My Demands

If you had told me a few years ago, that I would enjoy spending Mother's Day weekend camping, I would've laughed in your face. I usually had the same request each year... "I want the gift of not existing." I would say. Yep. I wanted a day to just do whatever I wanted, with no one needing me, and no one asking me to do anything, wipe anything, make anything, or plan anything. I demanded this each year and was sorely irked if I didn't get it. Not exactly Hallmark type stuff here folks.

                                 

 As the boys grew though, and we began to really explore what raising three little boys is like, I realized, this was not really what I wanted anymore. I get plenty of alone time, and am treated grandly, pretty much every day. Why would I want to disappear from the very people that make me a mom anyway? Why did I need to be snotty and demanding? I have been learning some hard lessons about where my time goes and to whom I am investing it in.

So, this year... we went camping.

On a beautiful lake.

We loved every minute of it, including the sudden downpour while setting up the tent.

We laughed.

We talked.

We fished.

And my personal mantra... we made memories.

                                     

Sunday morning as I sat and watched my three little adventurers wade over to an amazing nearby island to fish and swim, I looked at Micah and said, "Can you believe they are ours?"

And then, knowing I could stay put with my book and coffee,

that I could demand all the alone time I wanted, 

I got up and went.

I went to where they were, and fished with them for a bit.

I watched them, fussed a little at wrong attitudes, and enjoyed being their mom.

I know someday I will have endless quiet hours to read.

I won't have endless beautiful mornings at a lake to fish with three amazing little boys.

They are the wild boys.

My wild boys.

And oh, how I grow to be more and more thankful each day that I get to be their mama.

                                     

                                     

                                   

"Sometimes it ends up different,

And it is better that way."

Please, call me Honey...

I may get hate mail from every feminist out there, but I gotta say it...
Someone called me "Honey" yesterday and it made my day.
I know, men are NOT supposed to call women that anymore.
And they shouldn't in that  butt-pinching, get me some coffee, kind of way. I get that.
So why was it ok yesterday?

My car died.
On a busy main street in a town where you will see just as many little old ladies driving in their Sunday best as you will rednecks with their confederate flag emblazoned pick up trucks.
It died suddenly, and when I say died, I mean, everything stopped.
No steering.
No moving.
No nothing.
I was just glad the flashers still worked.

I ended up in the entrance driveway to a KFC.
Yes, a KFC.
At 1130am.
Which is apparently when all the elderly of this small town go to eat their fried bits of fake chicken.
These aged folks are apparently very, VERY  passionate about their fried chicken, as I was met with honks,balled up fists, and glares that would melt the polar ice caps.
Because I was sorta' blocking the entrance to KFC.
And the other entrance is, no joke... 6 feet away.
Folks, if you can carry your oxygen tank in to eat KFC, you can drive an additional six feet to get into the parking lot.

Not one of these "saints" asked if we needed help.
I was freaking out a little because my husband was three hours away.
Thankfully my brother in law, Marc, was coming to my rescue, and a young man finally helped me move my car to a parking spot. 

When I had to call the tow truck company, I was more calm, but when I told the man where my car had landed, and that people were not exactly happy about it he said this,
"It's ok honey. We will be there within an hour. We will get your car to the garage, they will fix it. Do you need anything else sweetie? I promise, it will get taken care of for you."

I just felt myself relax.
This nice man, who has been towing vehicles longer than I have been alive, could sense my distress, and talked to me in this way, to be nice. Not to insult me. I know the difference, and believe you me, I can go "yankee" on someone in a skinny minute if need be.

But yesterday, I needed someone to be nice to me.
To be human.
To hear that I was stressed and needed some help.
To call me honey, like he probably would his own daughter.

Sometimes, it is not an insult folks.
Sometimes, it is just being nice... 

Death by Fineness

Last weekend I had the privilege of attending an amazing women's conference at a large church.
One of our BFFs is the pastor.
His wife has become one of my BFFs over the years, despite not being around each other day to day.
We love to chat, this friend and I.
About food.
About marriage.
About church.
About our kids.
About life.

We began to talk about the plague of "fake authenticity" that seems to be gaining momentum amongst some Christians.
What does that mean, "fake authenticity"?
We have a growing number of struggles and sins that are ok to share out loud within our church walls, small groups, life groups, accountability groups, whatever you may call them.

It's ok to say you want to speak nicer to your kids.
It's ok to say you need to read your Bible more.
It's ok to say you sometimes get angry with your spouse about something.
It's ok to say you struggle with self-image.

But... don't go further.
Don't tread into ground that we may not have an easy answer for.
Don't make us uncomfortable.
Stay away from awkward.
We want comfortable authenticity.

What if...
Your struggle is lust?
You are full of jealousy, horribly eaten up with jealousy of a friend or co-worker.
You have homosexual feelings, despite being married?
You are hurt by something so deeply, you just cannot seem to get past it?
You feel hatred, hard core hatred, toward another person and its making you miserable?
You no longer believe what you are reading in your Bible... at all.
You want to hurt yourself because you hate the way you look?

Are we allowed to talk about these issues?
Nope.
Because when someone shares one of these,
there is a deeper need to walk with someone through the hard stuff.
The messy stuff is... messy.
The walking through takes longer.
There is no prayer at the end of life group that will end a woman's struggle with admitting she no longer loves or wants to sleep with her spouse.

Instead, we say, "I'm fine!"
How are you? "I'M FINE!"
We say it until we may even believe it ourselves.
I'M FINE 
YOU'RE FINE
WE ARE ALL FINE
Let's have snacks and go home.

My dear friend put it so very eloquently:
"I think we are going to die of fineness..." 

Don't settle for the lie about being fine.
Don't settle for comfortable authenticity.
Find people, like my friend, who want to walk through the hard stuff with you.

And to Veronica...
Thank you for being there for me in such a real way this year.
And for the AMAZING quote above.
Love you, friend.

The 25¢ Hero

 
Alden has been very into coloring neatly as of late.
This is a good thing, since he has gotten a lot of papers sent home with "Neater Please," emblazoned across the top.
What can I say?
He is a third kid.
I was just happy he wasn't eating the crayons, and not worrying about him staying in the lines.
Ok, I would have been ok with minimal crayon consumption, but I digress...

So, he has been diligently coloring in the mornings before school.
He came to me last week and asked for new crayons for school.
"Do you need new crayons?" I ask.
"Are yours broken or missing?" I wondered.
I mean, why am I going to give him new crayons if he doesn't need them, right? 

"Well, no... but I just want them to be nice and sharp," he explained.

I looked down at that little face and thought, "ok, why not."
I remember loving new sharp crayons. New crayons are the best.
So I went out to the mudroom and got he and Emerson both a new pack of crayons.
I have an abundant supply, because when they are 25¢ during back to school season, I buy about ten boxes.
I can't help myself.
I love school supplies.

Those two little boys were flat out elated.
ELATED.
Over a 25¢ box of crayons.
Alden literally jumped into my arms and said, "Oh, thank you Mama!"
Then he gave me a kiss and declared me the best mom ever.
THE BEST MOM EVER!

I walked into the kitchen and told Micah,
"I just became a hero. For only 25¢."

Oh mamas, I know.
I know we don't want to raise little selfish, spoiled kiddos.
And normally I am the queen of saying kids today, mine included, have TOO MUCH stuff.
But sometimes...
give them that extra cookie,
the excessive amounts of marshmallows in their hot chocolate,
or that new box of crayons.
Be your kid's 25¢ hero. 

If a fellow isn't thankful for what he's got, 

he isn't likely to be thankful for what he's going to get.  

                                                    ~Frank A. Clark

Love and hurt...

My last blog was met with... mixed reactions.
I knew it would be.
I tried to prepare for it.

I received e-mails accusing me of being divisive,
damaging the body,
spewing my angry rhetoric,
and in general, not being a nice Christian girl.
I was told I should just move on "quietly".

That was hard, but as I said, I expected it.
I knew I was calling out something that makes us all cringe...
Maybe it is because I did not grow up in the "Bakery" that I find covering up these issues so distasteful.
A pattern of secrecy is not authentic to the message we try to share.

I did not do it to attack,
be mean,
damage the body,
or spew anything.

It was my last ditch effort to say hard things to people I love.
I had a Head Baker I loved.
I had a Bakery I loved.
I had friendships and community I loved.
I lost those things, and not for the right reasons.

I left with a heavy heart, that grew heavier still as lies were told,
people were thrown out,
and the truth would not be heard.

For the last year my heart has broken, daily, for the customers at that bakery.
Why?
Why not just say, "Screw 'em" and move on?
Because they were my family, my friends, my co-laborers.
I have shed more tears for that Bakery and her customers, and yes, even for the Head Baker.

Oh, I know.
You don't believe that part, about loving the Head Baker.
Some are saying, "You must really hate him to write that."
You could not be more wrong.
Hate can walk away.
Hate can say, forget you.
Sometimes love is not flowers and chocolates.
Sometimes, it is taking the person's hand and telling them hard things, because you love them.

When the softer approaches are met with rebuke, you take one or two with you.
When those are refused, you take more with you.
When those are refused, and you are cast out... your heart breaks.
I have been angry at actions, yes.
But I have never once stopped loving the Head Baker, the staff, and all the customers.
But sometimes, those you love, you must wound with the truth.
That is not unkind.
Or divisive.
Or angry rhetoric.
Or being a bad Christian girl.

For the last year, I feel like I have watched my "family" in a house that is on fire.
Yes, your room might not be, I get that.
But I have quietly tried to say, "I think it's hot in there."
"Is that a flame?"
"Do you smell smoke?"

My last blog post was the equivalent of finally yelling, "FIRE!"
I am sorry if the yelling hurt your ears, but not as sorry as I would be if you get burnt...

So, hate me if you must.
Lob every Bible verse about soft answers, and kind speaking at me.
I will take them.
I know my heart, and it's intent.
I also know Bakeries need to be clean to prosper, (and there are many that do) and I will not apologize for shedding light on that.