Be Here Now

The boy is at school and I'm sitting by the window watching the morning sun stream through the trees over the carpet of grass that is my father's life's work and possibly his first love (I kid. But, it's basically a small golf course back there). The steam rises from my mug of black tea and the sound of a newly discovered band plays in the background. (Of Monsters and Men, if you're curious. And yes, I realize I'm a little late to the party on that one.) The new normal continues to unfold here and I am trying really hard to embrace it.

It's cold this morning and I have on a cardigan, perhaps the best article of clothing ever invented. And just for the record, 51 degrees in Georgia is cold, people. Don't judge, Canadians. Cardigans make me happy in a way that doesn't make sense for 99.8 percent of you out there. And I'm okay with that. Something about needing to throw on a sweater reminds me that it's not a million degrees in the Deep South and that a good hair day may, indeed, be achievable. Good hair on any given day during a southern summer is about as rare as a unicorn. If you have a good hair day here in Georgia between May and September, you marvel and take pictures and tell your grandchildren about it, for it is the stuff of dreams. But, I digress.

Today I'm thinking about something my friend Molly said on her blog recently regarding having just moved with her little family to a new place. She explained that she had decided to be intentional about finding good in the season she's in instead of focusing on the difficult, the unfamiliar, the uncomfortable parts of a new context. I'm going to take that word of wisdom and run with it.

So, here I am, purposing to stop moaning about what I've left behind with this move and determining to start dwelling on the good and the beautiful things that are here now. I'm tired of waiting for joy. I keep thinking it'll happen when we find our dream house, or if and when we have another little one, or when the creators of Gilmore Girls finally call me back so that I can persuade them to make an eighth season and let me play Lorelai's other daughter (I realize I need to let this dream die).

I think one of the keys to finding joy in our circumstances has to be this: learning how to actually be where you are. One of my favorite quotes is by the missionary, Jim Elliot, who said "Wherever you are, be all there." In the age of television, laptops, iPhones and iPads, this feels like an impossible charge. But, I'm discovering that lamenting the past or pining for the future leaves me unable to appreciate the now. I want to be more present and to find joy in the little things, the things right in front of me, the things that matter.

And then, there's this:

You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore. ~Psalm 16:11

According to Psalms, the definitive answer to finding joy is being in God's presence. I'm terrible at that. I'm too busy doing laundry, picking up after my family, cooking dinner, watching HGTV, organizing my sock drawer, reading articles about what Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick ate for dinner. I'm really good at finding things to do to keep myself busy. And, in the midst of all that, I miss it: the being present, the being still. I miss God and the joy He's offering me here and now.

It sounds simple. And maybe it is for some people (i.e. Billy Graham and a few really godly mommy bloggers who don't waste time watching tv and reading celebrity magazines). But, I have a feeling that being present, being still, and finding joy might prove to be a little more difficult than it sounds.

But, I think it just might be worth it. I'd like to trade in all my discontent and my busyness and my impatience for real, no preservatives added, actual joy.

I'm ready to be here now.

Weird Is the New Normal

I'm not good at change. It makes me itch. It makes me snack late at night. It keeps me up when I should be sleeping. It drives me to bake cookies, buy celebrity magazines at the grocery store, eat spoonfuls of Nutella at random, mindlessly watch back to back to back episodes of HGTV's Property Virgins, and indiscriminately shop online. Change is not a good color on me. It makes me less normal. Much less normal.

So far, I've survived the mind-numbing pack-a-thon, the stuffing of all our worldy goods into a POD and our two cars, the awkwardly sad goodbyes, the drive to our new piece of geography, and the attempt at making a temporary home with my parents'. I feel a bit shell-shocked and may need to be held at any moment. So, if you and I bump into each other at the grocery store or a gas station any time soon, prepare yourself, I may try to hug you.

The hardest part of all this transition is something I'm not sure I would have expected before the wheel of change started turning. I didn't expect coming back to my hometown to be so, well, weird.

It reminds me of the title of Thomas Wolfe's book You Can't Go Home Again. Maybe you read the cliffs notes for this in high school. I'm pretty sure I never read it or the cliffs notes. But, I keep thinking about that title and feeling like Thomas and I should have a coffee date. Having spent almost as many years away from home as I spent living here, I'm realizing that as familiar as this place is, it's not familiar at all anymore. I mean, since I left, they built a massive Wal-Mart and closed the drugstore where I worked my first job and they built two more Waffle Houses (with a mile between them) and there's a shiny new Walgreens' where the Ford dealership used to be. Oh, and Hardee's reopened for the third time (But will it be the last grand re-opening? Who can say.)

I know. I know. These are not even close to being significant changes. Obviously, two new Waffle Houses have no bearing on my life in any kind of real way. But, still, things feel different. And, probably most of all, I feel different. I'm not who I was when I left here sixteen years ago. I'm a completely revised version of myself since that day I drove out of town to college and never officially came back.

I realize this probably doesn't relate to where you are or what you're experiencing right now and hopefully you can cut me some slack here and let me openly journal on this public blog that should be about relatable stuff like holiday crafts and crockpot recipes. But, maybe, just maybe, there's somebody out there who's done this before: moved home after having been gone for years and years and found out that it feels incredibly weird and awkward to be back. If this is you, maybe you've got some pointers for me? I could use a ten-step plan and maybe a couple of counseling sessions if you're up for it.

So, here I am, trying to sort out the unsortable. I hope you'll forgive me if I sound distracted when you call or if when I send you an email, I mention what I had for dinner, or if that Facebook message I wrote on your wall is a tad bit needy. I need a little time to figure out what the new normal is.

Sigh. I have no final words of wisdom to leave you with here. And so, in an effort to end this post in a less brooding way, I'll leave you with a picture of Ryan Gosling (because I haven't taken a picture of anybody important in about a month and because this makes me laugh).

I've been to Target a few times lately. And I came out with some unexpected items. Maybe you can relate to me and Ryan about that?

The end.

Move it

I should be packing. But, instead, I'm watching KLG and Hoda, checking my Facebook, and drinking a decaf latte I just picked up at Starbucks. Obviously, I'm in serious denial. Also, Sam is at preschool in case you were concerned that I'm being a negligent parent.

So, since I've got all this "free time," I thought I'd give you a quick update on the packing situation. I assumed you were probably checking your Google reader every few minutes in hopes that I'd post something. Wait, you weren't? Well, here's an update anyway.

I'm currently staring at my kitchen which looks like the delivery ramp at Wal-Mart. It's a sea of boxes and I'm tired of looking at it. It makes me sad. This whole week has been like one long, really slow band-aid removal. I want to rip it off already!

If you know me at all, you know that I have a tendency to get anxious when things are a little out of control. Moving is one of the contexts in which things are majorly out of my control and I start to daydream about running away to join the circus or a motorcycle gang. I've had heartburn all week, I've had a twitchy eyelid, I can't sleep, and I wake up before a sane person should even think about waking up. I'm falling apart, people.

And then, there's the ever-present POD looming in the driveway, daring us to fit all our stuff inside. I realize this is a first-world problem if there ever was one. But, I dreamed a dream that this portable storage unit would be the answer to all our moving prayers. And yet, it's unexpected smallish-ness is increasing my stress level, and this may or may not cause me to break out in a rash. This was supposed to be simple: get the POD, squeeze ALL our stuff in, send it off, reunite with it in a month or so. But, instead, the POD is mocking me with its promises to fit "three-four rooms, no problem" when in fact, it's probably only going to fit Sam's train collection and a chair. I exaggerate, but still, I'm concerned.

So, once I finish recounting my moving woes to you here, I'll get off this couch and start trolling the house again to figure out what needs to be mashed into a box with a bunch of other random stuff that I'm not sure why we haven't gotten rid of yet. Anybody need a bread machine?

Sigh.

And, yet, despite all this, in three days we'll be on our way. A new adventure. A new part of our story. A new everything. There's good in this, even in the midst of moving mania. There has to be.

Gotta go. KLG and Hoda are doing surprise makeovers.

Away We Go

I heard once that moving was number three on the list of "Terrible Things That Can Happen to You," right after (1.) a very large boulder falling on your head and (2.) being kidnapped by Somali pirates. Did you know this? Maybe I'm exaggerating a teensy bit, but according to people who know stuff, moving from one place to another is one of the most stressful life events. It's a bit hard to believe that taking stuff from one house and putting it in another one is capable of creating epic weeping and gnashing of teeth, but if you've done it, you know it's true.

Obviously, it's so much more than just the moving around of inanimate objects. It's the moving on from friends and community and favorite places and pediatricians that you like and that one bank teller that always gives your kid a sucker. It's the leaving behind of people and places and things that have become familiar and comforting and part of your story.

Matt and I have moved four times since we've been married, and that doesn't even count the summer we packed ourselves up and moved to Florida to live with college students for seven weeks (Do not be alarmed. We did not join a weird, short term commune, but were staffing a summer mission project at the beach). We're pros at packing up our junk, renting an over-sized truck that pounds gasoline, and rolling down the highway to our next stop. It's almost like a hobby. In fact, when I list things I do in my spare time, I like to say that I read, have friends over for dinner, blog, troll for deals at TJ Maxx, and occasionally pack all my stuff up in a million, zillion liquor boxes and drive it somewhere else. 

But, this move feels a little different. Matt's accepted a job that I think he'll be really happy in; we'll be living near family, which is kind of amazing (i.e. free babysitting); and we've got a little guy who needs a yard and a puppy and pretty soon, a school. So, I'm thinking this move has the potential to be a permanent one. Maybe.

And yet, while there are all kinds of good things about this life upheaval, it's very bittersweet.

Despite it's being less than a thousand square feet, we've loved our little house and have sweet memories of Sam morphing from a crawling baby to a little boy while we've been here. I'm already jealous of the people who are going to moving in to "our" house after we leave. We love our barn church with it's un-air-conditioned sanctuary full of college students and crying babies and occasional dogs and cats wandering through during communion (shout out to Church Lady). We'll miss our community group who we've come to love and feel safe with. We'll miss all the little kiddos who have been Sam's friends and have been the topic of his conversations at night before we go to bed. ('lijah, Jack, Big Sam, Yella, Kade and Quinn, Hah-wee (Harley), Hay-wee (Hailey), Ada and a few others I'm sure he would not appreciate my leaving out.)

We will miss this mountain and all the people who have been part of our little world here.

Six days from now, we'll be making our way to the heart of Georgia, where we'll do this whole thing over again.

Here we go. 

     A little shot of our cozy mountain house back in the winter of 

      2010 when we had eight inches of snow. 

Juggling

I learned how to juggle in college. I was on a retreat somewhere in the mountainous region of North Georgia when a guy named Darrell taught me how to juggle in one legendary evening. I even learned to juggle with/to another person. What?!? I know. You're quietly trying to process my awesomeness right now, the bounds of which you were heretofore unaware of. Or you're silently judging me for boasting about a skill that typically only traveling carnies have. Either way, I can juggle. At this point, my skills are rusty, but they still exist.

Segue. Seg-way? Here is where I explain why I've just revealed my secret carnival skill and how it relates to the past year of my life.

Long, long ago, when I was in college, a friend used juggling as a metaphor to express how she was feeling about a hard relationship in her family. She explained that she felt like she was juggling all these different parts of her life, like balls in the air. She described one of those balls in the air as that hard relationship and, in keeping with the juggling metaphor, every time that particular ball hit her hand it felt sharp and jagged, instantly reminding her of how painful that part of her life was.

I didn't do her metaphor justice, but hopefully you got the gist of it. It's been a few months since my second miscarriage and I keep thinking that I've gotten things back together, that the engine of my life is humming along just fine, and then that one ball drops again and out of nowhere I'm pounded with the sharp reminder of that loss and disappointment. 

Last Sunday at our church, which meets in a barn on a mountain (feel free to covet my church right now), the big barn doors were open and a breeze was blowing in while the band played their guitars and sang songs about Jesus during communion. My eyes stung with tears as we sang together about God's love for us and His promised redemption. I realized that only there in that barn sanctuary do I find myself wanting to really cry over what I've experienced this past year. In the midst of singing about God's desire to free me from hopelessness and restore what's been lost and love me in spite of myself, all of that truth just rushed in and nearly knocked me over. I could almost hear Him whispering to me that He wanted to be in this with me, to comfort me, to show me heart-healing compassion.

And then again, in a Bible study yesterday with thirty women who genuinely love Jesus, I felt that same sense of God's presence, offering me compassion and reminding me that He is not indifferent to the losses He has allowed me.

Lastly, before I wear you out with over-sharing and too much "feelings" talk, I want to share a couple of verses that struck me in the very small window of time I spent this week with my Bible.

The first is Psalms 41:11 where David says that because the Lord delights in him, "my enemy will not shout in triumph over me." I know David was talking about rough, tough, sword-carrying enemies. As far as I know, I don't have any of those. I hope. But, I do have a real enemy and it's The Enemy. I'm no match for him, and if I'm being honest, I'll admit to having believed some of his lies in some low moments recently. But, reading this verse in Psalms gives me such hope. Even though I feel like this particular struggle in my life brings out the worst in me and tempts me to believe things about God that I know aren't true, my enemy doesn't get the last word. God gets that one.

Then there's this one: Psalm 130:7 says "...hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love and with Him is plentiful redemption."

Hope. I love that word.

Hope in the Lord. He gives good things. He will not let your enemy shout over you in triumph. He gives new songs. He tells new stories. He redeems everything. Hope in the Lord.

And so, this juggling act I'm in the middle of continues and I know I'll keep catching that one jagged ball that makes my heart hurt. But, there's hope. Lots of it. And there's the satisfying knowledge that one day, Jesus is going to very literally beat The Hell out of the sin-induced suffering you and I are walking through. (acknowledgments to our pastor for that little turn of phrase)

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm still in this.
But, God's doing something good with it.
And that gives me some very real hope.

Call me if you want to talk. Or juggle. I'm up for both.





Public Service Announcement:

*I realize that I keep posting about the two miscarriages we've had in the past year. If you're interested or need a refresher, you can read about that part of our story here and here. It continues to be a huge part of my life right now so I find myself needing to keep talking about it. What I'm also discovering is that there's a significant chance that you or maybe one of your friends or sisters or moms have likely also lost a pregnancy at some point and for these reasons, I'll probably keep talking about it. It's happening out there and, to be honest, most people aren't going to mention it. I feel the need to mention it.*

You Are Not A Bad Mom

As far as being a mama goes, I'm fairly new to this gig, being only 2.8 years into it. But, despite being something of a rookie, I've become really good at one of the seemingly key maternal skills in my short tenure as a mother: I'm really good at feeling guilt and really bad at believing that I'm doing a good job loving my babe. Case in point, I'm currently feeling guilty about the following things (specifically regarding motherhood, which means I won't be mentioning how much chocolate chip banana bread I just ate):

1. It's raining here and I didn't send Sam to preschool with a raincoat. #badmom
2. I haven't finished Sam's baby book yet. #scrapbookfail
3. I let Sam watch cartoons while I took a shower and blowdried my hair this morning. #negligentparent
4. Sam didn't eat enough for breakfast and now I'm worried that he's hungry at school, which is obviously my fault because I didn't give him something that he wanted to eat for breakfast (i.e. cookies, rice krispie treats, goldfish). #mychildisprobablymalnourishednow
5.  Sam is almost three and not yet potty-trained. #worstmomever

Ridiculous, right? And that's just a sampling of all the things I will feel guilty about today and then subsequently hear the tape-recorder in my brain click on, repeating this same phrase over and over: You Are A Bad Mom.

But, you know what? I'm starting to realize that that is just a big, fat lie that I'm letting be the backdrop of my parenting experience. Somehow, I've let the Today Show, Parents magazine, mommy-blogs, Facebook, well-meaning friends, random people in the grocery store, and a plethora of other various entities control how I see myself as a mom. And, in the midst of all those voices telling me that I'm failing, I forget to hear from the Lord, who determined that I should be a mom in the first place.

I have this feeling that I might not be alone in this cycle of guilt and insecurity and general feelings of maternal failure. (Can I get a witness?) If you're like me, maybe you've been letting other folks determine your perception of what kind of mama you are. Maybe you've been forgetting what's true, like I have.

Remember that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams' character keeps telling Matt Damon's character, "It's not your fault, It's not your fault, It's not your fault..." until that truth finally sinks into Matt's heart and he breaks into a million pieces and weeps uncontrollably on Robin Williams' shoulder? Well, that's kind of what I'm trying to do right now (minus the breakdown/tears), so let this sink in.

You are not a bad mom. 

You are not a bad mom.

You are not a bad mom.

You might be a tired mom, a sick mom, an overwhelmed mom, a sad mom right now and maybe one of these factors means your child eats PB&J three meals in a row today, or watches Cars 2 on repeat for a while, or has a breakdown at the restaurant over a toy you forgot to bring. None of the above makes you a bad mom.

Do you love your babies? Do you believe that God gave them to you specifically? Would you do anything physically possible to make sure that they are safe, cared for, protected, loved on? Then, feel some freedom, sister, and stop believing the Enemy's lie that you are not enough. He's not the boss of you.
 
So, ease up on yourself. Ease up on the other moms you know. God gave you the babies He gave you on purpose and you are exactly the right mom for them. God gave them to you, but He also gave you to them.

     And here's a gratuitous picture of this mama and her babe. And, yes, that is an

     "I Heart Great Clips" sticker. Explanation can be found here.

An Open Letter to J. Crew

Dear J. Crew Magazine/September 2012 Issue,

I've been receiving J. Crew magazines for years now and you are the latest issue in that long list of shiny, newly printed style guides that have been tucked into my mailbox. I realize this is a little awkward, since we've never spoken and likely never will, but I feel the need to explain to you a few of the reasons why I am starting to question my desire to keep seeing magazines like yourself bundled with my bills and Bed, Bath, and Beyond flyers. 

I need to air out some grievances and will hopefully be able to fully explain why I think that you may have some stuff to work through, or that you may have just been through a break-up, or that you may just need to lay off the after-work cocktails.

To begin with, like most of the bourgeoisie whose fashion cues originate from Target, I occasionally find myself daydreaming about your cozy cardigans and your comfortable, yet shapely, tees. I lay awake at night wondering what it would be like to travel back in time and order a J.Crew wedding dress instead of the one I chose five years ago. And then there's the ever tempting siren of your "Jewelry of the Month Club" which never lists a price and leaves me to wonder who might be part of that incalculably lucky group of women finding a new piece of certified J. Crew costume jewelry in their post office boxes, mailboxes, or at their suburban front door.

But, despite all of this fashion-induced covetousness, I must tell you that the pleasure of imagining myself in the perfectly tailored apparel your statuesque, graceful, "I look happy but I'm actually very hungry" models are wearing is slowly being diminished by the printed pantsuits, the mismatched outfits, the eccentric eye wear, and the ensemble on page 4 which includes matching printed top, pants AND shoes in Burgundy Silk Foulard. I cannot imagine who might be convinced to dress this way other than at the end of a gun. No one, in case you were wondering. Even the model in the picture looks like she's trying hard to pretend she's okay with how your stylist has dressed her. She's not. If you look closer at her face, it's obvious she's dead inside. Your pantsuit has killed her soul.

In order to make sure this letter doesn't reach a length that could potentially cause the printer at Office Depot to stall out when I try to print this letter, I'll instead be concisely listing for you the items I find to be the most ridiculous and borderline morally objectionable:

Page 5: Velvet slippers in navy with what seem to be small bouquets of flowers embroidered at random on the shoe. $400
These should not exist.

Page 6: Smooth flannel pants in camel with "hand-applied" sequined bows. $495
I do not understand.

Page 40: Purple cashmere sweater $238, mustard pant $128, teal coat $335, leopard print clutch. $448    This looks like a crayon box contracted food poisoning.

Page 44: Felted wool hat in red currant. $475
I reject this on all levels.

Page 58: Wool peacoat $278 paired with tweed stripe shorts. $118
Does not compute.

Page 59: Matching navy tweed top $128 and pant $148 with brownish turtleneck underneath.
No. Also, I think Ali MacGraw wore this in Love Story in 1970.

Page 60: Fall bootie in leopard calf hair with wedge heel. $398
These make me sad.

And lastly, on your back cover, I take issue with the 60-something woman posed like she is, instead, a wannabe gangster. Also, do we really have to revisit all-denim outfits again? I thought I had left denim-overload safely back in my 1990's middle school wardrobe. I guess not. Sigh.

And so, J. Crew Magazine/September 2012 Issue, I close, with a sadness only Target's New Arrival section can assuage. Your fashion is incompatible with reality and with my heart.

Sincerely,
Dara Lynn 



 

::Acknowledgements to J. Crew and McSweeney's Internet Dependency's "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond"::