The Importance and Tragedy of Children in a Crisis

I am going to organize my thoughts from today as best as I can...bear with me, and please join the conversation if your experience echoes mine.

I have worked with children for many years. I've coached children through various crises, from school shootings (school-aged kiddos) to the loss of a parent to changing teachers to divorce...you name it. I've dug deep into how children engage with trauma and grief and while it's not a topic I enjoy talking with kids about, I feel it has made me a stronger teacher, leader, and person as a result.

Today was different.

Maybe it's the anonymity, the distance, the far-flung consequences of the deaths of people they don't know and never will know. Maybe the abstract idea of guns, something they are familiar with but don't quite understand. Whatever the case, today I struggled with this crisis as a parent and as an educator in ways I never have before.

It started with my daughter. My boyfriend gave me a warning before he left for work this morning (I stayed home with June because she was sick this weekend) that something terrible happened in Las Vegas and he couldn't even bear to watch the news about it. Sick to his stomach. So I left the TV off. I checked social media and felt his tremblings; it was atrocious. I let Juniper watch all the ridiculous shows on Netflix she wanted, but I kept noticing that people and animals were dying in these shows - Pocahontas II, the English have guns and the Native People have bows and arrows and they battle. Then she started watching this show about a cheetah cub and his parents, and the dad got shot by a land developer as the animals were passing through a building site.

My anger increased and I became incensed. Why was my child being bombarded with this imagery after I'd so carefully protected her (and myself) from the news? Gun violence, in a child's television show? I felt ill. So I made an appointment to donate blood, partly to get out of the house and partly to feel like I was doing something, and we headed out.

Donating blood felt good, but I didn't feel like June understood the gravity of what I/we were doing. I explained to her in 'kid speak' that there are bad people in this world and we can't always tell they're bad. I explained to her that guns can kill animals but they can kill people too, and she asked me incredulously if there are 'actually people who use guns to kill other people.' I somberly answered yes, and told her about Las Vegas (using safe words) and that some people died and some were injured and that's why I was donating blood. I explained to her what it means for me to have O Negative blood and how I can help everyone, and maybe someday she can, too. I felt a glimmer of hope when she said she would donate blood when she has children so she can take them to learn how to do it, too.

I volunteer at an organization called Circles that helps to lift people out of poverty and teaches them methods for saving and spending to help them learn new habits. I'm the youth program coordinator, so I work there every Monday night with the children of parents and allies while their parents attend their workshop. I had 4 children tonight, ages 4 and 5. Our theme was goal-setting, and we were reading books about making wishes and setting goals and plans for ourselves.

First, we read a book about making wishes, and I realized quickly that this book was written by actual children, their wishes taken down and compiled by an adult. There were simple wishes, like "I wish I had a cat," and "I wish I could get a cool new pair of shoes," but then there were wishes like "I wish everyone has a place to sleep tonight," and "I wish everyone would be kind all the time." I'm sitting here, reading this book to these sweet babes, these young, tiny humans who have not yet been crushed by the unrelenting blows of this world, reading to them about their peers wishing for homelessness to end. Their sweet eyes never left the page, and they contributed their own wishes at the end of the book. Simple wishes, again, about dogs and babies and shoes. I said, "I wish for peace," and they asked me what that meant.

I couldn't even answer them. I finally choked out, "This is peace," and wrapped my arms around their tiny bodies in a hug I was sure might take their breaths away. Looking into their big, unadulterated eyes, I caught a glimpse of something I am reminded of only when working with children: true hope. I've stopped looking for hope in grown humans. We only see the darkness, and even if there is hope, it's clouded, like the sun trying to push through rainclouds on a stormy day. The eyes of tiny humans light up like gems when you read to them, color with them, play with them, dance with them, sing with them - all that beauty that life stifles out of adults as we grow is still deeply present within them. That's what I saw in Juniper when we talked about donating blood when she has children - hope. She's not thinking about what school she's going to send her kids to, or what religion she might subscribe to, or how mass shootings may have increased by the time she has kids. No, she is thinking only of teaching them, demonstrating to them how to save a life.

The tragedy of children in a crisis is that their grief is untouchable and unknowable. Children will weep, yes, to be sure. They will curl up in your arms and let themselves sag into your chest, that safe place where the monsters cannot get in. They will hurt, and they will show it in the worst ways - sleepless nights, sassiness, anger, picky eating, not speaking...they don't yet know how to manage their pain. They don't know how to regulate the way we do. They don't understand compartmentalization. So they will mourn, sometimes for 10 minutes and sometimes for 10 days and sometimes for 10 years, but not like grown humans. That's the tragedy; we are taught, through years and burdens, how and when to grieve. We don't teach children to grieve because how can you teach a thing like that? So we let them, in their own way, on their watch, not ours, because it is the best thing you can do for a child.

The importance of children in a crisis is that moment when you look into their eyes and see their hope that gets slowly worn away with 9-5, panic-filled, worry-stricken, money-driven adulthood. It may feel selfish to slip away into those great big pools of hope, even for a time. You feel like you're stealing it. But they possess it in absolute abundance. Even the children who are homeless, heartbroken, hungry will still light up when you turn on music, or open the pages of a new story. They will lean into you for that kind of deep chest hug that breathes new life into your lungs. The tendrils of their hope will seep in through your pores; you will inhale it like an aroma and it will become a part of you, if only for a moment.

This beauty and tragedy exist together in children, which is perhaps the most beastly of all. We must handle them like fine china, but also like fresh clay.

Hug your children tonight. If you don't have a baby to hold, stop for a moment, dig into the recesses of your adult brain, and pull out whatever shards of hope you have left. Clasp them in your hands, feel their edges soften under your touch, and place them deep into your heart. Hold on. Feel the depths of hope caress your dark places, and stand renewed.

"There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings."
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Love and Time

Once upon a time, when I was young and sweet and foolish, I didn’t realize what death was. I recognized that it was the ending of life, but it felt so far away, like a vivid dream that you can’t quite remember. The ending of a life, yes, but what I couldn’t understand was that it was the ending of other things, bigger things, bigger than a life, maybe. Or the pieces of a life.

I did not realize this until it was happening to me.

Death is the ending of a motherhood, of a fatherhood. The ending of a marriage, a partnership, a relationship. The ending of a job, a career, a successful hobby. The ending of nights out with friends, of quiet cups of coffee on slow Sunday mornings. The end of feeding ducks, the end of walks in the moonlight, the end of lost keys and broken things and fights in the night. The end of the bad things and the good things.

How do we decide what to mourn? How do we know?

My initial instinct is to mourn the love lost, the unexpected pain of the end of that person’s embrace. I want to remember what that person’s smile looked like in a moment of incandescence. I want to remember what that person’s hand felt like in mine. I want to remember how it felt to look into that person’s eyes and feel known.

What I don’t think about as much is how much I valued — or didn’t value — the time spent with that person. Every single moment is a chance to feel someone, to know someone, to interact with, to understand, to love someone else. How much time do I spend every day doing things, things that don’t matter and won’t have any impact on the relationships I am developing with other people?

I remember sitting on the back deck, drinking whiskey and staring at the stars with the intention of a person who is trying to run as far away as possible. I couldn’t be inside, with the fingers of death raking over the carpet, ruining the furniture, slowly coloring everything around me. I couldn’t bear it. So I used my time selfishly trying to get away, to distract, to exist somewhere else. I may have succeeded, in that I didn’t feel as much pain in those drunken moments as I do now, reflecting on them.

How much time did I give you? Was it enough? Did I say all the things I should have said? Did I hold your hand enough? Did I tell you I loved you enough times for you to fully understand how much this ragged heart really loved you? Did I explain how you taught me to wait for good things? Did I encourage you enough as you made your way down that dark and dreadful road you didn’t choose? How much more time could I have given you? How many times could I have chosen you over my whiskey and starlight?

How much more time could I have given?

The answer is — never enough.

Even lovers in the throes of passion cannot give each other every moment of their time. Parents cannot give every second of their time to their children. Friends cannot spend all of their moments together. Time is a desperately hungry creature with an appetite and an agenda. We are entirely gilded yet also ensnared by time and her forever unsatiated desires. We will never get enough time, and even if we did, even if we had all the time in the world, we would squander and abuse it, because that is what we do with things.

Unless it is a thing that we love.

Love and Time dance like old lovers on the floor of our lives. We allow the things we love to dictate how our time is spent, and we use our time to do and be with the things we love. They are forever intwined and symbiotic. I believe we allow ourselves, our time and energy, to be dictated by what we love most. Parents prioritize their children, because they are created from love and our natural instinct is to love and protect them. Lovers long to spend time together, because it gives us space to show our love to one another.

The depth of love can be measured in units of time, and the breadth of time can be measured with the yardstick of love.

Love does not equal time. Time does not equal love. To confuse them is to trivialize them. They cannot replace one another, and they can’t be substituted.

If you’re going to be with a thing, be with it, fully and unabashedly. If you’re going to love a thing, love it with every bit and particle you have. Before you know it, your time will be gone, and all you will have left is the love you had for that person. Memories fade but somehow, the love stays as strong as the day it was realized.

Did I give you enough time? Maybe not as much as I should or could have, but I gave you every ounce of my love and that, I believe, may be enough.

The Audacity of Self Care

I quit my job some weeks ago. Actually, it'll be a month, tomorrow. Without question, it's been one of the riskiest things I've ever done, primarily because I didn't quit this job to take another job. I quit this job because I wanted to take care of myself, and I'm still having a hard time believing that into existence.

Juniper was recently diagnosed with ADHD, and we're having her evaluated for Autism Spectrum Disorder and sensory disorders, among other things. As a parent, that's more than a little intimidating, because anything that's unknown is intimidating. I also wasn't sure how I was going to be present for her through all of that, because of how much I was working, and how much my job required of me - physically, emotionally, mentally. My job demanded at least 45 hours from me a week, but usually more like 50-55 hours a week. I would get home and toss scraps of myself to my family. I had crusts for Juniper when she deserves gourmet sandwiches. I would piss and moan to my boyfriend about nothing but the job, and my stress level was practically off the charts. None of that mattered, however, because MONEYCONSUMERISMBILLSMONEY. At least, I convinced myself it didn't matter.

I had something of an epiphany one day, when Juniper asked me when I was going to be happy again. Cue the knife in the heart. Besides the weekends, I saw my child perhaps 10 hours a week, and those hours were consumed with frustration and exhaustion because I took work home with me and would dish out my woes like dinner onto their plates. I was only half committed to anything else, driven mad by what I felt was a required allegiance to this vapid employment. When Juniper said those words to me, it was like all the gears in a machine shop grinding to a halt on Friday night when everyone was heading home. All of the pipes, all the connections in my brain, stopped instantly, and I just stared at her. I said, "Junie B, do you think I'm not happy?" She replied, "You're always angry and sad. You're always at work. I want you to be with me."

I put in my notice within days.

Now I'm unemployed, but damn, do I feel good. I have time to sit and snuggle Juniper in the morning, instead of yelling at her to "get her shoes on because we're late and how many times do I have to ask you to finish your breakfast?!" I have time to research recipes and make food that fulfills my creative longings and satisfies my family's hunger, instead of stuffing their faces with anger and stress. I'm sitting outside in the sun as I type this, not fielding phone calls with my shoulders already up to my ears and the work week hasn't even started yet. I'm making frayed ends meet, but now it's on my terms.

So why do I feel so lazy? So unmotivated? So helpless?

There is a school of thought that I have realized women buy into. We are frenzied trying to fill our time, because if we are viewed as doing 'nothing,' we are labeled as free-loaders; lazy women who sit and home and spend their savings or their husbands paychecks, useless to the world. Even stay-at-home moms serve on this committee and volunteer at that non-profit and sign their kids up for this event and that sport - fill the time, fill the time. Moments spent relaxing or sitting around are forbidden, because we have been led to believe that we must be productive at all costs.

Maybe it's because women make less than men, and are still viewed as 'lesser-than' in the business world, so our frenzy is a desperate attempt to prove to the men that we're just as busy and important as they are and we deserve as much. Maybe it's because stay-at-home moms want to be seen as just as productive as working moms (BELIEVE ME, I KNOW HOW HARD SAHM WORK, I was a SAHM - bear with me here) so we throw ourselves into anything with a sign-up sheet to show how dedicated and committed we are to this or that.

Maybe, it's because....we don't even know how to take care of ourselves. Self-care feels SO foreign. Why would I sit for hours and drink coffee when there's laundry to be done?! Why would I let you clean the car by yourself?! How can I possibly let you cook dinner without helping?! We slip into a modus of 'do-it-all-or-die-trying' and completely lose ourselves in the process.

I have said for many years, and probably to some of you reading this, "You can't pour from an empty cup." I can safely say that, while I was preaching this to others, I was certainly not practicing it myself. My cup has been empty for YEARS. I didn't have the money to fill it with anything (yoga, a wine club, a gym membership, a little trip alone) and even if I did, I didn't have the time. I would make due with a new dress from Goodwill or Target, splurge on a bottle of wine, do a yoga video I found on YouTube, or get some henna. Nothing permanent. Nothing that even made a dent. It was comparable to Cinderella trying to go to the ball in the dress after her step-sisters destroyed it. Like the meme of the dog sitting in the room on fire, saying, "This is fine."

IT'S NOT FINE. AND IT'S NOT ENOUGH.

Our bodies and our minds deserve so much more than a 10 minute yoga video once a month. We deserve more than a clearance dress that makes us feel pretty until our kid vomits on it or we spill on ourselves (inevitable). We deserve more than a bottle of wine that will be gone in an evening. We deserve hours to ourselves. We deserve hot coffee and yoga class and time with our friends and to sit and do nothing every now and then. Certainly more often than once a month.

Despite the fact that I am unemployed, and I am floundering and broke, I am going to take care of myself. It helps tremendously that I have a partner who encourages and fosters that, and I hope that you do, too. If you are taking care of any other living thing, even a pet, know that self-care isn't audacious. It is absolutely 100% necessary.

And so are you.

Parenting, or How I'm Doing It Wrong

I'm an early childhood educator. I've been doing this for almost 12 years. I've been an assistant teacher, a lead teacher, a director, a teacher trainer, and a passive observer. I've written lesson plans, done observations, created behavior plans, met with families, and done countless training sessions. It's in my blood. Working with children and their families is what I was created to do. There is one tiny, 6-year-old sized problem: my daughter.

Being a parent, as someone wise told me, is all about not knowing what you're doing. It's about being befuddled, confused, frustrated, and completely at a loss most of the time. It's about rushing headlong into something totally unknown and simply feeling what to do. No one really knows how to parent. We're all just winging it. This is where my problem lies.

I don't know how to separate myself as an educator from myself as a parent. I don't know how to erase years of studies and research and classes and observations and see my child as just my child. Every time she reacts to something that I do or say, I immediately assess what she's just done and start crafting my response. I know too much about children and why they do what they do, so instead of being my daughter, she's like my real-time case study. What the actual hell is that.

My child. My sweet child. I just went into her bedroom and looked at her tiny face. I brushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed at her for a few minutes. I touched her tiny upturned nose, that looks just like mine. I caressed her cheek, her beautiful olive skin that she gets from both me and her dad. I brushed her rosebud lips and was immediately transported to her first few weeks of life, when that tiny mouth first smiled at me.

I created this beautiful human, this masterpiece of chaos and loveliness. I grew her in my womb for almost 10 months, and then nourished her with this body for another year after that. I watched her take her first steps, listened to her say her first words, held her after her first injury, nursed her during her illnesses, and cradled her as she drifted into sleep for the last 6 years and 4 months. Everything that we've done together, everything that she's taught me, is tucked away in my brain. I remember her mistakes, her successes, her losses, and her triumphs. Her life shapes mine.

It is in the midst of this, however, that I become lost in all the knowledge I've accumulated about early child development and how it has impacted my life. It's in my veins, just as my daughter is. They are both a huge part of me. Somewhere along the way, her life, those success, mistakes, and triumphs have become interwoven with that knowledge and the career I've made of early childhood and now I don't know how to separate. I'm constantly assessing what she's doing, how she's reacting to me, how I'm reacting to her as a result of that, and hypothesizing possible outcomes. She in school; she's learning to read. When I sit with her to read, I do so as an educator and her parent, and it feels like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I want her to be successful, because I'm her parent. She avoids reading to me, however, and I immediately move to the why, instead of just acknowledging that she's a normal child and will learn to do things as she's ready to. I start cycling through my list of interventions, ideas and strategies that I have implemented with my students.

This isn't my student, this is my child. What have I done?

I want to begin unravelling this huge knot, this massive tangled mess of Christmas tree lights all twisted up around itself, of educator vs. parent. I don't know how long it will take me, but I want to appreciate my child as a human, as an individual. I created her, but now she is creating me, or rather, re-creating me.

Love,
Brooke + JuneBug

Home

I've grown up my whole life hearing phrases like "Home is where the heart is," and "Home is where your story begins." Many people don't know how this feels, or they live in the same house with their families but it is not Home. For me, 'home' was always this beautiful, close concept of being absolutely together with the people you love in a place that's comfortable and safe.  I was lucky enough to know this reality.

My family moved into what I grew up calling 'home' when I was 5. I lived there until I moved to Chicago to go to college, and moved back there when I graduated. I moved out again when I got married, and moved back in after that marriage disintegrated. I moved out again last summer, when the overwhelming force of turning 30 wouldn't stop beating against me and I felt compelled to prove I was a grown up and could 'make it' on my own. My license still bears this address and every now and then, when I tell my daughter we're going to visit grandma, I refer to it as home.

With all that being said, I must tell you something. I don't have a home anymore.

I don't mean to say that I am homeless. I am not, as Juniper so aptly words it, 'houseless.' I live in a house with my JuneBug, 2 dear friends, and a refugee from Eritrea. We move around each other and make meals together and share a kitchen and a bathroom and we make it work. We have a backyard and air conditioning and couches and happiness. But it is not my home.

I can easily go to my mother's house, where I grew up, and stay overnight comfortably. I can get up in the morning and move around the house effortlessly; fix the coffee, make the breakfast, put things where they belong. Generally I feel like I could still belong within those walls. But it is not my home.

I don't have a home anymore. I have places where my heart belongs, and people I love in those places. When I think of the concrete word "home," I don't think of a specific place because there isn't one. Home isn't a place.

My mother is home, and the way she holds me when she hasn't seen me in awhile is home. Snuggling with my daughter in bed in the morning is home. Watching a movie on the couch with my boyfriend, whiskey in hand and a smile on my face, is home. Catching chickens and waiting out the sunset over vast fields of farmland with my dad is home. Sitting on the porch swings at my grandmothers house, listening to the sounds of the universe and the creak of wood paneling that has seen 3 generations grow up, is home.

I'm starting to believe that I will never have a 'home' again. I might move somewhere else, or change my address, or settle in somewhere, but the abstract concept of home will continue vanishing. Home isn't where the heart is, or where your story begins, or even where you feel most comfortable. Home is where the memories live. Home is where you can feel vulnerable and safe all at once. Home is being loved and wanted and deeply felt by another human being. You could live in a box and still feel like you're 'home.'

So, I will let this word remain empty, and instead soak up moments that I will look back on sometime later in life, and, as if looking a great distance through a telescope, realize I was building 'home' all along.

To Be Free

Her chest was heavy as she walked toward the field. Her breathing had become labored, but not from exertion. She was experiencing the depth of her choice, and it was physically tugging on her, making it more and more difficult to breathe. She carried the cage with both hands in front of her, because it was too much for just one arm. She had come a long way, and with a heavy load. Her strength was waning, but she was almost to the field. Only a little farther, she encouraged herself. One foot in front of the other.

This wasn't just any field. This was the field she had dreamed about since her youth, the one she visited with her grandfather when he released the birds. She was very young when it happened, so her memories were blurred, like watercolor mixing on a canvas. She remembered the cage built into the back of the truck, the rumble of the tires over the uneven earth, the squawking of the wild things in the back, anxious for emancipation. The truck suddenly halted, and her grandfather got out. She followed him to the back of the truck. This part was the clearest in her memory. Her grandfather unbolted the metal latch on the gate and held his hand over the door, gazing intensely at the feathered creatures, who were now so loud she couldn't hear anything else. Then, as if he were mastering a magnificent ceremony, he threw the gate wide open and flung his hands into the air. The birds rushed out of the cage like water rushing out of a hydrant; the pressure of their wings and their palpable excitement pushed her to the ground. She rolled over and laid on her back, watching them fly around, experiencing the freedom that had been stolen from them for so long.

This is why she had returned to the field today. She, too, had a cage full of something with a longing for freedom. She suddenly realized how incredibly heavy the cage had become, wondering how such a thing could have happened, as it had felt much lighter at the start of her journey. She took her first steps into the field, taken back by how much longer the grass was than on her first visit here. She smelled the air and knew that today was the perfect day for this release. It was going to rain later, and would wash away the dirt and damage that had accumulated on her prisoner during the course of their trek.

Once she felt that she had gone a fair enough distance into the tall grass, she set the cage down. This release alone gave her a great relief and she laughed at how wonderful it felt. She wiped her brow, tied her hair back, and knelt over the cage. "This is it," she whispered tenderly. Leaning over this beautiful creature she had kept captive for long, she felt suddenly mournful for its obvious pain and also for the loss she knew she would feel after releasing it. She quickly brushed a tear from her face and set her eyes on the latch. Unlocking it, she held her hand over the door, just as her grandfather had done, and gazed at the thing inside. She looked for a long time; she was unsure when she would see it again. She took a deep breath, one that felt like it reverberated down to her toes, and then she removed her hand from the door to the cage.

In a burst of flight and frenzy, the captive burst from the cage, just as she remembered the birds doing so very long ago. She flung herself to the ground and rolled over to watch the first flight of this beautiful slave she had kept all to herself for so long. As she watched it circle above her, she knew that she had done the right thing. The movements were so lovely it nearly took her breath away. She steadied her breathing and watched, full of utter awe. The freed captive pushed farther into the distance, closer and closer to the edge of the sky. Her lips curled into a small smile, and she closed her eyes, full of the most tremendous peace she had ever known.

Her heart was finally free.

30 is just a new beginning.

Today is my first day in my thirties. It sort of feels like going to the doctor to get a shot when you're a little kid. Preparing for the worst, you imagine the needle is the size of a javelin, and you just know the doctor is going to make it hurt. You sit down in the chair, close your eyes, and....it's over? Already? But I only felt a little poke....are you sure that's it? That's how today feels.

I have been agonizing over turning 30 for months now. Something about it made me super uncomfortable. I know that part of it is that I am definitely nowhere near I thought I would be at this age. You know, we make those highly dangerous 'plans' and expect them to just flow through to fruition. How foolish we are.

I definitely thought I would be Dr. Brooke Wilson at this juncture and that I would have a private practice for kiddos with mental illness. I would just be considering marriage, or maybe newly married, and entertaining the thought of children in a couple years. Instead, I'm a child care director, I'm divorced, and I'm a single mother to a 5 year old kindergartner. WHAT IS THAT.

At the time, the idea of a child, of being a mom, scared me silly. I was excited, don't get me wrong, but here I was, just a 23-year-old baby, getting ready to raise my own child. How was I supposed to teach this tiny human how to human, when I was clearly still very much a child myself?

Then I got married, and just like that, got divorced. I don't believe in divorce. Marriage is commitment. It's that all-in, I'm-not-going-anywhere, I-will-follow-you-into-the-dark kind of commitment that isn't a game, isn't a joke. I don't believe in divorce, and I got a divorce less than a year after getting married. WHAT IS THAT.

Then I got kicked out of graduate school. Yes. Kicked out. I filed for divorce, was raising an infant, got an apartment and a part-time job, all in the same month, and missed an assignment. My GPA dropped below the requirement and just like that, I was kicked out of school, frantically waving goodbye to my dreams of becoming a psychiatrist. WHAT IS THAT.

That's how this whole 'life' thing goes. You make this plan, you set up this big beautiful future for yourself, and then, without notice, something deviates from that plan and starts a chain of events that will change every second of your life forever, in very big and very small ways.

Now here I am, one day into 30, and it's all cool. Terrible things happened this year and it breaks my heart every day, but it's going to be o.k. My daughter is a freaking weirdo and is loving kindergarten and life. My job is pretty great and I'm sort of alright at it. I'm in a relationship with the most amazing human being I've ever known. Thirty is going to be o.k. That javelin-sized shot that I was bracing myself for was a barely noticeable poke. I didn't even need a band-aid.

30 is just a new beginning.

Love Should Make You Feel Good

When we started this year, everything made sense. Maybe everything wasn't easy, or perfect, but things made sense. I could look around at life and think, "Hey, this is pretty good." I was working 3 jobs, but I loved every single one of them. My family was healthy and happy. I certainly struggled, but things always seemed to work themselves out.

Then Mike's mom got sick. Then I quit my 3 jobs and got one new job. Then Mike's mom died. Then Mike got sick. Then I moved out of my mom's house. Then Mike died. Everything came to a shocking, screeching halt and nothing made sense after that.

I remember pacing in the living room of a dear friend, shaking my fists and screaming at the ceiling about how we can possibly love another person, because everyone goes away in the end, in the most painful of ways.

I remember collapsing into my mom's arms after I spoke my last words to Mike, when he was still awake, and could understand me and knew who I was. He held my hand and told me his missed me and that he loved me.

I remember frantically driving home in the darkness during Labor day weekend, threatened by the closeness of the pain, overtaken by the deep desire to get as far away from it as possible.

I remember driving to his house after he died, so I could say goodbye. That is the pain I will never, ever forget. It's forged onto my soul. The depth cuts almost all the way through to the other side, and no amount of stitches or salve will ever heal it.

Mike was only in my life for 7 years. While he was here, that felt like an eternity. Now that he's gone, it feels like only a split second. I would give absolutely anything to hear his voice again, get another hug, another nugget of his hilarious wisdom, another chance for anything at all.

How can one person touch the soul of another in such a way? How can we possibly allow ourselves to dive into the depths of what we call love? We are creatures full of doubt, full of questions, constantly analyzing the risk of a situation, trying to foresee the outcome. We plan our financial futures to the penny. We buy cars based on their projected safety. We take jobs based on their ability to provide for our lives and our needs, looking into the future for growth and success. What is it about human relationships that causes us to abandon that calculated risk assessment and run headlong in potential heartache?

 People that love us give us perspective on ourselves that we might not otherwise see. We choose to see all the things that are wrong with us, on the inside and the outside. When we look in the mirror, we see the pimples, the overgrown eyebrows, the way our noses turn up too much at the end. The people who love us see the way our mouths curve right before we smile. They see the way the lights hits our eyes just so. They see our flaws and they adore them. I think that is what allows us to abandon risk when love comes around. Here is this person, standing in front of you, covered in flaws and imperfections that only they see, hoping against hope that you will look past those flaws to the soul beneath. That is a vulnerability that cannot be conjured.

This year has been deeply, deeply tragic. I can't begin to fathom how this pain will continue to morph and hurt as life goes on, but I hope it doesn't hurt like this forever. I want to love in spite of that hurt. I want to love through the pain. I want the fear of never loving fiercely to outweigh the potential risk. I want the tragedy of all the memories I didn't get to make, to shape the way I love from here on out.

The Sweetest Thing

These are words that have been aching at the tips of my fingers for some time now, and after successfully pushing it down for the last few weeks, they're bursting out. Now is the time to turn away if you don't like the raw, vulnerable, uncooked-meat-kind-of-emotion that only some people are brave enough for.

My step-dad has stage 4 metastatic melanoma. While this has been happening, I've been experiencing a tremendous amount of success at work. There are other things happening that make me incandescently happy. There should be a new word for happiness this big.

Do you know how terribly difficult it is to feel all these big emotions all at once? I don't have the room in my brain or my heart to handle it all. I have had to learn to compartmentalize every second of every day. One moment, I'll be full of euphoric happiness. The next moment, someone will ask me how Mike is doing. The next moment, I have to meet with a prospective parent and enroll a new family. The course of my brain-thought shifts moment to moment.

There have been many other times in my life where I've been holding two very different emotions simultaneously, but this is so different. There's something so much....bigger....about these feelings. They lack description. I often don't even have words to capture how I'm feeling. People ask me, "How are you?" and I can only shrug because words don't exist.


One of my favorite quotes is from Frederick Beuchner. It says, "This is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid." The reason I like this quote is because it's real. It doesn't try to paint this fake pretty picture of life as some magnificent piece of art that you paint once and it's finished and on display for all to see; perfection forever. It sets life up as the ridiculously ancient canvas in your basement, which is cracked and peeling from all the layers of paint you've thrown at it over the last however-many-years. You can see the bits and pieces of what you've painted before, peeking out from behind the other gobs of paint you've thrown on it more recently, but none of it makes sense. It doesn't even look like anything. It's just a mess. It's a big, fricking mess. It's your life, and it's a gargantuan, painted-over, blob of nothing that makes sense to no one but you. And that is why you love it. You can interpret and appreciate the big, beautiful mess.

The point I want to make (mostly to myself) is this: The beautiful things and the terrible things can be together. They can happen together. They can coexist peacefully. I've been grappling with guilt over being as happy as I've been the past month or so, because of what's happening with Mike. Beautiful and terrible things, I remind myself, not beautiful or terrible things. The quote says nothing about them not happening together. In fact, I think they may need each other...

Maybe....we need the beautiful things and the terrible things to happen together. Maybe the beautiful things make the terrible things easier to bear, and the terrible things make the beautiful things that much more enjoyable. Perhaps it's like the light and the darkness. We don't understand light without darkness. The darkness makes us appreciate the light, and the light reminds us that darkness isn't forever.

I might just try to let the beautiful and terrible things happen together, and see where they lead me.

Listen to this.
 

The Importance of Being Broken.

First of all, I'm writing this from my phone, so bear with any grammatical or spelling errors. This has been welling up, and when the urge to write strikes, you just write.

 Pain is a beast. It settles around you like thick dust, choking your air supply and making everything around you dim and hazy. You can push and fight your way through it all day, but it just gets thicker, blocking out the sunlight and closing you off.

It weighs thousands of pounds, more than any human can bear, but it isn't a solid mass. It's thousands of small pieces that you have to pick up one by one. They become heavier and heavier, but you don't dare set one piece down for fear of starting over.

Pain is a ghost. Its presence is sometimes visible to only you, and it cripples you with a threat that no one else can see.

Pain is a healing scar. It isn't a gaping wound, but it will nag at you with a lingering hurt that you just can't shake, even after you've bandaged the wound.

Pain is a whisper, coming to you at the most inconvenient times, after the rush of life has settled down for the day and you finally relax a little. It breathes in your ear the reminders of itself, that it hasn't gone; it's just waiting beneath the surface.

Pain is a wave, when you're out to sea and a storm is coming.  You find your way to a lifeboat, and just pull yourself onto it, when you can sense the tug of the water, the pull of the sea, as the wave doubles, triples in size, before it pounces on you like a starving water beast.

Pain is a void.

It's nothing and everything all at once. It's the first spark of the fire that consumes the forest. It's the first drop of rain that signals a hurricane is coming soon.

My stepdad has cancer, and there is nothing I can do about it. So I will lean into the pain. I'll let the dust settle around me. I'll stop and listen to the whisper. I'll let the wound throb. I'll set some of the thousands of pieces down. I'll let the waves wash over me, because I'll be alright. We'll all be alright, because we're doing life together.

Pain is nothing, compared to love.

This is not the end.

Death is approaching us all, and it is swift, and it is cruel. It doesn't wait for you to be ready. It doesn't stand back and give you a moment to collect yourself. It is right there, and it only takes. There is no mercy, no grace period - no amount of begging will make it go away.

But, I will tell you.....this is not the end.

This is not the end of the memories. This is not the end of the happiness that filled your heart when you were with her. This is not the end of the little wrinkles at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. This is not the end of how she patted your hand when you were sad. This is not the end of the stories she told about her life. This is the not the end of the way she smelled when you hugged her. This is not the end of the way she made you feel when she said "I love you."

This is the end of the pain. This is the end of the suffering. This is the end of the medicine, and the tubes, and the hospital visits.

But this is not the end of her, oh, no. This is not the end at all. It's just her beginning.

Precipice

"Here in your room where nobody can see
Voices are loud, but seldom clear
Beneath the confusion that's running so deep
There is a promise you must here
The love that seems so far away
Is standing very near
You're on the verge of a miracle
Standing there, oh
You're the on the verge of a miracle
Just waiting to be believed in
Open your eyes and see
You're on the verge of a miracle."

This song has been my heartcry the last week or so. My life is teetering right on the edge of something big. It feels a little like the extreme calm when you know a hurricane or other natural disaster is impending. You can't see it yet, but you can feel it.

A precipice is defined as 'a cliff with a vertical, nearly vertical, or overhanging face' or 'a precarious situation.' One of my favorite books is 'Hind's Feet on High Places.' In it, Much Afraid, the main character, has twisted feet and deformed face and is ostracized by her family. She follows the Good Shepherd up toward the High Places with 2 companions, Sorrow and Suffering. She struggles to climb to the High Places because her feet are so deformed, but the Good Shepherd asks her to press on.

The moment of greatest intensity for me as the reader comes in the chapter entitled 'Great Precipice Injury.' This is an actual place name, but it is also a metaphor for the part of the journey Much Afraid has reached. She has been followed by her evil cousins, who are trying to tell her that the Shepherd is leading her on a wild goose chase and doesn't actually care about her. She desperately wants to hold out hope that the Shepherd is taking her to the true High Places. Great Precipice Injury is where she is basically forced to tune out the voices of her cousins and follow the Shepherd or to give in to her counsins' lies and turn back. [I'll let you read the book to find out what happens....]

I am currently standing on Great Precipice Injury. On Tuesday, I have an appointment with my ENT to determine whether or not I'll have sinus surgery that will essentially change my life. I'm also a living kidney donor, but I can't do the donation until 3 months after I have this surgery. I want to have the sinus surgery so I can feel better, but I am also concerned for the person receiving my kidney, because he's not doing well. I have some other really big decisions riding on whether or not I have the sinus surgery first, or the kidney donation. I'm also concerned about how all these things will impact Juniper, our schedule, and my financial situation.

My brain has been going over and over these things in my head, trying to discern what's 'right.' I heard a sermon this morning that really challenged that. The teacher this morning argued that we don't always love what we think, meaning that sometimes, we think we should want or love something but it's not what's really in our hearts or what we really want. I have to re-calibrate my brain to figure out what it is I really love, what I really want. My heart is like a compass, and sometimes I mistakenly point it toward my head, or what I know. Jesus wants me to point due north, to him and his will for my life, so I can make that my will, too.

I've been trying to balance on this precipice without falling, but I'm starting to think that I just need to let myself fall and see where I land, or if God catches me. I'm sure he will.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RF355U7gBg

I Struggle with Forward Motion

Oh, my dear friends....it's been awhile. Thanks for coming back to me. Let me catch you up: I've been busy, the end.

Here's where we are now. I just submitted an application for Juniper for kindergarten. She'll be five years old in June. I'm still struggling with this. I know that five is a humongous milestone, but it just feels particularly surreal for me, and I've been trying to navigate why. I'm just going to ramble a little bit while I wade through these really emotional thoughts.

June was never supposed to happen. She was supposed to be medically impossible. I never anticipated being a mother, so she was a huge surprise - a welcome, happy surprise, but a surprise just the same. That has been a compass for me as a mother - June shouldn't technically be here. She's just the most tremendous gift, the world's greatest surprise, and I try to never take that for granted.

Making the mental shift to 'mother' was such an arduous journey for me. I had to wrap my mind around the medical logistics of it, the risks, the issues that I could encounter, etc., before I could even begin thinking about having to train someone how to be a human being for 18+ years. Once that sunk in (read: once I decided to stop thinking about the medical aspect of it) I was able to get into the right head space and get excited about motherhood. June's dad and I were overjoyed when she was born, and she was perfectly healthy, and I was healthy, and we were all safe. We were a family, and it was good.

Jump forward to when June was around 9 months old....I got a divorce.

You could write an entire book about being a single mother, but I won't, because I can't. Because it's too much. The divorce itself was just the ugliest thing that's ever happened to me. I can point to the moment when I started out on my own with Juniper as one of the top 3 pivotal moments in my life. I was alone, I had to find my own place, I had to get a part time job, I was in graduate school full time....and I was a single mom. It was like a wide-awake nightmare. I grew up so, so much in the space of about 2 months, and I think that time is what is influencing why I am struggling the way that I am with Juniper doing this whole 'growing up' business.

When it was just me and June, we developed this routine. We learned each other really quickly and intimately. I was her hiding place and she was mine. We did everything together, and because I was doing the whole parenting thing alone, I was really protective and experienced everything with her. I think that something happened in my brain during those first few months, before June's dad had any custody, when June and I were hiding out alone, and I made this imaginary world for her. The only thing I can liken it to is Where the Wild Things Are. It's like we ran away, and I built this castle around her and myself and stored up all the best things on the inside and pushed all the bad things to the outside.

Through the past five years, even through shared custody with her dad, and changing jobs, and moving, and being in relationships, I think I've somehow kept us in that stronghold. I stand guard at the gates, sorting through everything that could possibly hurt her, but more importantly, anything that could separate her from me and muck up our utopia. As the years have gone on, I've expanded the castle walls, but still built them to keep the good in and the bad out. It's our safe place, where it's just she and I and we're safe and together and happy.

This next chapter of her life, five years old, means letting her leave the castle. Since she's gone to whatever center or preschool I've worked at since she was 8 months old, I've been able to keep her close to me. Kindergarten means I can't go with her. I can't go be her kindergarten teacher. I can't stand guard anymore to keep the bad things out and pull all the good things in. The gates are opening, and I have to let her bring in some of the bad things to sort out for herself.

In the face of this realization, I have to believe that because she is so, so good, she will see the good, and go out and fight for it like the brave little warrior princess she is. As I'm imagining her do this, I'm moved to tears because she is so brave and so true to herself and I know she will find the good, just as I have found the good and shored it up for her these past (almost) five years. She will begin to see the good and the bad, and she will begin to stand guard for herself and she will build the castle walls bigger to let more of the good in. There will be less bad because she will go out to the bad things and take them by the hand and help them find out how to become good.

I'm trying to trust that June's heart is her biggest and most powerful organ, and that she will use it in the most powerful of ways, because I can't use my heart as a shield for her anymore. Our hearts will be forever intertwined in a way that shall never be undone, because for so long our hearts have carried each other through the painful things of life. We have been each others life raft, and I need to let her go out into deeper water now, on her own. I'm flinging her out into the universe with all my love.

I'll stand here at the gates of our fortress and wait for her to come back, with all the tales of her great adventures.

Love,
Brooke + JuneBug

Multiplied

Lately, I've been listening to a new song by one of my favorite bands, Needtobreathe. They are fantastic, you should take a listen. They manage to cross over various genres and break the mold in every possible way. All of their songs leave me breathless. This particular song, called "Multiplied," has been moving around in my brain and my heart and making some serious waves that must break out and put themselves on paper. The lyrics are as follows:

"Your love is like radiant diamonds, bursting inside us, we cannot contain
Your love will surely come find us, like blazing wildfires, singing your name
God of mercy, sweet love of mine,
I have surrendered to your design
May this offering stretch across the sky
And these hallelujahs be multiplied."

About 2 weeks ago, as I was struggling with my friends and my family through some very difficult terrain, I heard this song for the first time. It has moved me in an inexplicable way. I wish I could put my finger on it - the music? The harmonies? The beat? The lyrics? I don't know. What I do know is that I can't stop listening to it, and when I hear it, I get that familiar lump in my throat and I feel like I'm transcending everything - all the pain and the sorrow and the suffering and everything. These words have been making their rounds back and forth between my head and my heart, doing some serious renovating and remodeling. I'm going to attempt to put this into words, although I'm sure I shall fail miserably.

Recently, some of my closest friends have experienced the ultimate depths of heartache and sorrow. One friend is coping with the loss of a close friend. Another friend is working with family to deal with a tragic loss. Another friend is at a tremendous crossroads about her path in life. These experiences bring out the worst in us, I have come to learn. We find that our strength is stretched in ways we never imagined it could be. Pain has the power to pluck us up from our comfortable places and shake us so we descend into the abyss like salt from a shaker. Suddenly, our shoulders are sagging and we are so ragged and worn we scarcely recognize ourselves.

I've spoken here about my faith before. Anyone who knows me knows that it's a defining feature of my life. I'm not an "Everything happens for a reason" kind of Christian, nor am I a "God has a plan" kind of Christian, nor am I a "Let go and let God" kind of Christian. I'm not going to try to make you feel better with some silly words. I don't know what kind of believer I am. I do know that most of the things that I believe make people uncomfortable, because I'm a little radical. I have really struggled for answers for my friends who have been facing life's biggest challenges and overwhelming pain. The truth is, I don't have answers. What I do have....is this song.

"Your love is like radiant diamonds, bursting inside us, we cannot contain...."
To me, this sounds like the experience of pain. It bursts insides us and sometimes we feel as if we may explode from the sheer weight of our sorrow. God takes this pain - in whatever way you allow God to take your pain - and holds you and caresses you and polishes you until you are bursting with love like diamonds: radiant and impossibly beautiful. It may take months; it may take years. The process may last your entire life. It is a process.

"Your love will surely come find us, like blazing wildfires, singing your name..."
Pain seeks us out. It attacks us when we are least prepared. It waits in the corner until we've finally let our guards down and given up the fight for the day, then it pounces. It's all consuming, like a California wildfire. Picture for a moment being trapped in a fire like that. I think there is a point where you give up and think, "This is the end." Then you look up, and one brave firefighter is breaking through the flames and shining a flashlight and looking....looking....looking for you. Shouting your name like her life depends upon finding you and bringing you out of the blaze. You've been found, and you've been saved.

"God of mercy, sweet love of mine, I have surrendered to your design..."
I will never get tired of thinking of God as my love. It has nothing to do with human love. It has everything to do with the idea that, at the end of the day, even if I have let every single human being down, there is something that remains true to me, regardless of my ridiculous and thoughtless mistakes. As far as God's design, I don't mean "predestination." I mean that we are created in God's image, so our pain, our loss, our depths of despair are NOT places that we travel to alone. We have the constant company of the most eternal vibration of love and light, the ultimate antidote to that horrible poison, pain.

"May this offering stretch across the sky, and these hallelujahs be multiplied..."
I think that, sometimes, giving up our pain, loosening our grip on it and throwing it into the void, can be something of an offering. We're finally dragging ourselves out into the light and saying okay, I think I'm ready to let go of this. Maybe we're not actually ready, but this initial gesture is such a violent thrill of release, such an earthquake of bottled-up emotions, that we're ready to begin the process. When we can begin this process, perhaps it is our way of shouting 'hallelujah!' to the universe. Maybe, every time we are able open our fingers and release a little bit of whatever is hurting us, we are crying out to God, "Thank you! Thank you for creating a space for me to be broken, to be only parts and not the whole, to be a fraction of myself! Thank you for running into the fire to save me when no one else could save me. Thank you for gently rounding out my rough and painful edges so I could be radiant like a diamond. Thank you for being a light in dark places, when all other lights have gone dim." We learn to say this over and over again, and our faith thrives through our expressions of grief, loss, pain, and less-than. Maybe our imperfections make us strong. Let these hallelujahs be multiplied.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGF-MGGLpB0

The Psychology of 'Frozen'

I love the movie 'Frozen.' I bet you can guess who loves it more....my little JuneBug. She sings along in the most hilarious monotone, singing the same line over and over again: "Let the storm rage OOOOHHHHN the cold never bothered me annnyyyyywaaaaaay!"

I have watched this movie so many times I lost count. I like that it isn't like traditional Disney movies in that the hero (er, heroine) is a woman. And not just one woman - sisters! There's also the perfect response to Anna and Hans' request to get married: "You can't marry a man you just met." Thank you, Disney! You're getting with the times.

There's something that really irks me about this movie, however. Now, as a precursor, I know that this is a fictional story and that Disney has never paid much attention to the psychological ramifications of their characters' stories. Regardless, I think that the psychology of 'Frozen' deserves a little bit more conversation.....

First of all, Elsa. She was born with this pretty cool power, to make snow and ice with her hands. She and her sister share some very special moments making Olaf the snowman and turning their ballroom into a winter wonderland. However, when Anna gets a little too excited, Elsa, in her haste, tries to save her and ends up striking her in the head with her ice powers. Her parents have to rush to the trolls to erase the memories of magic, and Anna is scarred forever with the strip of white in her hair. What the movie doesn't really emphasize is how Elsa is also scarred forever. I'm sorry, but if I wounded my sister to the point where she almost died, I would be pretty traumatized, especially if it was accidental. The movie glosses over that, and jumps to their parents' stigmatizing Elsa's power, basically shutting their entire castle down for fear of her, not to mention the extremely dangerous phrase her parents teach her: "Conceal, don't feel." Then they basically close her off from the world in her room, alone with no toys and no contact with the outside world. If that happened now, the parents would be arrested and it would be plastered all over the news.

Anna, on the other hand, goes about her life as if nothing had happened, because in her memory-loss induced state (thanks, trolls!), nothing actually happened. She prances through the hallways, talking to pictures, begging Elsa to come out and play, not knowing that Elsa could potentially kill her. O.k., so that's exaggerating a little....but is it really? Anyway, the years go on, Elsa still hasn't come out of her room, and Anna is still talking to pictures and running around an essentially empty castle, singing.

Cue the sadness.

Anna and Elsa's parents go on a trip. As a parting gift, Elsa gets gloves, because hey! let's make you feel even more weird about your magic powers before we leave on this trip that we might not return from and ostracize you just a little bit more. We don't see their parents saying goodbye to Anna. SPOILER ALERT: Anna and Elsa's parents die on their trip. Their boat is swallowed by the ocean during a storm. You can kind of gauge based on the physical appearance of the girls how many years have gone by between the 'accident' and their parents dying. I would say approximately 10 years. Maybe 12.

Soooooo Anna has been running around an empty castle, singing to her sister through closed doors, without a clue as to why her sister won't come out and play with her. For all she knows, Elsa could be dead. Elsa has been shunned, emotionally destroyed, and shut down, all without any human contact whatsoever. This has been happening for 10 TO 12 YEARS. Then their parents die in a sudden and unexpected accident.

Doesn't this sort of sound like the beginning of some kind of horror movie??

Moving onto coronation day. Anna is awoken on coronation day by one of the servants. She leaps out of bed and runs around the castle singing excitedly about interacting with real people again. Can we take a moment to wonder how Anna even knows how to interact with real people anymore? They reduced the staff in the house so much so that Anna's only companions growing up were paintings. I'm sure the king and queen were far too busy running the kingdom to spend any time with their children. Elsa was busy being locked in her room, so Anna really grew up with no playmates or companions. How does she even know how to talk to people? And then she starts singing about meeting a husband! I suppose in the land of Disney, this makes perfect sense, because most of the other Disney princesses fell in love in less than 24 hours.

While Anna is prancing around using her brilliant imagination to talk to her future non-husband, Elsa is busy reciting the very wise (NOT) life advice her parents left her with before they died: "Conceal, don't feel," "Don't let them in, don't let them know," "Put on a show," etc. I'm wondering how Elsa hasn't developed Dissociative Identity Disorder (multiple personalities) or Schizophrenia or another mental illness. She has basically been in solitary confinement for at least a decade, with only her powers and the memory of almost killing her sister to keep her company. What has she been doing in there? (Let me just tell you, I would be sleeping.)

The actual coronation party. Here's how Frozen really should have portrayed this scene: Elsa would be in the corner, having a panic attack, and Anna would be talking to the painting of Joan of Arc. Neither of them would be able to carry on a human conversation. Dancing? Out of the question. How/when did they learn? Addressing the whole crowd? Not a chance. Neither of them has addressed an actual human being in years.

I'm not going to go into the rest of the movie, but it just keeps getting better....or maybe it's worse? Kristoff was raised by rocks, so he and Anna are a match made in heaven. Elsa made her way up to the most isolated spot in the land, which makes perfect sense. "People? Nah, I'd rather hang out with snow." Kristoff and Anna should have gotten married with the trolls and just stayed there, being weird together, and Elsa should have been allowed to stay in the mountains, 'letting it go' for the rest of time.

Mother

As Mother's Day, my daughter's 4th birthday, and the end of my first extremely trying year at my job approaches, I find myself overwhelmed by all that I have accomplished, and both encouraged and terrified at what I am capable of doing with my life. I feel tremendous power yet tremendous fear at what kind of woman I am becoming. The sense of pride in my life is immeasurable, that is certainly true, especially when I look at my daughter and the wonderful creature she is becoming or when I tell people that I live with my mom and tears come to my eyes because our relationship is one of a kind.

The fear, though....the fear just sits in the corner, watching this mounting pride. I can see it calculating its next move, looking for a foothold for destruction and pain. I never feel overwhelmed by it, but I am very aware of it. I try not to let the fear overcome the pride and the capabilities I possess. I try to look at my life, especially the past year, and see that what I have done is greater than any fear that ever existed. And yet....fear.

Then yesterday, I saw this picture that my mom had posted on her facebook page. It's a close-up of her with my grandmother, and as I gazed at both of them, beaming their megawatt smiles right into my soul, a lump formed in my throat, just as it is now as I write this. Their stunning faces, filled with wrinkles and stories, tremendous love and indescribable pain, mirror me and my story, my love, and my pain. I see in their eyes a level of courage and determination that I once thought I might never know, but realize I already possess. I notice in their smiles the kind of optimism that the world has tried to shut down, but I radiate with that 'delusional optimism.' I can feel their love for one another practically bursting out of the picture, and I feel that love rain down on me like that first powerful springtime soak that starts the process of new life.

The fear I sometimes ache with, from the overwhelming weight of life and womanhood, is staring me down from its hiding place in the corner, but as I look at this picture, I laugh in that direction. The women before me, who have so gracefully conquered this life and the same fear I face now, are strong pillars of love and light that have never ceased to guide me through the darkest storms. The women in this picture are strength embodied, pictures of grace so powerful they make lions seem tame. This is my history. These women and I are intertwined through our histories, our red-hot red-headed tempers, our love and our loss, and most importantly, our courage.

We have known divorce, death, physical suffering, job loss, loss of children, the pain of moving away from those you love, and loss of self. Yet, we have also known unity, love, beauty, growth, strength, new friendships, togetherness, and self-empowerment. The most important part is that we have known them together. We have forged the bonds of love and life hand-in-hand, knowing that we are never alone, even though sometimes distance may pull us away from one another.

I look into the eyes of my powerful yet incredibly sweet mother and I am thankful that she taught me how to love everyone, no matter their station, class, creed, or spirituality.

I look into the eyes of my sister and I see strength that no one else on earth could possibly possess. I see her fiery will to succeed, to prove everyone wrong, and I am thankful that she taught me how to be true to myself.

I look into the eyes of my beautiful grandmother, who still calls me her baby and is constantly reminding me of how proud she is that I am hers, and I see courage that goes rushing headfirst into battle every single day. Despite some of the physical difficulties she faces, her unfailing courage and her dedication to her family are second to none.

With the power, sweetness, strength, and courage of these women at my side, I take one last glance into the corner where fear is now cowering, and I smile. I smile because, this Mother's Day, this year, I am not afraid. I know where I come from. I am a mother from a long line of radiant, powerful mothers, and I am fully capable of guiding myself wherever I want to go.

Lenten Beauty

For Lent this year, I am giving up makeup. It's not altogether too difficult, as I only wear a little, sometimes more depending on the occasion. The tough part is giving up all the negative thoughts and actions associated with makeup, namely poor self-confidence, shallow vanity, and a worldly self-concept. Those are hefty things, I know. Let me walk you through my motivation for all this.

Since I was young, I have been obsessed with the idea of beauty, specifically made-up beauty. I loved to watch soap operas with my mom because the women were always made up so beautifully. I would stop at makeup counters in department stores and just stand in awe at the women putting the makeup on. Even in middle school and high school, I would watch infomercials about makeup because it fascinated me so much. I went through periods of time during high school when I would experiment with heavy makeup, wanting to see how much I could change my outward appearance, hoping maybe perhaps it would make me a different person underneath. What did I want to change? I still don't know. In college, I started wearing less and less makeup because it began to bother my skin. I became more comfortable in my facial nakedness pretty much out of necessity. I still enjoyed putting makeup on other people and watching other people do their own makeup, though. I loved the dramatic transformation; looking like one person one minute and after a few brush strokes and dabs with sponges, looking like someone else completely.

All this fed into a rather negative view of myself that accelerated throughout college and fully developed prior to having my daughter. I was unhappy with the choices I was making in life so I tried to supplement with makeup and became more and more obsessed with my appearance. It was only after I had Juniper that I started gaining confidence in myself through my abilities versus through my appearance. I became encouraged by all the things I could accomplish as a mother and as a woman, and as I went through my divorce, my inner strength slowly became the epicenter of my beauty. I started to realize, through compliments about my appearance on good days and the presence of energy and a deep sense of personal mission, that beauty does in fact begin in the soul and radiate outward.

So the old saying isn't true. Beauty is NOT only skin deep. Beauty is anything you want it to be. For me, beauty is strength. Beauty is resilience. Beauty is kindness. Beauty is honesty. Beauty is integrity. You can't purchase it at Sephora, or in the makeup aisle at Target. Reading magazines won't give you any secrets or tricks to beauty, and you won't even find it in the latest skin care line.

For Lent, I've chosen to give up so much more than makeup. I've chosen to give up that negative self-image. I've chosen to give up finding beauty in a bottle or in a magazine. I've chosen to find beauty in the One who created my beauty specifically for me. This beauty transcends all else:

"Do not let your adorning be external—the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear— but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God's sight is very precious."

"She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her. Long life is in her right hand; in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her; those who hold her fast are called blessed."

This. THIS is beauty:

"Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come."

So in the morning, instead of blush, I will put on strength and dignity. Instead of eyeliner, I will put on the beauty of a gentle spirit. Instead of mascara, I will put on pleasantness and peace. Instead of looking at the mirror and admiring my worldly mask, I will look into my heart and see that what has been planted there is good, and I will praise the Lover of my soul.

Why I Rock My Daughter To Sleep.

I have been struggling with sleep issues with my 3-year-old lately. She's been waking up in the night, having difficulty falling asleep, and waking up really early (5:30, 6ish) even when she goes to bed later.

I have adjusted her bedtime. I have changed when we eat. I have cut liquids off at 7. I have read books, sang songs, cried it out, let her play, yelled, whispered, rubbed her back...everything you can imagine. It really hasn't made much of a difference.

I've also gotten a plethora of advice from other moms facing the same problem, either now or in the past with their own children. I so appreciate hearing what other moms have been through, because that's where I gather my knowledge. Books are great, but they are not always written by someone who has wiped boogers on their pant leg or eaten a half-chewed piece of pizza off a high chair tray or read 25 books before bedtime. I rely heavily on the experience of other mothers because they've been there.

All these things, as much as I appreciate them, have not particularly helped with the sleep issues. And as much as I try, I just can't help rocking my daughter to sleep, despite chronic back pain and interrupted sleep.

The reason may shock you. Make sure you're sitting down.

I made a choice to become a mother. Maybe a hurried choice, a less-than-intelligent choice, perhaps, based on the circumstances surrounding her conception. I may have jeopardized a lot of things in my life, but the fact is that it was my choice to carry my child and keep her. I chose her. She didn't choose me. Her life, the lessons she learns, the morals she keeps, the core of her character - I am in charge of building and shaping that. I am the one she will look to when she falls in love. I am the one she will watch fail, fall, and hopefully stand up and try again. I am the one she will cry to when she loses. I am the one who will hold her when she is scared. I am the one she will call in the middle of the night for advice. I will be there for her, because I chose to be. From the moment I knew she existed, I chose her. She is my daughter - my sun, my moon, and my stars.

From the moment we start our day, there are distractions - work, play, homework, toys, more work, plans, etc etc etc. Practically every moment of the day is filled with things that beg to be accomplished, and typically on a deadline. I dedicate myself to those tasks, because I'm charged to do so. June does a great job of keeping up with me, and she is usually my little helper. She's along for the ride, but she's often in the side car, hanging out on the fringes of the day, grabbing pieces of me as they become available. At the end of the day, we unwind in our own ways, sometimes watching a movie, sometimes playing, but I'm not always as engaged as I'd like to be. There doesn't seem to be a time of day that belongs to just Juniper and I, alone with each other to nurture and to love, until bedtime. At bedtime, it's just she and I, reading, rocking, and relaxing together. I've come to realize that this time is sacred to me - a ritual, if you will, of mother and daughter togetherness.

I've decided that I don't care if I have interrupted sleep. I don't care if I have to wake up at 5:30 in the morning [as long as there is coffee.] I don't care if my back hurts or if I have to sing a million songs at bedtime. I will rock my daughter to sleep because she needs me to. That is the one time of the day when it is just us, just her and I, separated from the noise and the distractions of the world. Neither of us has to be to work, or a playdate, or the store. It's just me, June, and the creak of the rocking chair, as I breathe in the smell of her hair and she slowly succumbs to sleep in my arms.

That is why I rock my daughter to sleep. I chose her, and I will choose her every day for the rest of her life.

Love,
Brooke + JuneBug

What We're Made Of.

Trials and tribulations. Difficulties. Catastrophes. Pain and sorrow. Anguish. These are not places we like to be. We don't wake up in the morning and think, "Today, I'm looking forward to some good, old-fashioned pain." We avoid situations that may cause us heartache, because we would much rather feel happiness and joy. We would rather have a smile on our face than a scowl.

Let me argue something, something I heard over the weekend that brought me so much clarity I had to squint.

"Where there is pain, there is meaning."

 Let that sit with you for a minute. Let it make you uncomfortable. Lean into it, lean into it so much that you break under the pressure. It might scare you, to let yourself stare pain in the face. Marinade in it, marry it, embrace it. Do you allow yourself to truly be in your pain? Maybe you let it sneak under the door, but do you let it meet you in the dark, vulnerable, raw places in your heart? When you let the pain seep in like the rain seeps into the dry earth, you will find a tiny, incandescent miracle - the pain will ebb and flow like the waves, but as the tide fades, where the waves once crashed on the shore, there is clarity.  There is a clarity and a meaning that you have never known. We run away from pain because it's like ripping off a band-aid; immediately painful and something we don't look forward to. What is beneath the band-aid, though? Is the wound still aching? Is it still an open, angry gash? No. The wound is healing. So it is with our heartaches, our anguish, our sorrows. Allow yourself to be in the middle of the pain. Stand in the storm, let the rain pelt your face and dance with the lightning, quake with the thunder, because after the storm, you will look around and see the new life it has brought.

The miracle of pain is that it teaches us what we're made of. I'm a youth group leader, and this weekend we had our annual retreat. The girls in my group along with my co-leader talked about this idea of building our houses. Everything that we do, every decision we make, are bricks in the house we have to live in. If you build your house out of broken promises, bitterness, resentment, anger, and unresolved pain, when a catastrophe strikes, your house will crumble. Conversely, if you build your house out of truth, hope, love, and most of all, strength, you will find that, with every new pain, your house gets stronger and stronger.

So be in the pain. Be in the sorrow. Don't wallow in it - rather, let it wash over you. Explore it. Talk to it. Experience it and allow it to ruminate in your soul. How you react to it, and the strength you gain from each experience, will be bricks in your house.

Build a good one.

Love,

Brooke + JuneBug

{Resolutions}

I've never been one to make really concrete resolutions. I've always known that life happens, and things get pushed and pulled and squeezed and changed and trimmed and suddenly, you've forgotten your resolution completely. The last few years, my resolutions have been more like paradigm shifts than tangible re-purposing of my day-to-day actions. Last year, I didn't even make a resolution. I intentionally said, "Nope," and just kept going. I think that, by refusing to make an intentional change, my mind sort of subconsciously made one for me.

This past year was one of ups and downs. I learned that I can push myself to the edge, but instead of just balancing there, looking down at the abyss, fearing for my life, I can jump off, and fly. I learned that I can be happy in whatever situation I'm in. I learned that things aren't always what they seem, but that I can (and should) be true to myself especially in those situations. I feel like I did a lot of soul-growth in 2013. A lot of it I kept to myself, because I felt like sharing it with too many people would jinx it. Looking back, I feel like not sharing it would be criminal, so here it is. Three resolutions (read: paradigm shifts) for 2014.

1. Know Yourself.

More often, as I get older, I find myself in situations that require a lot of self-knowledge. I'm confronted with new people, new places, questions requiring answers, etc. All of these things demand that I understand, to the very core, WHO I AM and WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE. It's easy to forget this, and to do what you think others expect you to do, or what feels right in that particular circumstance. When you find yourself in these situations, try to think about your future self, and what you would think of this particular choice looking back on it. Would you be proud? Or would you be ashamed? Would you make the same choice in different company? Or is this choice a response to your present company?

I sometimes feel setbacks in this area. I feel like I really know myself and who I am and what I want out of life, then I have to make a huge decision and I'm really stumped. These are the things that make us grow. Those hard questions that feel like they take eternities to answer? You're learning who you are in the midst of that decision. Getting to know yourself is nothing like getting to know other people. You ask other people what they're favorite food is. You ask about their political views and their family and their past relationships. You ask about their favorite movies and their children. You ask yourself what makes you happy. You ask about your insecurities and your temptations and your shame. You ask about your purpose and your intentions. Learn to really listen to your responses to these questions. Pay attention when confronted with difficulties - your response is part of who you are, the building blocks of the house you have to live in forever. Answer well, and pay attention.

2. Give.

 This is something that has become increasingly more important to me as I get older. I need to preface this with a disclaimer about things. Every now and then, I look around my room, my house, my life, and I reflect on how much I have. Friends, I call this perspective. I almost always have this moment of tremendous clarity when I realize how many things I have. Things are so troublesome. They create clutter, they cloud your brain, they make you covet other things, and they make you want more things. This past year, I looked at all my things and then imagined that those things were all tangible love. Love that I could give away. Love that I could share freely. Love that I could use to express my feelings. As I began to do this more regularly, a radical shift began to take place. I started to realize that I could give away my things and still have more than enough love to give away, plus keep some for myself. That leads me onto this idea of giving.

Giving doesn't have to be some great big elaborate show, where you sacrifice everything you have so that another person can be happy, and everyone claps and says what a spectacular human being you are. It is rather a smaller giving, for a bigger reward. Giving doesn't always come in the form of giving things away. You can give someone your time. You can give someone your attention. You can give someone your love. These are things that money cannot buy. It's wonderful to give a coat to someone who doesn't have one, or shoes, or money, or food. These are commendable, worthwhile things. However, sometimes, the greatest gifts are the ones that cannot be measured. For many people, the greatest gifts are the ones they didn't even know they needed. The beautiful thing about giving is that, as the giver, you are always rewarded just as greatly as the person receiving your gift. Just give. Give your time, give your hands, give your heart, give your love, as much of it as you can, as often as possible.

3. Be Happy.

This sounds so impossibly simple. It's easy to be happy. Is it really, though? I would argue that it's easier to be irritable. It's easier to complain than it is to count your blessings. One thing I've learned this year about being happy is that I have to constantly choose it. I am easily bogged down by pain, drama, sadness, anger, etc. I have made an intentional effort this year to look critically at each of those situations and find something that makes me happy, or something positive. Amazingly, each time I practice this, it makes the situation seem less awful. Even in the face of grief, finding something that makes me smile makes everything seem more manageable.

The same applies for the way you look at yourself. When you look in the mirror, do you instantly see your flaws? Stop it. Look instead for 2 or 3 things you like about yourself, every time you look in the mirror. Say those things out loud, over and over again, every day. Between this practice, and choosing happiness, I've found that my outlook on life is so much better. I find joy in nearly everything. I more confidently accept challenges. I know that I am of great worth, and I know that I have a lot to offer others.

I don't know if you will find the same clarity, the same strength in these 'resolutions' as I have, but I wanted to share them, just in case. I hope that your year is blessed.

Love,

Brooke + JuneBug