no.

But we can read a book.

Book, he says crisp, staccato like a short note struck against keys.

We talk a bit more until he begins rubbing his eyes; it's then that I send him back to daddy for good-night snuggles.

He won't remember what we talked about tonight; he is only two and a half.

I probably won't either, and I'm 29.

But I hope that those few sentences translated themselves into the message that I'm trying {oh, God, help me to write well} to continually etch onto his and his brother and his father's hearts --

that they -- these eternal souls -- are the most worthy recipients of my time, my love, my care

and

that the story of this family

is the most important book I'll ever write* during this assignment from the Great Editor and Chief.

*Sally Clarkson gave these words to a roomful of hungry ears during a conference breakout session at Relevant '11, and her words have deeply impressed my heart.

Creativity: On Writing and Relevant 11

"We give inspiration too much weight. If you're a writer, you have to write even when you don't feel like it."
-Lisa Jo of The Gypsy Mama

It was the first session of the morning. I'd not procured caffeine, breakfast offered only the hope of a carb-coma and I was pretty tired from engaging in late-night conversation. Hungry, under caffeinated, over-tired and generally grumpy, Saturday morning at the Relevant Conference was, erm, a stretching experience for me.

Also, there was a nor'easter bearing down on Harrisburg, and fat snowflakes were coating the ground, making the lights flicker. If you've been around for awhile, you know I'm not a snow person. {Read: I cannot believe I don't live in Hawaii I loathe snow so intensely.}

So there was that, too.

I wasn't in the mood to write. I was feeling at a loss for the words that normally so easily come to my mind and spill from my fingers and lips.

So when Lisa Jo dropped that little gem of truth --

"We give inspiration too much weight. If you're a writer, you have to write even when you don't feel like it."

-- I was particularly challenged in that moment. And then she asked us to write for five minutes straight without worrying that it's just right.

With the prompt "becoming" I just wrote, and this is what came out.

Outside, white fat flakes blanket the ground,
covering it with the heaviness of the
first footprints of winter.


Yesterday, sun, streaming through the
thickness of gray-drenched skies,
reminding that there is warmth
beyond what meets my eye.


And, I am,
too,
being coated
in the heaviness of grace,
of hands, fingers stretched
across the blades of my shaking
shoulders
of whispered words being
gifted to my ears.


The snow coats the streets,
and morphs from flake to slush,
making a mess of the roads.
There is mess in the becoming.

The other outcome born from this session was a burst of creativity, a fierce rush of ideas coursing through my veins and running through my mind.

I simply cannot wait to share the creativity-sharpening idea Melissa, Lenae and I brainstormed while munching on lunch together. We'll hopefully be sharing soon after talking with Sarah and Alita.

I also cannot wait to share other truths I gleaned from the whispers of wise women while at the conference

In the meantime, if you need to just write without worrying if it's just write, check out The Gypsy Mama's Five-Minute Friday prompt this week and link up.

Disclosure: Our trip to Relevant is being generously sponsored by Chevy’s Driving the Midwest who has given us a tank of gas and a Traverse to get there. Our ride is also being fueled by Kawa Japanese and Asian Cuisine, Dr. Reena Jacobs of The Healing Groves, Curves of Lake County, Bigger Picture Blogs and Little Lake County, each of whome have provided one tank of gas for the trip. All opinions expressed are our own.

Writing Me: Where I'm From

Over at Bigger Picture Blogs, we are sponsoring Writing Me, a community writing project. Based off of the Where I'm From prompt, we're tapping into our creativity and memories to poignantly craft snapshots of the places from which we each hale. We'll be posting a long-standing link up soon so that we can each link our posts and read about where we each have journeyed in our lives. Join us!

I am from amber waves of grain as far as the horizon stretches, from John Deer tractors and garden-fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes shooting out of the fertile black farm soil in my grandparents' backyards.

I am from more houses than can be counted on two hands but most memorably and most longstanding, I’m from the creaky stairs descending to a basement bedroom of a quaint white house flooded by both morning and afternoon sunlight, always drenched in song lyrics and laced with harmony and melody ...

{To read more about where I'm from, click on over ... and then pretty please consider sharing where you are from!}

Five-Minute Friday: Loss

Summer begs for more.

For more days spent lying faceup on blades of green grass, pointing out ships and castles in the puffs of white clouds.

For more afternoons where little and big legs alike trekking through the neighborhood exploring.

For more lazy morings welcomed by floating in cool Michigan freshwater, digging toes deep into grainy sand.

And for more dusks spent counting fireflies from the porch instead of sheep from bed.

So we play long, hard.

We laugh loudly, in abandon.

We soak in the extra sunlight long-streaking through longer days.

I simultaneously lose and gain time.

As the days boast extra warmth, extra light, I'm constantly transfering minutes spent thinking about life to plainly living.

And sometimes I need that -- to be so immersed in living that words from the day don't find a home in black print on a white page -- but rather, they find a home in the deep layers of my memory, firmly etched onto the walls of my mind.

Adventures: On having a home away from home

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by how much this little blog feels like my very real home on the web.

{Maybe that's strange?}

But if this space is my home, I suppose when I'm writing other places, I'm actually venturing out into the big world. My jaunts have been sporadic since Chicago Moms Blog went of hiatus, guest posting at a few places, which have been warm and welcoming, much like good friends' places are.

And, now, I think I may have found a new, more-frequented home away from home at CBS Local.

I've been invited to write there once a week about my parenting experiences and preferences regarding all things family and Chicago.

So if you want to help me warm my new home away from home, feel free to check out my thoughts about our favorite cloth diapers available in the Chicago area.