Teaching is hard. I know it isn’t the hardest thing that anyone has ever done ever. But it is hard, especially if you are doing it right. There is never enough time, or resources or emotional energy to do this job as well as you thought you were going to do it while you were in college and had all the answers about how you were going to change the world one fifteen year old at a time.

Being a working mom is hard. I am constantly juggling everything and I drop balls sometimes and this society is built in such a way that if you are a working mom you feel like you aren’t doing enough for both your work and your family. It is a lose lose up in here more days than I am willing to count. There are too many things and not enough hours and I am always feeling like I am beholden to someone while I am disappointing someone else. The margin in my life is so small that the Atlanta traffic regularly makes my plans go awry and I don’t how to fix that.

Chasing my dreams is hard. It is hard to have a manuscript completed for two years as you send it out into the abyss of agents who don’t respond because they simply do not have the time. It is hard to be told, this is good, but not for me over and over again. It is hard to feel jealous of people you love, and harder to decide to choose yourself over and over again even when you feel like no one else is (even when that isn’t really true but it feels true.)

These things are just really hard. 

And I am allowed to say that they are hard. I am allowed to feel like they are hard. A post of mine started circulating again. With or without my promotion, this has happened every year. Being a teacher in September is getting harder every year. And every year I get comments about how if I really want to know what is hard I should go do the commenter’s job.

Huh? 

I don’t write about other people’s experiences because I don’t know about them. I am not saying that nursing isn’t hard. It sounds really hard, and I am very concerned that nurses are over worked in this country while they literally save lives one twelve hour shift at a time. I am very grateful for soldiers who protect my freedom and I cannot imagine how hard living away from your home for months at a time, let alone being shot at is. I can’t imagine how hard that is.

I know I don’t even have the hardest teaching job there is. As far as school placement goes, I pretty much won the lottery. The kids more or less do what I ask, the parents are supportive, my principal regularly sends emails out that say Thank you for the work you do. And my job is still hard. It is just really really hard.

I don’t write about being a working mom very often. But I want to write about it at least weekly. I don’t write about being a working mom and my constant need to lean into the grace of enough more often than I need to breathe, because I don’t want to negate the experience of the people I love who are stay-at-home moms. (Even the language is tricky I KNOW y’all wish you simply stayed at home, but I don’t want to say full-time because even when I am at work, I am still a mom, all the time. You see what I am saying?)

But me saying that being a working mom is really stinking hard, in NO way negates the experiences of my stay-at-home people. They are both really hard. 

I know that I could quit chasing my dreams. That while I feel called, I choose this for myself. I choose to show up at this blog. I chose to write a manuscript and I choose to keep trying to get it published. I am choosing this thing. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. Even if I am choosing it, rejection sucks and is always hard. Even if I have gotten really lucky, gotten to yesses sometimes and I am grateful. I am.

But I am also allowed to say that 30 rejections in 2 years stings. It is hard to keep trying.

I am allowed to say that teaching is hard, even at a solid school in a solid suburb. Even when I genuinely like my job. It is still hard. And I am allowed to say that being a working mom is hard. Because it is. It is a different kind of hard than being a stay at home mom, but it is still hard. And me saying that my reality is hard, does not take away from anyone else’s. But the only experience I really know about is mine.

And you are allowed to say that your life is hard too. 

I know lots of people who are doing things that are hard every day. If you are doing life right, it isn’t easy. It is just really hard. That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it. But you know what would make this life infinitely easier? If we stopped competing with one another over things that are not actually competitive (and this from a girl who got her varsity letter in public speaking, I know how to do competition) and started saying, Yeah. Me too. Your thing sounds hard, and my thing is also hard. Let’s take a deep breath. We got this.

Me saying my life is hard in NO WAY means yours isn’t too. There are a million ways to do life authentically, and all of them are a challenge. But not being allowed to admit that this thing we are doing is HARD makes it even less bearable. We can do hard things, but really only together.

In the comments tell me what is hard today, and I will cheer you on!

Dear Priscilla,

Yesterday you turned four. This year you were ready. This year you had discussed your party and your cake to great lengths. This year you had practiced putting up four fingers when someone asked about your age. Four is a big year for you I think.

Four is a big year for us all it seems. When I was pregnant with you, asking God to give me a clue about who you were, I just heard over and over again, this one brings change. Change. You were born two weeks into your dad’s degree, a month into me at a new school. Next year you will be going to school yourself, and the whole family will be changing again. New career for mom, transition out of student status for dad. We don’t know if our location will change, we aren’t sure what we will leave behind, what we will bring with us.

But you have taught me so much about change, about things not going according to plan. I know what a delight a surprise can be. I know how confusion breaks way to understanding. I know how dim my plans are compared to the glory that is painted by God. I do not want to imagine a family without you. I don’t want to imagine what kind of a mom I would be without you. I can’t imagine your sister without you in her life. You were supposed to be with us, right here, right now. You weren’t planned by me, but your purpose has been written in the stars since the beginning of time. Priscilla means set apart, venerated.

You are still growing into your big feelings, but you are learning about the world and how to navigate it. I learn a lot by watching you. This summer, on the beach, after a full week of cousin fun you had simply had enough. I bent down to ask what was wrong and how I could fix it, when you looked me dead in the face and howled out: I’m Just Having a HARD TIME! I’m just having a hard time. Your recognition that you were struggling, but you just needed to feel through it, was just so perfect. It is okay to be having a hard time. It is okay to be struggling, you just need time to get it together.

You have such a strong understanding of who you are and what you want. You like Ariel and Sleeping Beauty. You like pajama dresses, not pant, all things pink and sparkly, your hair long and down. You insisted on growing out your bangs this summer. It looked so good I decided to join you. You like lunch foods for breakfast and lemonade that is not pink, just regular. You like anything dipped in ranch. You like your family, your sister, and riding the dog even though you aren’t supposed to. You tell me she doesn’t mind, you seem to be right but lets not push it. You like having time with your babysitters all to yourself. You like Bayley the wrestler, and Fluttershy the Pony. You know what you like, you won’t be deterred. I would tell you to hang on to this trait, but I don’t have to. You will, it is inherent in your being.

You are learning so much, so quickly your dad and I often talk about what is going to happen when you go to school. You know most of the kindergarten curriculum already. One of the things you are still most interested in is how to make people laugh. At less than 2 years you threw the bowl of whatever it was you were eating on your head and declared “It’s a HAT!” You learned how funny it was and have been trying to crack us up ever since. This summer you learned how to tell knock-knock jokes. Your rendition of the interrupting cow totally slays.

This year I noticed that your birthday comes just as the seasons are changing. The sun is slowly coming out later, moving to night sooner. The trees are just beginning to be kissed with autumn shades. I often begin to struggle in this time of year. I become depressed as I just don’t get enough sunlight, my body struggles to adjust. This year I haven’t had as much trouble, but have become infatuated with the quality of the light at this time of year, the warmth and golden tone is glorious, and I tip my face to the sky and breathe.

My wish for you on this birthday, is that you would tip your face to this life and breathe. This world is glorious, and the change is inevitable, but the moment the golden glow hits your face is worth every moment of having a hard time.

All my love,

Mom

I met Jeff this summer in Minnesota. He holds a degree in both liturgy and biology; just walking the campus of St. John’s with him was a gift to me. Jeff pays attention. He just is always paying attention, and he laughs easily and generally makes you feel as though you matter. I am so thrilled to be hosting these beautiful words on my blog today. 

The Kingdom of God is like the Prairie

God forsaken. Wasteland.  Fly-over country.  Not exactly terms of endearment, but that’s the way I suspect most people would react to nearly anything related to the Great Plains.  Yet, here I sit on the very edge of an ecosystem that once covered over a third of the continent, content in the knowledge that the prairie is much more than a wasteland and those peering down from 30,000 feet as they jet from coast to coast are the ones who are really missing out.  

I’m serious.  While the grand prairies of the Great Plains are but a footnote of what they once were, there is a great deal to be learned from some time on these great open spaces.  

Each spring as the earth tries to burst free of its winter coat, the warming sun fighting in opposition with the winds that still blow cold Arctic air, I go for a long hike.  These are the days that begin with a heavy coat which in time becomes a burden on one’s hips as the sun gradually warms one’s skin and soul.  Hikes this time of year are necessarily slow, the ground, soaked from absorbing a winter’s worth of snow is slick and one’s shoes quickly become heavy, caked with the dark, rich muck which typifies prairie soil.  It is also slow going because I’m searching; searching for a small clump of green and purple fuzz that is the first full sign that winter and the death-like grip it so often represents has lost yet again.  I’ll find them tucked in amongst the dead grasses and flower stalks of the previous year, in just the right spot – often facing south, always exposed to the wind and the sun, small clumps of pasque flowers.  Pasque is derived from the French word, pascha, which has its etymological root from paschal or Easter.  These small, delicate but hardy flowers were so-named by early French explorers and settlers, an apt moniker since their appearance often coincides with Holy Week.  They remind me of what resurrection looks like.

Parables are meant to turn our thinking upside down, inside out.  They are meant to disorient and reorient us into a way of thinking and looking at the world around us in an entirely new way.  Jesus draws our attention to creation in parables and is constantly using the natural world to illustrate the kingdom of God. The Kingdom he says is like a mustard seed, but a prairie?

The prairie has roots, deep roots.  To stand on a hill overlooking a prairie is to see but a portion of it.  Nearly two-thirds of the prairie is invisible, an intertwined system of roots that grow deep into the rich soil.  Big Blue Stem, a grass that dominated the prairie ecosystem for thousands of years and can grow to be 7 feet high has roots that extend three times that distance into the soil.  

The prairie is like the Kingdom of God because the kingdom is deeply rooted in place and community.  

The prairie is diverse.  Unlike the other 99.99% of the Great Plains which are now largely dominated by row after row of corn and soybean monocultures, the prairie is diverse.  An acre of prairie, untouched by plow or cow can contain more than 25 species of grasses and dozens of species of flowing plants.  The diversity isn’t limited to plants, vast numbers of insects, amphibians, reptiles, birds, and mammals all call the prairie home.  Diversity is healthy, and reflects God’s plan for creation.

The prairie is like the Kingdom of God because the kingdom is diverse.  It is a community that thrives because of, not in spite of, that diversity.  

The prairie is resilient.  Incredible heat, blistering winter winds, fire, drought, and flood have little effect on the prairie.  Those deep roots allow it to weather drought and seeds need the bone chilling cold to germinate.  And fire? It is as if Nietzsche had seen a prairie after a fire had swept over it; that which doesn’t kill the prairie does indeed make it stronger.

The prairie is like the Kingdom of God because it reflects a community that is resilient, adapting to the ever-changing environment around it.  

Hiking to the top of a grass-covered prairie knoll and observing it by touching, listening, and smelling requires us to open ourselves up to the diversity of God’s Creation.  When we acknowledge the created order as being diverse we are forced us to consider the lack of diversity that surrounds most of us every single day.  

To sit, patiently on that knoll as the day slips away and the darkness allows the universe unfolds above is to learn, or relearn, humility.  Seeing the vast landscape and the seemingly endless stars above reminds us of our own limitations and thereby of our interconnectedness and mutuality with each other and with God’s creation.  

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus draws our attention to the simplicity of creation and God’s care for it. Jesus asks us to consider the lilies of the field and the sparrows, I ask us to consider the prairie.

Jeff is a research scientist living among and studying Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes.  He is particularly drawn to the ‘thinness’ and vastness of Minnesota’s prairies.  He holds advanced degrees in Fisheries Biology from Auburn University and Liturgy and Scripture from St. John’s University-School of Theology.  His view on sustainability and ecology has been greatly influenced by the long-term vision of the Benedictine monks of St. John’s Abby have for their small corner of God’s creation.  He recently started the blog “Thinking Like a Mountain”, (http://www.thinkinglikeamountain.com/about.html), a work very much in progress, and can be found on Twitter @JeffreyReed.

The older I get the stranger hope is. The more I don’t understand it, the more I know I am not going to make it in this world. When I was 16 I claimed the verse “If we hope for what we do not have, we wait for it patiently.” It was mine, that is what I will do. But then I had things I was sure the Lord wanted for me not pan out the way I thought God said. But then my greatest blessings were born out of deep sorrow, and dreams dying that I thought were going to live forever. Hope is tricky, and when I hold it too tight I end up putting the gas on and slamming into a wall over and over again that was never meant to be broken down for me. But hope is the ladder that has me scale the wall, or the arrow written in chalk that suggests this is not the way to go forward. I didn’t love it when I found out the theme for the mudroom was hope, but I think I needed to work through some of this.

At 26 I was miraculously healed, but at 13 I started asking for healing. Sometimes people wonder why more people aren’t experiencing miracles, and I wonder sometimes if it is because we don’t understand how expensive hope is.

I spent most of my teen years believing I would be healed. I went to every healing service, I had hands laid on me more times than I remember. I believed, every single time, that this was the time the Lord would have mercy on me. But it wasn’t. So many of those times it wasn’t. Walking to the front to have hands laid over me was like climbing the ladder of a high dive, only you aren’t totally sure when you are leaping, if the water will be there to catch you. Every time you do it again, add two steps to the ladder.

There comes a point in time when you just stop climbing the ladder, you stop believing in the healing, and you start figuring out how to live with the body you have. This isn’t to say you can’t function well and also believe that healing will come, it is just that that is often a lot, especially if you are functioning in a body that is also sick.

You can read the rest here.

You

I am thrilled to share with you this post, from my new friend Amy Boucher Pye. We met in an online writer’s group and I am SUPER excited about her book coming out shortly. This post is beautiful, and as a woman who regularly texts her two sisters, I just loved it. 

The Kingdom of God is Like a Handwritten Letter

Every Sunday without fail, my mom will pause to write letters to her two sisters (and when her mother was alive, to her). And they to her. They used to pen their letters by hand but now write by computer – but they print them out and mail them each week. For part of the joy is in the ritual: addressing the envelopes, applying the stamp, putting the letters in the post. And receiving “real mail” each week. Indeed, so regular is the practice that the postal people worry when they don’t see the two letters appearing on Wednesday or Thursday with the daily assortment of bills and junk mail.

Whenever I visit my parents, I read the weekly letters. My Aunt Carole’s are filled with her wit and quips (she the youngest of four); my Aunt Judy’s drip with wisdom and observations of life on the farm (she the eldest). I don’t know what my mom – middle child – puts in hers, as of course her letters aren’t lying on the kitchen counter for me to read like my aunts’ are.

These letters remind me of the Kingdom of God. They may not ooze with emotional declarations, for with my maternal family’s Swiss/German roots, the love is assumed. After all, each sister takes the time to write weekly – that’s love on a page. They document the stuff of life – doctor’s appointments and the death of a neighbor; children and grandchildren’s antics and plans for family reunions. They tell the stories of lives experienced through the details. How I’d love to have a complete set, but so ordinary and regular have these letters been that none of the sisters would have thought to preserve them. After a few days, they are recycled with the daily newspaper.

Just as my Grandma’s letters have ceased, her familiar cursive only now living in my memory and in the stack of cards and letters I’ve kept, I know that these weekly missives won’t last forever as I contemplate us all getting older. I can hardly bear the thought. I guess we won’t need written missives in heaven, for communication won’t be limited by geography. But just maybe there will be a special room holding our handwritten letters, archived beautifully, where we can peruse and reminisce.

When’s the last time you received a letter in the mail? Whom might you write to today?

Amy Boucher Pye is a transplanted American living in the UK, and a writer, speaker, and editor. Her first book appears in October: Finding Myself in Britain: Our Search for Faith, Home & True Identity (Authentic Media). She blogs at amyboucherpye.com and tweets at @AmyBoucherPye.

I realized that perhaps there was something I was trying to control when I spent two hours picking out the perfect pajamas for my girls to receive for Christmas. It was last week. Exactly 134 days before Christmas. I ordered them, and the matching dolls that go with the pictures on the front. I didn’t stop there. I emailed my sister starting a discussion for the perfect gift to give my tween niece. (I totally nailed it, by the way.) I googled the coolest toys under twenty dollars for eight-year-olds. I began adding things to my own wish list and am currently thinking about stocking stuffers the girls will actually use. Feel free to email me any suggestions. They are four and five.

I do finish all of my Christmas shopping before black friday, but I generally have our halloween costumes first.

Something else was going on. Really everything else is going on.

You can read the rest here. They have THE BEST graphic for this post today. 

Cara and I have met multiple times online and once in person. She wrote this beautiful piece about babies and the kingdom of God. I just love it.

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a Long-Awaited Baby

As soon as I hear, I throw on a soft summer dress and fasten my shoes. I plan my route in my head as I go, thinking about where to park. I have never been to this hospital before, even though I’ve driven by countless times. It stands guard midway up the hill on which I live.

My heart is beating quickly as I drive, park and walk in my strappy shoes. I enter the hospital and ask after the birth center, receiving several sets of directions and taking three elevators before finding the room number I’m looking for.

I knock once, quietly.

The door opens and I see a friend who has become a father since I last saw him. His whole countenance has changed. He glows with love and hope and pure joy. He holds his little girl tenderly, but close, I wonder if I will get a chance to hold her, if he will be able to let go of her for a second, just 12 hours after her birth.

I greet my new mother friend, who looks tired and relaxed. This is the woman who agreed to meet me for brunch on Superbowl Sunday, who let me hold a corner of her sorrow over hope miscarried. This is the woman who creates beauty and emotion with words. She has now conspired with God and her husband to create something entirely different.

They are not yet sure of the name. This seems right to me, since she’s still so new to this world. There are so many meaning-laden names in the Bible, names that help us remember what God did. It takes time to hear from God, to bear the weight of a decision which will last a whole life.

Although I am not sure it will happen, my friend asks me if I want to hold her. I wash my hands, taking my time, working between my fingers before opening my arms.

She is asleep, light as a feather. Each feature is delicately formed, so newly exposed to light and air. The room is hushed, no signs of the great travail that has so recently occurred. No sign of the struggle which forced her out of the only home she had known.

I am filled with awe as I take her in. How can so much be hidden inside such a tiny person? How much to discover, to delight in, to wonder at? There is so much that we do not know, that we will never know.

I am looking at an answer to prayer, I know. Mine, and those of many others. I am looking at a mystery, a masterpiece carefully crafted.

I leave this family, newly enlarged, to their naming rituals, to their rest. I can’t help but feel elation all the way down to my toes. She’s here at last!.The one we’ve been waiting for is here.

Cara Strickland is a freelance writer and food critic based in the Pacific Northwest. She can often be found writing at carastrickland.com.

I am trying really hard to get back into the habit of monthly what I am into link up. This is just plain fun. You should try it. As always I am linking up with Leigh.

August is always a little nuts because school starts. It is a rolling start in my house, first Juliet and I, then Christian so Priscilla gets to go to the babysitter. Plus we hosted the BBQ for church and also I hosted a Noonday Collection party. The upshot of that is my house stayed clean. It was fun, and made August go by SO QUICKLY. Here we are. September 1.

Beauty

I love a good lipstick. I am particularly fond of this coral color this month. It is light enough that I can totally wear on the daily. It is a little more fun then red, which I am sure will be my standard this fall. I have my eye on Fire and Ice. I am looking for something with some raspberry undertones. Suggestions welcome!

The Sally Hansen Gel polishes. It is two coats because something magic happens between the color and the clear. It is a little pricey but WAY way cheaper than the gel manicures I like. Also, my nails aren’t kinda peely at the end and I can do it myself. I have four colors already and have my eye on a matte grey. I am sporting the red this week.

Noonday collection- I had my doubts about Noonday Collection, but am now pretty  much sold. I even hosted a party this week. I thouroughly enjoyed myself and just like wearing all the jewelry I borrowed to try to sell it. Many of these will go on my birthday and Christmas list.

Le Tote- Elizabeth Esther mentioned this and had a half off code so I thought I would give it a try. The jury is still out, it is kind of fun, but not for every month and certainly not for fifty bucks. It will probably be a one and done thing for me. Unless you want to try it, then use my code for half off and see what you think. I like that I can do it multiple times in a month. I like that it comes to my house.

Food 

We have been grilling like maniacs and also very simply- chicken, burgers, keilbasa with barbeque sauce, hotdogs. It takes ten minutes and makes me happy. It makes the kids happy too. Two thumbs WAY UP on the grilling. I put Mckormicks Montreal steak seasoning or Tony’s on everything. Everything

Homemade Chex-mix. I use the Pioneer Woman’s recipe and add cheez-its. I always end up making back to back batches because you have to buy entire boxes of cereal. I also always end up eating said batches in about two days. I love homemade Chex-mix.

Alcoholic rootbeer- We especially like Not Your Father’s rootbeer. Coney Island’s wasn’t creamy enough for me. But we buy Not Your Father’s every chance we can get. It is a big hit at parties.

Teaching 

Since this is my last round of teaching, I am savoring the stories a little more than usual. I particularly love

Checkouts by Cynthia Rylant– love this one about moving to a new town and high school crushes.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber– I make the kids re-write the story from the wife’s point of view.

Robot Dreams by Isaac Asimov- Then we have a heated debate about whether or not someone was murdered. Where does life begin? What is the ethical responsibility of making AI?

Early Autumn by Langston Hughes– The kids love this story, so I love it to. They love to talk about love.

Writing

I am working on a book proposal and could for sure use your prayers. I am having a serious mental block. It is about identity, being a woman at church, and miraculous healing, so yeah…sort of vulnerable and a little hard to pin down.

I started an in-town writers group and LOVE it. One of the best things I have ever done for myself. We meet at a coffe shop, use a basic protocol (because we all like each other and would chat through our time) and I really need the accountability. Also, I needed to set a time for myself to stake the claim and say “this thing that I do matters.”

I am loving the additions to the modern day parable series. So far we have discussed dinosaurs, Dr. Who, and a pick-up truck. Seriously I cannot get enough. We have another awesome one coming up Thursday! If you want in, send me an email.

E-Course

My e-course starts MONDAY and I am THRILLED. I am just really proud of the work that I did for it, and I am very excited about the people taking the class. They are in various stages of dreaming and I am excited to see the clarity that they get from exploring their passions more fully. I can’t wait to get started and there is room for you! If money is keeping you back, please let me know and we will work something out. You can sign up here.