Voting Day

“This is what the LORD says— He who created you, Jacob, He who formed you, Israel: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name;
you are mine.”

— Isaiah 43:1

I’ve heard that people change in an instant.
It’s not a long series of months and years, it’s one choice.
One simple decision.
In one split second.
People have these epiphanies and they know that moment that they can have a totally different life.
And so, change is born.
There’s process and stumbles from there forward, but the decision to go another way happens in a breath.
When you know, you know.
And then you turn around 180 degrees and walk the other way.

And so it is with me.
And today.
And right now.
I have lived too long in tired stories of how others are more qualified, more connected, more talented.
They may be.
However, I’m responsible for me and now.
Where I am, as I am.
I’ve only got one life, and I’m not getting any younger.
They are them.
I am me.
Onward.

And so I took a vote internally, and decided quite simply to cast one for me.
And today was the day.
Hit me hard. Hit me beautifully.
I instantly made a bold choice and solicited no second opinion before I made the move.
The dawning hit at daybreak, while I was watering the flowers in my backyard…

Here it is…
I can write.
I can inspire.
I can hold space, sit shiva, fill a room, command attention, coach, build, act, dream, do, lead.
I have something to say, to give, to contribute.
Doesn’t have to be him because he’s a president, or her because she got the certification, or them because they achieved a following.
It can be me.
Me the one who knows a few things, the one who’s been up and over the downside, the one who’s been fired, turned away, looked over, sent home.
Me, the one who didn’t make the cut, who waited too long, who didn’t turn out.

It doesn’t have to be her earning more money because she’s younger; more promising, or him because he’s painfully handsome and knows the right people.
I can earn the money.
Their education. Their family line. Their privilege. Good for them.
That’s not me, but I am me.
Where I’m at, what I have, what I know, what I say, at this exact point in time.
This 2020. All is NOT lost.

And so, with the wellness business I’m growing and the book and screenplay I’m writing, and the crystal clear dream I have to pay off debt, and take care of home repairs, and treat people to dinner, and go back ten years to dole out gift cards to grads and brides I’ve long since put off, and fly to distant cities to see friends, and finally get a car that has working air conditioning, and once and for all, support causes I care about with actual measurable dollars… I’m doing it.
I’m not listening to those who said I can’t.
I’m not making space for the negative attitudes that see what I’m doing and roll their eyes.
They’re not against me really. They’re against them.
They see my commitment to blaze a trail, and cheer me on, they just don’t see any way possible for them so they vote themselves out.
I’ve done that.
Over and over.

And now I’m done.

I look through files in my basement, paging through grad school applications, and recommendation letters, remnants of businesses started, scripts marked up from auditions and automotive tours. I’ve hidden them, in some ways, yet wanting them to get found in others.
I did do a few important and valuable things, didn’t I?
The things with which I’ve had a hard time parting, not completely wanting to ignore, but afraid for people to see, in case I get dismissed, or receive a sigh because my inadequacy to make the cut, will be in plain view.
They’ll minimize my attempts.
So, I shrink myself, before anyone else does.
Coward. That’s what I’ve been for so long.
I’ve talked myself out of a zillion things cuz I was surrounded ALWAYS by the more qualified, wealthy, skilled.

And this morning, when I was watering my purple petunias, having taken stock of my war scars and bruised heart, I made the choice that I was going to boldly move in a brand new direction.
No more silencing myself.
No more fan girling over the people who peel their carrots one stroke at a time, like I do.
I’m gonna till the soil and dismantle the pedestals I’ve built under people who live and breathe the same air and walk on the same ground.
I’m gonna believe what my dear friend told me once, “Nadyne, they’re not better than you.”
And, I’m going to put my work into this world.
My writing, my coaching, my beautiful wellness retreat and products, my heart to help people make money, and my obsession to help alleviate human suffering, by loving people fiercely, and forever.
That is what I do.

All out.
Starting today.
No holds barred.
Voting “yes”.

My Amazing Mama

Winter fades, signs of new life budding everywhere.

The smells are palpable, teasing the tongue, promising the palate that something beneath the surface is bursting forth. I can feel the Good News germinating. 

A warm embrace of the spring breeze lifts the corners of my forlorn lips, shifting them to smiles and breath and relief. Shoulders relax.

My eyes open. 

My heart comes alive. 

Brown turns to green.

Stillness to movement.

Cold turns warm.

Dying turns to living. 

Tiny white flowers appear on brittle branches, waking up from winter’s harsh winds.
In the distance, chirps and tweets and chatters grace the fields and swamps, as small critters begin their assent from slumber to bustle, from southern places to nests in northern trees.

Spring is here.

I open my hands and wait expectantly. 

Hope peeks over the horizon.

As you arrive, and promise new life and I muster up strength to accept you, I hold my mother’s frail frame, realizing there’s a change coming. 
 The natural world is going to run its course in the trees and flowers and winds and waters, and in her too.

Her mind releases its need to articulate thoughts. 

Her lips move carefully, speaking only what’s necessary.
Her words are choice and few.
Her eyes distance. 
Her grip weakens.

She smiles assuringly still, ever and always being the mother she’s been - trying to comfort and provide and protect, but she’s saying good bye.

In the way she can. 


I know it now. 

I’m finally willing to surrender to the inevitable truth, I’ve been holding tightly for a long time.
And I carry her to the room she loves, like I’ve always done.

There, sunlight is generous and space provides tranquility.

The Silver Maple awakens, preparing for the dance. Buds are breaking open.
Everywhere.
All around me.
I tuck her bony arms inside the chair rails, adjusting her thinning hair, and smiling her into a thinning veil of comfort, facing the fact that this daily charade I’ve come to love is going to end.

And we’re going to be separated.

And she is going to leave me.

As she should.



I wrestle with God a bit.

Bargaining with Him for one more day, one more kiss, one more gentle wink from her quiet eyes, but I begin to accept that there’s going to be a falling, a descent, a bitter taste.

She’s going to die.

I knew it all along, but now I see it clearly making its entrance, uninvited though it may be. 



There’s a circle to this life and this moment brings me all the way around it with her.

As I douce my hands with lavender oil, fingering it over the skin, I transfer it to her restless legs hoping that my combination of tender and firm massaging will offer up some sort of reprieve to her weakening.
That the life I have in my hard working hands will stimulate whatever functioning cells she has left, prompting them to fire and do their job, even as they tire as well.



 Somewhere in the mixture of this calling to care for her, I waffle between wanting to extend our routines, and wanting them to end. 

I can’t possibly do this forever, but maybe I can. 

I love this.

I hate this.

Holding both extremes in my heart, trusting God will reveal the sense in it, and direct me.

She can’t walk anymore. 

Her appetite suppresses. 

Her constant giving spirit, and the generosity for which she’s become known, detach. 

And it strikes me, I’m only holding the shell of who she was.

I’m doing this rubbing, and tucking in at night, and offering of myself - for me.
She doesn’t need this anymore.
I do.

I think she knows that, so she gives herself yet again to appease my obsession.
She allows the prayers and early morning worries because she knows I need it. 

And not really for any other reason.
In a wide sense, she's already free. 

She’s just waiting patiently, allowing me a few more glimpses, an added touch here and there, patiently waiting for me to catch up to what she’s long been assured of.

She’s moving somewhere. 

Boldly. 

Confidently.

Her control is relinquished. 

She knows there’s a Resurrection coming, she’s just standing in the wings, cued and ready,
awaiting her turn.



And you, Spring... you are speaking the promise just outside the window where we daily look.

You were once who she is now, a life at its end. 

What was failing in your browning grass, and crinkling leaves, aimlessly drifting beneath the winter’s snow, is now a full emergent display of hope. You came back around.


Your dormancy became progress.

Your cruel violence became twinkling inspiration.

Your dying became living.

Your brittle branches, iced over and suffocating - became flowers.

Pink. 

And green.

And white.



And now I see.

None of your whimsical colors come without having first been grey.

Life only comes when death comes first.

You are the hope Mama has been so desperately aching for me to know.
I say to her one more time, “I’m going to miss you Mommy.”

With no words, she offers a labored smile, comforting with a similar lament, as we surrender together,
though she knows the secret. 


She’s trusting I know it too. 

And in our silence, the reckoning.

The goodbye nears.

Resurrection is close.



God, way back when this started, this beginning to the end, you made me a clear promise.
It washes over me now, as I sift through the confusing and clashing emotions.

You promised you’d be near, you’d walk me through, you’d hold me close.
You said you’d speak what I needed and provide what protected - at opportune times and in mysterious ways.
 All I was to do was trust it.

Trust you. 

You showed me in countless measure that you were as near as my breath, as her breath... that you were in the waiting, the dying. 

You told me clearly that there was a purpose and that you would accomplish it.
That my serving would make sense, that my pain would turn to joy, that my lamenting would turn to dancing. 
You revealed in the days and hours that you were taking us all the way around the circle, from death to life.

And you did.


And, as I knew it, holding fear and faith in the palms of my weary hands, she breathed one last time.
I watched the rise of her chest… expand with a peaceful relinquishing sigh.
Almost a satisfying, desirous sigh…
And she gave up her spirit.
This exhale would be her final one.
And I got to be there.

Right there on the threshold of heaven.
And time stopped.
You revealed Yourself, yet again.

Now what?
Everything is utterly different.
Meaningless by all accounts.
I’m still.
I don’t know what to do.

Her assent begins.
New life taking wings.
She’s rising to that Resurrection you promised her.
Promised me.
I can almost see it as I hold her lifeless body once last time.
I’m tempted to lie across her just to make sure it’s true.

And though still I can only see dimly, she finally sees face-to-face. 

That body I served, those hands I caressed, and those feet I kept hoping would walk again have arrived safely home. 

Each having done their job. 

Her work is done.

I didn’t get to have what I wanted, that her life would last longer and longer, that we could keep going.
We were fine, I thought.
She was healthy.
We were just getting started it seems.
I didn’t need to hear those flippant comments from bystanders - that “she’d lived a long life” and “that it’s just fine for it to be over now”.
In the final analysis, when her arms went utterly limp, and her hands no longer gripped, I would have gone another hundred years with her and it wouldn’t have been long enough.

But, it’s not about that sometimes.
That we want to keep going, to continue toiling.
Seasons of rest must come.
They’re actually earned.
Mama had paid up.
Surrender was required.
And so she did.
Now, I have to.
The circle of life with all its rhythms is supposed to go this exact way.
I know.
I know.
Lives end.

That’s the deal.


Lord God, You showed me in the buds of spring, in the transformation of the cold ground into a warm earth - ripe for provision, in the colorful tulips lining the daybreak this morning of her homegoing, that you would continue the cycle.

She’s done her part.
And my role in that is done.
And it’s okay.
And now, it’s mine to continue.
In this cycle where there is birth, life, death, and Resurrection, you are there orchestrating the next move, helping me tell my story, guiding me further into Yours.

In my heartbreak and uncertainty of the future I cannot see, You will hold me steadfast.
You will keep moving me forward, moving us all forward.

Never making me face what is too lofty, but always calling and equipping for what is mine to do and face and feel and conquer.
For my good. For Your glory.

She’s home.
And good.
And happy.
And You will still be with me.
You’ll walk me through.
You’ll fill in, lift up, wrap around, and show Yourself constant.
You keep Your promises.
I don’t need to see any further ahead then the footsteps in front of me.
You’re there.
Guiding.
My hand in Yours.

Christmas Changes

Late at night.
Christmas Eve.
Church with the family. Shepherd boys, children’s choir, Silent Night by candlelight and such…
and now home.
So quiet.
The tree is twinkling. Ornaments hanging with decades of stories holding them on evergreen branches.
Amy Grant sings in the background.
Gifts are wrapped.
Bows are tied.
Vacuum is run.
Kitchen tidy.
Dishwasher humming.
My work is done.
And now I wait.
Bedtime in a bit.
But not without a few minutes to notice.

I take an intentional moment, just before heading off to bed, to sit still and alone on the floor.
I lean against the sofa and look around.
I created this.
This Christmas wonderland… a combination of yesterday and today, past and present.
Remembering when my teenager was a toddler, and how different this night looked then.
And okay with how it is now.
Just so different.
Trying to keep up.
Keep my head and heart in what I have now.
I force myself to see exactly what is.
It is good.
If I’m not careful, I will unravel.
Unraveling is fine.
And '“careful” is overrated.
I’m just so wanting to hold it together for now.
Unraveling will come soon enough.

I have shelter from the cold.
I have food enough.
I have a husband and a child.
They’re healthy, sleeping, satisfied, peaceful.

The table is set. Three plates. Three forks. Three knives. Three spoons.
All good.

But there’s a problem.
Or so it seems.
We used to have five forks and five knives and five spoons, plates, glasses, and bowls.
Christmas with three is fine.
But Christmas with five is what it’s always been.
And now it’s not and the absence haunts me.

I have always been the deep in contemplation and soul wrenching aware type.
The gift and curse of my particular DNA.
When I wish I could just jump in bed, though dirty dishes might remain in the sink and unwrapped Christmas gifts could just be thrown together another time, I’m not free like that.
And so I sit on the floor replaying, and remembering, and wishing I could rewire it all.
That she would be back.
Opa would be with her.
And our three would be five.

But it’s not like that.
Change comes.
Christmas change.
And I have to accept it.

And so I do.
For now.

Still

The older I get (and always this time of year), I realize more and more that I need to drop everything once in awhile, and just go stand in my backyard.
It’s breathtakingly gorgeous with its canopy of red and yellow and orange.
The maples are dripping in a golden hue, as the oaks linger in green awhile.
I have a nagging sense of unrest often, and seek comfort beyond these boundaries when really, if I’m quiet and still I can find what I’m looking for, right here.
Stillness.
Sabbath.
Rest.
Here.
Now.

My goodness, I rush around too much.
I live sometimes, like hurry is the only answer to the best life and people who do just one thing at a time are either lazy or in want of a dream. I talk big about walks in the woods, and quiet mornings with my chilly hands wrapped around a mug of hot peppermint tea, but of late, (and more often than not), I’m on the phone talking to one person, and texting three others, while curling my hair, doing a wall sit, and quick cramming in a load of laundry… and then wondering why I feel forgetful, distant, disconnected, discontent.

I have good intentions.
I start out the week doing what I say, and then things unravel quickly, at break neck speeds. Creative obsessions takeover.
I’m upside down with the hours and minutes, trying to milk each one for every drop, yet standing knock kneed; paralyzed, getting nothing done, showcasing epic fails.
I truly do live in excellent rhythms most of the time,
but it’s easy for me to slip into a con game.
I talk big and don’t deliver.
To and for others, I do alright.
But to myself and the pretty little goal lists I make, I trim the edges, skip over what matters, blow off commitments.
Who’s gonna know? Only me.
I coach people with successful tips for the “life worth having” and then forget to do the very practices I “live by” and swear to others will change their lives.
I heard a preacher say once, “If you want to become an expert on a subject, commit to teaching it,” Oh, how true that is.

So, I learn and share and post and pray with all the wonderful people who come to me for tips and support, yet sorely miss the mark for myself.
I’m learning as I teach you, it’s helping me teach me.
Even the whole blog writing thing… It’s been forever since I sat still long enough to do the very thing that makes my soul soar, but I portray sometimes like “I’m a writer” and then resist the actual stroke of the pen.
I’m a phony one moment and a girl scout the next.

So today, I literally just looked out my window in a rare and unscheduled moment, dropped everything, saw the autumn sun peeking through the trees, and rushed out there to stand in the stillness… the unadulterated and pure silence of the woods that is my very backyard.
Right between the eyes, I was struck deep with the profound idea that everything I need is right here, at least for now.
So glad I didn’t miss it.
At least not this time.

He is Risen Indeed!

How in the world I am sitting here snuggled in my jammies on a giant king bed, far away from home in this North Carolina ocean shore town enjoying way beyond the comforts of home to reflect and finally share these words with you, I truly do not know. 
I'm not kidding you, I dreamed it up, made a couple phone calls, scrounged around in the basement for my wragged cut-offs and t-shirts from 10 summer's ago in hopes to maybe, possibly pull together a spring break for my kid and her friends, and here we are.
It fell into place like dropping a wet towel in the laundry.
I work for months to plan much simpler endeavors, yet this epic vacation took a notion and a thrown together hour or two.  Funny how that is.
I'm all for planning and such, but sometimes we just need to act on a whim.
Were I to tell you how it all came to be, you wouldn't believe it.  
Anyway, this blog isn't supposed to be about that but it bears telling as a backdrop for what I want you to know.

Last week, my 40 day Lenten journey culminated with an obsession to be in church.
Not just any church.
I wanted as Catholic as Catholic could get.  
You know, vestments on Cardinals and altar boys processing in with wooden crucifixes, and sweet incenses and candles surrounding the Holy Bible, covered in ornate gold.
Why? 
For me as a protestant, it's not that I need all that to believe, I just wanted to make a silent departure from my faith tradition in hopes to find more quiet, more focus, more stillness.
I find when I stay in known places and traditions, I get on auto-pilot and miss what's important.  
Out of my head, my analysis, my familiarity (that so often accompany me in the sacred spaces I frequent)... I simply longed for emptiness of the modern distractions that constantly distort and threaten to steal my gratitude.
And not that the Jesus I know exists in stained-glass windows and shiny statues, I just wanted high ceilings and marble floors and the company of strangers... the ones who teach me stuff without knowing it, the ones who let me freely experience individual worship so I can concentrate on what God might be trying to say to me.
I wanted mystery and a bit of stretching; even the kind that makes me a little uncomfortable. In that fidgeting and nail biting question and ache phase, I'm going deeper still.  
That's where it all gets good.
Really good.

In all the years I've been loving Jesus, these last 40 days tenderized me in ways I never thought possible.  How can I be more raw, more dialed-in, than I already am?
I find myself often crying, extremely tender-hearted about something extraordinary God's doing in the world, and in me. 
Isn't that enough? 
How much more can I take?
I literally feel my heart beat differently with each passing trip around the sun.
Have I not felt and seen and tasted enough of the unfathomable goodness of God?
Nevertheless, I still wanted to be with the people of the "earliest" church, watching them, being near to their practices, their hearts.
The story we both believe is one I simply wanted to share in their presence.  
I wanted the Stations of the Cross, the creeds, the cantor, the reciting of scriptures, the liturgies I've heard but certainly can't recite like they can, and even all the confusion of when to stand and sit and kneel and bow, and how funny I might look if I do it "wrong".

So, I researched "Catholic Churches in my city" on a bunch of websites, zeroing in on one and decided to experience the depths of the Paschal Triduum (the three high holy days leading up to Resurrection Sunday) as a simple protestant girl longing for yet another layer of knowing God and "acquainting myself with His suffering." 
I watched the priest wash feet on Holy Thursday, walk us through the Passion on Good Friday, and lead us into Resurrection on Easter Vigil Saturday.

And then... something happened.  Something unexpected, unplanned, unbridled.

I found more love. 
My heart got bigger still. 
My mind stretched. 
My tired patterns, interrupted.  
I saw His face.
I heard His cry.
I felt His pain.

For each of you, I simply longed for you to know what I know... to see what I see.
That his beaten, mocked, and crucified body was laid bare for you.
You were on on His mind.
You were the reason.
His eyes met mine on each waking moment of these hours leading up to the glorious sunrise of Easter, reminding me that His grace really is that amazing, His forgiveness; that abounding, and His love, that enduring.  And whether or not you believe it, or Him, or me... it's true.
I wanted you to know.

I was very specific this Lent in my prayer life, my practice, my love.
I wanted more of Him, more knowing, more assurance because I want to be there for you when your hope runs out, when your last dream shatters, when your plan fails.
I can't be there for you on my own. 
I have nothing to give unless I am in a perpetual state of seeking
more,
deeper,
stiller,
quieter.. all in a humble hope that I might tap into the resource that God can be only in those places, filling my well to fill yours.

And beloved friend, in my seeking I found.
In my restrictions of food and speech and small worldly pleasures for a mere 40 days, I tasted a new God, a new reservoir of provision, an abundance of unlimited resources.
Just like I had hoped for, a new peace, a sense of greater understanding showed up.
A fog lifted.
This peace might have been there all along, but my eyes were newly opened to see wider, to expand greater, to taste sweeter.
The miraculous Spirit of God is moving, speaking, inviting.  
I can feel it.
I want you to as well.

How did I get to this seaside retreat, relishing in the respite of ocean breezes and sun-kissed noses on giggling teenagers?  Not sure really, but perhaps because I got super serious about shutting off noises and limiting a few conveniences for a few weeks, so I could actually see and hear what's been in front of me all along. 

Opportunities arise.
Gifts present themselves. 
We don't notice sometimes.
We're too busy listing what's missing.
My 40 day withdrawal gave me new legs to stand on, new mindspace for exploration, fresh feelings for the God whose been holding me tight, even as I've wandered.
A few births and lifes and deaths and resurrections had to cycle around for me to calm the hell down and notice what's already mine so I could tell you what's already yours.

Grace.
Peace.
Provision.
Hope.
Forgiveness.
Promise.

It came for you in the washing of feet, the serving of the bread and wine, the scorging and crucifying of the body, the three days in the tomb, and then the rising.
Christ the Lord is risen today!
He is absolutely and completely risen right now, right here, for you.
Forever.
For always.

Happy Easter. 
Happy Resurrection.
Happy New Life.


 

40 Days

I awake today with fresh hope.
The shining sun helps for sure.
It's Valentines Day. 
The Love in the air that I feel all the time, feels more "felt" right now.
I slip on my one and only red blouse, apply a glittery pink lip gloss around my decisive smile and with bold approach, head into this day looking for the good; the lovely.
I'm focusing my attention on what I love, whom I love, where I am, and where I want to be.
That's a lot all at once, but my intentional slower pace allows for savoring each thought.
I even take a 7 minute moment of silence to reflect on these things in full confidence that I'll be renewed and will for certain, find what I'm looking for.
 
My head just spins too much.
I'm rushing even when I'm sitting still.
I have these nagging notions to fret about the future and dwell in the past, missing what's right in front of me.  
And by "future", I'm only talking like 10 minutes from now, and by "past", I'm just thinking about last night's supper.  It's not wrong and particularly paralyzing, but it sure borders on such.
When I'm slicing a lemon, I should be loading the dishwasher.
When I'm putting lotion on my left leg, I should be  smoothing it in on my right.
I'll get the mail out to work on bills, see a sock on the floor, and rush it to the dirty clothes bin.  On the way to the laundry room, see the driveway needs shoveling.  I stop everything to do that and remember the shovel is broken.  I go to my bank account to see if I have anything left to run buy a shovel, and notice two emails I forgot to answer, and feel a need to quick check my recent Facebook post to see if anyone has "liked" it. 
I finally get out the door to buy the shovel.   
I come home to start shoveling, bound and determined to pay attention to NOTHING else til I get that done and of course, I remember something I was supposed to drop off at my daughter's school, and that I have only 1 hour to do it before the deadline hits and we're charged a $20 late registration fee.  So I go do that.
On the drive to her school, I'm crying.
I've shamed myself obsessively for all 10 miles trying to get to her school on time, because I never got the bills done, didn't shovel the driveway, forgot to actually press "send" on the emails I finally wrote, and see that no one has "liked" my post. 
I miss the deadline, get charged the $20 and come home to the pile of bills, still sitting there in unopened envelopes... uncared for, unrecorded, unpaid. 
That was the ONE THING I was going to do today and I didn't do it.
It was the most important thing. 
I laid my head on my pillow the night before, reciting silently over and over, "if I get nothing else done tomorrow, I'm going to work on the bills."
And, now it's 3pm.
What I swore to do and carefully planned out didn't happen.  
I'm officially defeated and I have a headache.
"I got nothing done", I say to myself.  
Oh wait, I put the dirty sock in the washer.
There, I got something done.

And life goes like this.
At least for me.
Please tell me it does for you, at least once in awhile.
You've been reading about, and purposing to slow down, haven't you?
You know you need to.
The stupid pace of running through the house shifting papers from one pile to the next, chasing dirty socks from room to room, and slapping our own hands because of what we didn't get done isn't sustainable.
You just noticed a "slow down" magazine cover in the check-out aisle and this time, you gotta take it seriously.  This is a sign.

So yeah, that was me.  
One too many articles and posts and headlines attempting to get my attention, warning me that a train wreck is ahead if I don't do something, so I am. 

I'm taking these 40 days to zoom in on mindfulness like I never have before.
I'm starting with my morning pace as soon as I hear the alarm.
I'm going to grab my slippers, pour myself a tall glass of water, go into the living room, sit on the sofa, look out over the field and trees behind my house and sit there in the silence for at least a minute or two or ten.
Then, I'm going to count my blessings and name each one.
From there, I'll take out the blender, pour in the almond milk and the blueberries and the spinach and sit still while I drink that.  I'm not going to drink it while I blow-dry my hair and watch You Tube videos.  I'm just going to drink my smoothie.

And I'm going to keep doing this with mindfulness for 40 days.
During this time, I'm inviting you to join me.
I'll provide helpful tips and share honest stories about my experience.
I'm planning to succeed, just like you do when you make a goal, but I'll slip, just like you do.
And it'll all be fine.  I'm going to keep going because life change happens in small steps and until I take one at a time, I can't see any change.
It's pretty simple really.  
The process is the transformation.  

Jesus took 40 days.
I'm taking His cue.
Will you join me in setting aside some precious time and make deliberate plans to be still.
Let's practice quieting our bodies and minds and digestive tracks and mouths and see if we don't see God show up anew. 
He will. 
I'm believing to that end.
 

You are my only friend.

We've been planning this day for awhile.
Well, actually ten years.
But now it's here, rushing in without warning.
With no idea how hard it would hit, (like most of life's meaningful experiences) I crumble into the fetal position, spooned around her as we lay bare of walls and apologies.
It's like this... These are her last few moments of breath and I am helping her die.
That's how deep, how real, how intense, this hour is.
Sacred and holy, both of us clinging to each other, we cuddle on her bed in silence.
The ticking of her clock, the hum of the fan, and swirling thoughts of pain and confusion haunt us both.  This is new territory... as in, not like anything else at all, thus far.
Ever.
Not for us.

High School.
A gigantic high school where she knows absolutely no one.
Not one face even slightly familiar.  Gorgeous groups of blonde, tall girls giggling in their tight circles of 5 - all sharing snapchats and sneakers and dressed exactly alike.
Cute boys in matching ball caps, tilted backwards and preppy shorts, orange and royal blue, topped off with wrinkly, collard button downs, just off their summer boat trips, posing for anyone's notice.
A few stragglers here and there, a healthy mix of culture, and all of it, just overwhelming, by anyone's standard.  
And yeah, we're doing this to her on purpose.
Might be the cruelest thing I've done thus far.  
Throwing her to the lions, pushing her off the diving board, sending her to bed without supper, and making her wear her retainer every night, all combined into one, pale in comparison.
This is what it feels like right now.  
I'm doing something TO her.
I'm giving her no options.  I'm not letting her come up for air.
I'm just laying down the law, making her face this Navy Seals training (of sorts), and not offering an ounce of mercy, no matter how much she begs for it.  

I lay here holding her, my hand on her heart, feeling her chest go up, go down.
Being still to notice how this feels.
This primal desire to care for, to protect, to defend her.  
And I too, wanting a way out.
Thinking about Jesus, under that tree, in the garden, begging God, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.  Not my will, but Thine be done." I want to pray that, to be that, to surrender to that.
But how?
I know what's best for the greater good and that isn't a way out, or around, or instead of, but through.  Walking one tiny step after another, focused on what's coming, while present to what is and believing this movement is leading somewhere, I allow the silence and our breath to be enough.  

Knowing this is life for her now.
This step, this rite of passage, this portal to growing up.  
And with words failing me, I scramble to think of something, asking God to show up immediately and fill my lips with the wisdom she needs.
She's looking at me for a lifeline but I'm falling apart, searching my heart and rattling my brain for even just a nugget of hope; something kind and caring, but real and raw.  
I can't help.
I can't make it go away.
It's a part of transition and it has to happen.  
I receive more silence.  Taking it in as an unwelcome guest.
Finally, these words come, and I fumble to speak,
"My darling girl, I'm right here.  Struggling with some of the same things.
Loneliness.  
Transitions.  
The loss of friends.  
Fear of being unneeded, unwanted, wondering if I matter to anyone, even you sometimes."  
Attempting to level the ground, I tell bits of my story, hoping to take away some of her isolation.
We're in this together.  
All of us are.  I want her to know that, if she knows nothing else.
Change.
Goodbyes.
Hellos.
New and unfamiliar days.

She turns from her distant, blank stare, looking up at me with glassy eyes and a helplessness, fit for anyone's final day, and all I can offer finally is this:
"The only way out is through and I'm here." 

I can see in her despair and crippling fear, she's trying to bring me comfort, to be grown-up and helpful and yet clinging to childhood and the arms of the one who's supposed to be her rock.  And somewhere between her kindergarten self and her teenage autonomy, she nods in peaceful assurance.  
She gets it.  
I get it.  
And we just wait.
I play a song and sing her to sleep.
My pain is lightened some, but mostly the mutual ache persists.  

I remember my sophomore year and can hardly replay the events without sobbing.
As she finds temporary comfort in my warm and sweaty embrace, I play back the time I was a young girl and had to make a difficult decision, and how the unpopularity of it cost me dearly in the social acceptance quest... Would I do it differently had I another chance?  How might life have played out, had I not risked what I did?  Could I have avoided the pain that so shapes me now?  I anguished for another way then, but my Daddy encouraged the same sentiment I share with Ava now, "It's 'through' not 'instead of' that the greatest redemption happens.  You can do this and I am with you."
And I see with new eyes as if I'm being held now in my father's arms.
I made it through.
And so will she.
And I'm here for her, like he was there for me.

As I carefully slide my arms out from under the crevice of her neck, mindful not to startle and awake her, I prepare to go, certain she is deep in sleep.
But to my surprise and a combination of delight and more pain, she slowly looks up at me and says, "Mama, you are my only friend in the world.  Thank you."

We see through the mirror dimly.
We cannot comprehend in our trial that ease will ever come, but it does.
There's no way of knowing when or how, but it does.
She can't imagine she'll ever feel welcome into the tight circles or at the lunch table, and right now there's no view of relief in sight, but like you and me have made it through, over and over, difficulty after impossibility, so will she.
And so will your little ones, and big ones, and anyone who's walking on new ground as the seasons change.  

If you're feeling alone, and certain there's no way out but through, stand up and walk.
There's brighter terrain ahead.
And, I'm here.

Day #1

So, here's what I'm working on...
Believing that I'm as good, as talented, as capable, as valuable as all my amazing friends.
I didn't realize how much I struggle with this... finding myself an equal.
That whole, "I'm not enough" thing hasn't really been one of my problems,
but it's starting to be.
I hate that.
My dear friend - 20 years my junior - is constantly reminding me, "Nadyne, they're no better than you.  I know their long list of achievements, but still... You're amazing.  As you are."
She watches me exalt people obsessively as I stand in their shadows feeling tiny.

I'm a paradox.
I have an earthy, gut-level confidence that has convinced the greatest skeptics, while also holding an inner place, even deeper in my belly, believing this lie that if I was talented and beautiful, I'd be a success by now (whatever that means).  
I wouldn't be this scared.  
I'd be able to sleep.  
I'd walk past a mirror with a tinge less critical analysis.    
People see me in a crowd and have no idea how battered and afraid I really am.

It's scary to admit this... how small and stupid and dumb I feel so much of the time.
I'm embarrassed that I'm even typing these words.
But I must.  I need to know I'm not alone.
You'll misinterpret me.  You'll roll your eyes.  You'll take me off your list to call for a dinner date.
You know, if you know this about me.
This level of my own sense of deep inadequacy.  
I use this term, "life coach" because I've had years of experience guiding, teaching, directing.
Seasons come where people rely on my advice, my perspective, my words.
So, that means I'm successful, right... because people need me.  
And then moments hit where I can't spell, think, walk, talk, or brush my teeth.
What in the hell could I offer anyone else?

In the last months, I have felt a sinking sense that time is going to run out before I ever become great.  You'll find out I'm a fraud.
I was supposed to do something extraordinary with myself.  I was going to speak to the masses, entertain the crowd, inspire the weary.  I was going to have a signed-copy of a book in your hands, launch my health movement, cook gourmet dinners for my family.  I was going to pay off my debt, tend a flourishing garden in my backyard, host a television talk show.  
What I've done instead?  Collect boxes of broken dreams in my basement.
I have file folders of failed attempts, products I couldn't sell, people I couldn't convince, tickets I never paid, party invitations I didn't send,
long lists of people to whom I owe my whole life.  
I stand by rows of shelves in my closet, sorting magazines I was going to submit writings to, agents I was going to send pictures to, conference booklets I wrote in and promised I'd finally make something real happen for, and usually, I just stand there completely overwhelmed and sob.  Literally, I fall on the floor and weep.

I find myself crying in the car as I ride long miles in the snow, dragging my way home from work, working a job I never wanted.
I stay up late after everyone is in bed, analyzing my life, comparing it against all of you and yours.  While you're tucked in bed, nodding off to sleep at normal hours, holding the hands of your hot husbands, I'm wiping kitchen counters, making more lists, freaking out over how little time I have left.  
I have failed.
You haven't.
And I'm not kidding.  I know so many highly sought-after, pursued, successful, rich people.
They started out like me and then the roads diverged and stuff went their way, and not mine.
At least that's what I think in these long car rides across town. 
You're a better wife, a more successful business woman, a truer friend, a present mother. 
You've not charged up your credit card paying utilities.  You have enough.  
You've controlled yourself at a buffet, monitored your words in a tense conversation, resisted obnoxious hours scrolling Facebook.
You have it together.
I do not.
I've not grown-up, gotten real, delivered on my word.  I've been clumsy, needy, annoying.
I've lost hope, not followed up, crammed my calendar, broken commitments.  
You don't do these things.
Only, I do.

This is the lie a significant part of me believes.

And yet, even so, I walk around hopeful and happy.
I have an endurance to dream big, when all evidence of my life would steer me elsewhere.
Maybe this is success... this choice to find the good, the getting back up after knock-out, the reorganizing my thoughts to dream a new way.  
Maybe the fact that so little actually goes as I plan, is nothing but a challenge to keep being creative, faithful, and still.  When life feels raw, and resources slim, there's this love affair I have with God, I might never have if I could run to the store for a new pair of cowboy boots every time I felt the notion.  I get alone and try to see it all as a gift.  Doesn't work much of the time, but that's the goal.  I get quiet and grateful and hope that heals.

In these 40 days, these hours of waiting, preparing, remembering, feeling... 
maybe the uncertainties of this success I seek are actually tools to teach me about success I already have.  Most certainly, the Jesus I cling to knows my heart, sees my longing, and is working it all out.  That's what I tell everyone else He is doing for them.
That's the Life Coach speaking, feeling absolutely certain He'll deliver for you.  
Now, if I could just hear myself.