being imperfect mommy

{my family, May 2011}
me, my mommy, my daddy, my sister

your mother is so amazing
you have a fantastic father. 

these are words i hear often, frequently filling my ears from the lips of those who encounter the people that raised me. not just church people, not just family people, but strangers too, sometimes, who know me through them.

my father is the life of the party, loud and wild with a whistle and a laugh that both boom and echo so loud that they can be heard in the front of the church where i sit, compared to the back where he sits with my mother, always just that one second after the joke when the rest of the laughter has died away.

but he has these eyes, my father, the eyes that draw men to speak and share their hearts when most would rather withdraw and be quiet. he was good to his girls, my dad, my mom and sister and me, and soon his granddaughter too. most men wouldn't have cared. my daddy did.

and then there's my mom. this red-haired, coffee-carafe toting powerhouse who often starts her sentences with i'm not perfect or only by the grace of God am i here. and she's right, of course, because it takes God and only God. but mommy needs to give herself some credit too. because she spends hours with women, holding their hands and weeping with the broken. she gives of herself endless and endless to teenage girls who love her and call her mom like i do, and it's amazing.

and women tell me that listening to my mom is like listening at the feet of Jesus. and it is, because she raised me when she could have said no, and adopted me when she could have been content to give to others who didn't hold corners of her flesh in their fists. but she chose a daughter, and then another. and gave even more of herself -- the most bits of herself -- to us, my sister and me.

and i'm going to be a mom soon, any day now. and i sit and press my hands to my swollen stomach where my daughter, due tomorrow and stubbornly waiting beneath my skin where she seems to be quite comfortable in her silent liquid world. but wouldn't you be too?

i want to be the kind of mom that has people come to my little girl and say your mom is doing good. your mom is amazing. 

{via pinterest}

and i fear i won't be that kind of woman for her. i fear i'll live in flesh and in self, and not in the Jesus-shawl that my mother drapes over her shoulders when the world brings her to her knees. and i fear that i'll chose my own feet instead of kneeling on the sheepskin that my father has used for prayer since i was a little girl.

i have big shoes to fill, these ones of sacred parenting that were emulated for me by the two most amazing people i have ever encountered. and sometimes i call my mom crying, and tell her that i don't feel good enough to mother like she mothered.

and then i remember that He fathered her, and me, and my dad, and my husband. and fall is coming, a death and a life all at the same time. and my little one is coming to make me a mommy, and to make my husband a daddy.

and we won't be perfect parents. but we will be parents who love. i won't be my mom. but i'll be me, and that'll be okay, won't it?

and she'll love me for me, those tiny flailing arms and fluffy little cheeks and big still-unseen eyes of an unknown colour and hair to match, also still unknown.

but He died to make me worthy to hold this tiny one in my arms and call her my child, and made me worthy to be called mommy. He didn't die to make me perfect, to make me supermom, to make me anything but me.

He died to make me whole.

and i'm who she'll call mommy

imperfect mommy who loves Jesus

loving mommy who tries

her mommy. 

who loves her forever & always 

{linking my imperfection with dear emily and her community today. join us?}

the guy

i'm not sure how to start this post off. i have a lot to say, so much that it's brimming over and twisting my tongue into knots with the magnitude of how to begin. i feel like whatever i say, no matter how carefully thought out and prepared for your eyes, will fall entirely too short.

it's about this guy. this man i've spoken off in bits and pieces, mostly because he doesn't mind being waiting offstage while i write my soul in the center.

this man i call "husband."

and i'm ashamed to say, i've had the sun in my eyes. too blind to honestly appreciate just how much this man has done for me, and is doing in days of exhausted wife with piled clothes and unwashed plates.

he works in a factory, fifty hours of grind, and still has a volunteer's pager strapped to his belt for when fires start and cars flip over. he works all day, and sometimes late at night when the beeping wakes us both and he grabs for boots with bleary eyes and tousled blonde hair, barely time to press a kiss to my sleeping lips before he's gone out the door to save a life.

now he takes the piled jeans and puts them in the machine, and washes dirty plates and knives when my feet ache too much to stand. and when my stomach churns, he sits outside the door because it makes him sick too. but he does what he can because he doesn't want to leave me alone.

there's late-night runs for grape slushies and onion rings with ranch dressing, and countless nights of sleep disturbed while his wife tosses in discomfort and leaves little room for him in bed with the thousand curving pillows and left-side sleeping.

and still his strong fingers find that one spot in my back and press for relief, and rub my neck and brush my hair. this is man i share a booth with, pancakes and bacon and root beer every Saturday morning. the exhausted man, the hard-working man.

{via pinterest}

the one who kisses my nose and brings home chocolate when he knows i'm overwhelmed. the man who holds me in one arm with the other hand on my stomach, waiting to feel the kicks for himself.

and my daughter carries his genes. oh, how honoured i am to carry the strength of this man's flesh and bone merged with mine to create a whole new tiny warrioress for the world. she is not all me -- she bears more than my feeble strength. she has his too, and i am so glad.

this is the man i'm having a baby with, the one i'm sharing my life with. the one that waited in a white suit with a red rose on his lapel at the end of a long aisle two and a half years ago.

this is my husband. this is my hero.

so the nights will still be long, but he will still tangle his legs with mine and run his fingers through my hair while he rubs my back and waits for a little kick to remind him that he is "daddy."

 he is altogether lovely.

this is my beloved, this is my friend,

    daughters of Jerusalem.

cotton & clocks {118}

another Monday.

but this one is different. 

on this day, i will only share one blessing of my thousands. my list will grow, but only by one.

because today marks two years. 

two years since we said i do. 

two years since i awoke to four girls singing going to the chapel at my drowsy bedside.

two years since we raced here and there on a bitterly cold October day from salon to house to church and back again sixteen times.

two years since he took my hand and never looked back.
two years since i tripped going up the aisle because i stepped on my hem.

two years since my father made his address behind my back since he made the promise "not to cry in front of me."

two years since we became man and wife. 

two years of tears. laughter. heartache. hospital visits. picnics. hardships. sunrises and sunsets.

this is my blessing. #118.

my man. my soulmate.

my "broom," as my autotext just accidentally referred to him.

my husband. 
happy anniversary, baby.

i love you.

amigos

five minute fridays. we write for five, and only five, minutes. no editing, no overthinking, no backtracking. linking up with the gypsy mama.

the word

FRIENDS

now GO...

i wonder where i'd be without them. 

these people who have radically transformed. touched. caressed and pushed and held and gripped my wrist so tight as i slip beneath the surface and pulled me up again.

man was not meant to be alone.

each one of us has the one partner with whom we are meant to spend our lives. 


and i have found my precious true Love and life companion, and my life would not be the same without him to hold my heart. my true best friend is him, indeed. 

but there are those others. 

those other lifeguards that watch your shore, those other hands to hold as roads are raced, those other heads of hair to blow in the wind from rolled-down car windows as music flows through each strand. 

so much shouting. laughter. wisdom. precious ones. 

{via pinterest}

{those tissue bearers. those shoulder-lifters. 

those warm blankets for a wounded soul, those comforting wraps for laughter at the fireside. 


those sisters. those brothers. 


those dearhears that can look back at the page and say, 

yes, we were there. but we overcame. and we sang and laughed and wept and danced and leaped for the pureness of it all. 

together. 

companions. 

my precious ones. 

my sister. my Abby. 

my soul sister. my Alex.

my tender mother. my sweet mother-in-law. 

my loyal father. 

my brothers. my sisters. 

lists too long to name. but i love you. 

my team. 

champions all.

survivors all. 

His all. 

{the fantasy giveaway ends TONIGHT! be sure to enter here before midnight tonight}

As You Wish

"Death can not stop true love, it can only delay it for a little while" ~ The Princess Bride

I can quote a lot of lines from a lot of movies. It's just one of my many quirks. My memory seems to latch onto cinematic dialogue. I have no valid explanation.

However, there is one movie that I can quote in its entirety without hardly batting an eye.

The Princess Bride.

For those of you who haven't had the distinct privilege of viewing this 1987 cult classic film...GO WATCH IT. Because, I have to say, it is one of the most incredible movies ever released.

Oddly enough, as my husband pointed out to me tonight, it is the movie that best describes our marriage.

One scene in particular, actually.

The Dread Pirate Roberts has "rescued" Buttercup from the hands of her three unusual kidnappers, and they are on the run together. They stop for a brief rest on a mountaintop. Roberts is being rather gruff and brutal with her, mocking her and treating her sorrow over the death of her one true love, Westley, as something trivial

She finally becomes fed up with him and screams in his face,

"You mocked me once; never do it again. I died that day...and you can die too, for all I care."

With that, she shoves him off the cliff and watches him tumble head over heals down the mountainside. As he falls, Roberts manages to call three simple words back up to her.

"As...you...wish..."

Buttercup suddenly realizes that the man that she has just potentially murdered is not the frightening Dread Pirate Roberts. It is her soulmate, Westley, whom she had thought to be dead. Horrified, she throws herself down the mountain after him.

In so many ways, that is my response with Jon. He becomes gruff or sharp with me in a time of conflict, and I retaliate with a knee-jerk reaction of pushing him away from me...maybe not down a literal cliff, but most certainly in a way that disrespects him.

Suddenly, I realize that I have just injured the man whom I love the most in this world, and I throw myself down after him. I would rather be wounded myself than to live the rest of my days knowing that I had hurt him and had lost him forever.

This is the conundrum that is so prevalent with marriages all across the world. We hurt the ones we love, and then we self-destruct in a last-ditch effort to save the one we have just wounded so brutally. This unending cycle seems intent on destroying our relationships -- not just with our spouses, but also with our friends and family members.

It's at moments like this when I look into my husband's eyes, and I realize something so incredibly powerful.

Jon loves me. He would risk his own safety to protect me and keep me safe.

He would brave the Cliffs of Insanity.

...swim through "eel-infested waters."

...sword-fight with a Spaniard.

...engage in hand-to-hand combat with a man six times his own size.

..."go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!"

...brave the three terrors of the Fire Swamp (lightning sand, flame spurt, and even R.O.U.S's)...

...and finally, he would even undergo the most horrific of tortures and surrender his life

...all for me.

Because he loves me just that much.

So maybe, I need to lay down my pride, take his hand, and brave these terrors of life together. Because, as everyone knows...

"This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?"

Real

I have OWD. Obsessive-writer disorder. It's a fact.

I will spend hours staring at the same blank page, racking my brain for something to write. And it can't be just any old nonsensical idea. It has to be perfect. Flowing. Grammatically correct. Poetic, while still being real. Tonight alone, I have started and erased about ten different blog posts.

Why?

...so many reasons.

I have people that read my blog that don't even know me. All they have are these words, sporadically typed up and published by a nineteen year old wanna-be writer who's nuts about Jesus Christ, cares too much, loves until she's got nothing left, and might just be a little be insane.

And honestly, I was at the point tonight when I didn't even know if I was gonna even write anything worth publishing. Again.

But then, I got to thinking.

There's about five people in my life who know me on an extremely intimate and personal level. They've seen the beauty, the ugliness, the tears, the heartbreak: my husband, my parents, my sister, and my two best friends. And every single one of them has told me at one point or another that I mean the world to them...just they way I am.

Last night, my husband kissed me in the grocery store parking lot for no reason whatsoever. He just grabbed me, put his arms around me, and kissed me. We've been kissing one another for almost two years; the kiss itself wasn't uncommon. But there was something about that innocent kiss that made my eyes well up. Jon has endured a lot in the 2 1/2 years that we've been together, and even more since in our 9 months of marriage. And even after the fights, the pink socks, the late dinners, and the lack of blankets, he still loves me enough to sweep me off my feet and remind me of just how much he loves me.

So now, I've decided. No more over-scrutinizing. No more self-degradation.

I'm done.

I'm going to be real. I'm going to shoot straight. I'm not going to worry about being the world's best blogger, or the most perfect writer. I'm not going to hide any more.

I'm tossing my mask on the rubbish heap.

I'm going to be me.

Girl, 19. In love with and sold out for Jesus Christ.

Madly in love with the man who stole my heart and made me his bride.

Artistic, emotional.

Loving hard, caring deeply, heart on my sleeve.

Blessed with two of the most amazing parents and sweet-hearted sister in this world.

Has two incredible best friends, and a whole host of remarkable friends who make my world shine.

Slightly insane, but that's okay.

Because that's me.