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Actually, I wasn’t a horrible mother after all…

It was Saturday night. I was snuggled down under my covers and my eighteen year old daughter, Hannah, was sitting on the bed beside me. A freshman in college, she had just received a surprising grade on her English paper. Expecting an A, she received a C. Confused and upset, her tears slowly rolled down her face. Knowing she had to head back to ECU the next day, she said something I thought I would never hear.

“Mommy, I don’t want to go back to school.”

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Peaceful living in spite of the threat of nuclear war

I jokingly blame a lot of things on my older brother, Scott. Being five years older than me, he loved to tease his little “see-ster.” For example, when I was in elementary school, I thought my nose was too big. Being a a gullible blond, I believed Scott when he said that my nose would get smaller if I would exercise it. I wiggled and wiggled my nose but it never lost any weight.

Scott was interested in everything military-related.  He had two uncles in the Air Force, which fueled his fascination.  Scott spent his time making model fighter jets and drawing ships and wearing camo and playing “war.”  We watched a lot of Hogan’s Heroes.  And in the seventies and early eighties, the US and Russia were in the midst of the Cold War, so Scott talked a lot about Russia and imminent threat of nuclear war.

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After 30 years, I finally made peace with my appearance

I grew up in a brick ranch house in Mint Hill, a tiny suburb of Charlotte that had one traffic light. Behind my house were woods and a creek where my friends and I loved to explore and play. Across the street, behind my friend’s houses, were verdant cow pastures. I had a wonderful childhood in this peaceful neighborhood.  But what I loved most about my brick ranch home was that the front porch had double (french) doors complete with glass storm doors.  These doors were the perfect backdrop for taking pictures.

  My friend Ashley and me in front of the storm doors

Standing on the front sidewalk and facing the doors, it was like looking in a mirror. My dream was to be a cheerleader at my junior high school, and these mirror-esque glass doors meant that I could practice my jumps and see how high I was getting. Jumps were always hard for me. I’m petite but solid so when I jumped I did not fly like my skinny-legged friends. It took many hours of practice for me to finally nail the holy grail of cheerleading – a Russian- but I was persistent. I finally did it.

Strangely, what I remember most about all of those years of hard work on my jumps is not the euphoria of achieving my goal of doing a Russian, but the unkind words that were uttered when I was trying but failing.   I can’t remember who said it, but I will never forget the words:

“Lisa, your butt is so big you can’t even get it off the ground.” (more…)

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The unexpected story of the cottage garden desk

Once upon a time there was a desk. It was a well-made desk, constructed of real wood and hard nails. Its panels were not constructed of particle board and glued together in China.  It was not sold at Wal-Mart.  No, this desk was the real deal. And this is its unexpected story.

Its past is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps it sat in a fancy foyer in a mansion, and each day the mail, full of good news and bad, was laid upon it. It could have served in a little girl’s room…a place of reflection where a growing girl could diary her hopes and dreams. It could have been in the apartment of a young woman, a strong support for her laptop while she searched for jobs. God alone knows where it came from and what purpose it served.

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Could it be true? Am I lovable?

We almost collided with each other in the ladies bathroom entrance. I was headed out, and my friend Alisha was headed in. Happy to run into each other, we started to talk. We continued our conversation as we left the church building, joined by Alisha’s friend, Jonathan. We hugged, said goodbye, and headed in different directions.

As she was walking away, Alisha said something to Jonathan that I overheard:

“I just LOVE her.”

lovable

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Are you “Fine” or are you Living Broken?

A few months ago I had lunch with a friend at Moe’s. We ordered our lunch, sat down, and had some small talk. Then came the expected question: “How are you?” At this point I always struggle with how to answer. If I’m having a hard day, do I smile and say, “I’m fine” or do I take a risk and choose to be honest? That day, which was a hard day, I took the risk and chose to be honest.

“I’m living broken,” I said.

broken

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How a change of perspective can lead to happiness

I was cruising through the North Carolina countryside on two lane roads that wove between cow pastures and dilapidated barns. The early morning sun was streaming through the fall leaves, and there was a touch of fog shrouding the cotton fields. I was enjoying seeing the old timey farm houses and the huge bulls that loitered near the road. I was drinking my coffee, listening to podcasts, and taking in God’s goodness. It was a glorious morning.

happiness

Until a white SUV, just like mine, pulled out in front of me.

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Your heart is the most vulnerable in the hands of a friend

“Today is going to require a lot of makeup,” I thought as I sat at my makeup mirror. A husband and wife at my church, people I had considered friends, had rejected me.  They were leaders in my church and I both respected and trusted them.  This was not just a minor bruise…I cried for 5 days. I even woke my husband up one morning, sobbing.

These beloved friends had deeply wounded my heart.  In short, my heart hurt.  

And on this Sunday morning I was going to see them for the first time since it happened. I was so broken that I wanted to stay home, but why delay the inevitable. So I put on a flashy shirt, lots of lip gloss, and a fake smile to mask my quivering heart.

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Do you ever wonder if God is ashamed of you?

“Abba, I belong to you.”
“Abba, I belong to you.”

The words of the song filled my ears as the music drifted up to the rafters of the church building.  I added my voice to the others but my heart just wasn’t in it.  My mind began to wander as I contemplated the fact that I belong to God.

That weekend I had been struggling with panic attacks and it had been hard just to function. As I looked around my church and saw all the “normal” people who didn’t struggle with anxiety, I felt sure that God was really proud of them but not so much of me. I was broken, faithless, and medicated, and they were strong, full of faith, and depending on God rather than pharmaceuticals to function.

I felt ashamed and I was certain that God was ashamed of me, too.

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The day my car was “inspected” when it really wasn’t

It was 2:30 pm. In an ideal world, at 2:30 pm, I’m at home, under my electric blanket, snuggling with my stuffed bunny rabbit, Jessie, and my puppy, Coco. I get up early and I go to bed late, so I take an afternoon siesta almost every day. Well, if I’m honest, every day. It’s what I do.

But on this Tuesday at 2:30 pm I was not at home. I was not warm, under the covers, cuddled up with my fluffy friends. I was at the garage. Getting my car inspected. I didn’t have to be there. I was there because I was doing what is right.

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