When the Fog Descends

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The weather has been crazy lately. Last week I went to go see the final addition in the 1027 church baby boom (welcome Ethan!) and by the time I got to Jill’s house to take her big dog and my bus-like stroller for a walk we decided the fog was so thick we didn’t want to risk even walking along the roads. It took me ten minutes to get the mile and a half home.

Sometimes in life the fog descends. You are in a familiar place and your path looks clear. You are on auto-pilot as you head toward your goal. Tra-la-la praise Jesus, I am racing closer to him on my clearly demarcated path. And then, the fog descends.

Sometimes it creeps up on you. Slowly your surroundings get muddled. You keep thinking, “this isn’t terrible, I will be fine if it just doesn’t get any worse.” But it does. And sometimes you are driving along and then BAM you can’t see a thing. The familiar looks unfamiliar and it is all you can do to just keep from running in to anything. You throw your GPS in your lap and pray that it tells you to turn at the right time. You need assistance to get home from a place you have been a thousand times before. You pray you will make it home without serious damage to you or anything surrounding you.

And the fog, it isolates you. It makes you feel like you are the only one on this path. You can’t see anyone else on the journey.

I know that these times are terrifying. You thought you knew where you were going, you thought the turns were clear. Now it is all confusing and you can’t even see the street to get home. But do not let the fog isolate you. Use your Bible and your community as your GPS. Let them tell you where you need to turn. Keep your eyes open for the other people on your journey, assure yourself you are not alone. You will pull into your driveway, and eventually the fog disappears.

I am praying for you today. That you will be safe in the fog, that it will clear up soon.

Stupid Blessed

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When I worked with a different population I would hear slang used more regularly than I do now. I miss that. I love how malleable our language is. I love the new ways to use old words people come up with.

Stupid is one of those words. My kids started using it as an adjective to mean excessively or abundantly. But not just excessively or abundantly. So excessively, so abundantly that it no longer makes sense for someone to have it in those quantities. As in: Bill Gates is stupid rich. He has so much money he buys whatever he wants, gives a huge amount of it away and he still has that money pouring in hand over fist. It is stupid for him to have anymore.

Today I am declaring. I am stupid blessed. I have so many blessings in my life I don’t even notice them all. I am so blessed I don’t know what to do with all the blessing in my life. It just keeps pouring in. Abundant doesn’t cover the blessing God has given me. I am so blessed, it is crazy, silly, stupid. Stupid blessed.

I could list them all here but that would be boring and take far too long. Instead, I will share with you my Wednesday. I came to school a few minutes early so that I could make copies. It was great except the copiers staple function was malfunctioning, so my kids were going to have to staple their own papers. Tenth graders you can trust to do this reliably, but ninth graders…..Let’s just say that my friend used to tell her ninth graders, “act less like freshman, more like human beings.”

When I turned on my computer I had an email. The mom of one of my students was volunteering today at the front desk, (Guys, I work at a school where the parents have the resources to volunteer.) She was bored last time, was there busy work I could give her? This was a divine appointment. God broke that staple function because He is a good, good God. We had the most incredible conversation when I went to pick up my packets. She told me she prayed for me. She told me I “am writing into the chapters of her daughter’s life.” I hope so. I think I was an encouragement to her as well. It was glorious. Literally, to God be the glory.

Then, on my way home I picked up my children at Elizabeth’s house (there are about 6 blessings in this sentence. Stupid blessed.) and went to get dinner at the Publix to thank the Robinson’s for rescuing us. We had a good day at the grocery store. There is a new manager at the deli section who put in some new systems. Now I don’t even have to wait for my fried chicken! When I went to put the girls back in the car the Peanut was pretty vocal about the fact that getting back in the car was not on her agenda. The older man putting his groceries in his Buick began laughing. Not a mean laugh, an “I too have been there” kind of laugh. When I asked him if he had been there, he replied “more than you know.” He had the most beautiful voice, richer than James Earl Jones…..and that man is Mufasa! It was glorious, to God be the glory.

I am stupid blessed. I pray that I am never stupid enough to forget that.

I Can’t Talk About Me Like That

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Today started out like that other terrible day this week. Rooster is running a mild fever do to her four month vaccines so she is uncomfortable and can’t sleep well and I was just going to lay my head down for 5 more minutes….and this time I didn’t wake up until 17 minutes after I am supposed to leave the house. And the traffic was terrible because no one in Atlanta really knows what inclement weather is so they slow down to 35 when it is a little rainy out. (Seriously people, 75/85 isn’t just the interstate number, it should be the speed minimum!)

So I had to call my co-worker for the second time in three days and ask her to unlock my door. When I showed up at school the announcements were on. Another co-worker who also has an itty-bitty and a blooming toddler at home was holding down the fort. Both women told me it was no problem as I admitted how embarrassed I was. As the voice in my head chided, two days in a week you pull this? Get it together Abby!

And the worst part is, I may have lied to them. (I did) I may have told them that I was late because the Rooster had a fever, and not because the Rooster had a fever which made me tired so I made Christian take her a half hour before the alarm went off, so I lazily fell asleep after I turned off my alarm. (I just left out the part that made me look bad.)

Lucky for me the Lord convicted my heart and gave me the chance to come clean and apologize. My sweet grace giving colleagues forgave me and decided the grace they extended previously still stood. (I was not planning on confessing in person. I was planning on sticking an apology on here where neither of them go…that dang pride again.)

I was, I am, ashamed that I messed it up twice this week. My pride could not get over it. I am better than that. Other people are just big screw ups, but not me. I am not allowed to over sleep because I don’t do that. But I do, do that. I was easily the biggest screw up in my department this week, and it isn’t even Friday yet.

This morning I tweeted this: Kill my pride oh Lord; steal it from me. Let your grace fill those spaces.

God has heard my prayer of less than 140 characters. I decided to fight the lie that I am not good enough by treating myself to lunch, on a day I certainly did not deserve it. Besides, I had to go to the bank because I had no toll money to get home.

On the way out of the door I ran in to a teacher on duty. (Duty- the time once a week a teacher has to stand somewhere and bother every kid that walks by for a pass. It is necessary, but it is no fun.) She asked me where I was going and I asked her if she needed anything. Was I going to Starbuck’s? I was not. So we left it at that. Until my errands drove me right into the Starbucks parking lot. Literally, my bank and the Starbucks have adjoining parking lots. Cafe Mocha’s for everybody!!!

And when I delivered it to her, she told me I was good to her. She told me I was good, and I believed her. In that moment, by God’s grace, I was good. Not a screw up, not someone who better start doing better. And I had a beautiful conversation with another mom about how we don’t give ourselves the grace we give everyone else.

Sometime in mid-October I was telling Jill all the terrible things I was and she stopped me with this line, “I’m sorry, but I don’t let anyone talk about my sister like that.” She doesn’t let anyone say mean things about me, not Starcha who told me I was buck-toothed in the second grade who Jill threatened to beat up in the cafeteria, and not me about myself in my own kitchen. And now, I don’t either. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about me like that.

Secrets aren’t any fun

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I am teaching ninth grade this year for the first time. I really enjoy the kid’s willingness to try just about any crazy activity I can come up with, and the fact that most of them don’t have pre-conceived notions about any of the literature, means I have the chance to convince them that it is in fact interesting and applicable to their lives. I like that. It suits me.

I especially like when the ninth graders suddenly realize that Shakespeare is not as wholesome as they once assumed. Among other hilarious commentary that has been blurted out in my classroom:

– Somebody told me that when they were talking about swords they meant something else, is that true?

– Romeo’s talking about doing it!

– Did the Friar just ask Romeo if he hit it? (To which one of my students replied: What does hit it mean?)

– She doesn’t want to die a virgin!

It is amazing to me that every year a few parents complain about the adult material we are reading in class and yet no one ever complains about Romeo and Juliet which is easily the baudiest thing I have ever taught.

I hadn’t read Romeo and Juliet since I was in the ninth grade, and this time around I am struck by the secrecy of the whole story, and how Shakespeare uses that as a vehicle for the drama and urgency. The whole play takes place in four days.

I think secrecy does make everything more dramatic, feel more urgent. When I look back at the terrible decisions I made, the dumbest stuff I did was done, at least initially, in secret. (The reason we didn’t tell anyone about the timeshare we no longer own is because we knew everyone would tell us it was stupid. Because it was stupid.) I am 28 and this is still true: If I can’t tell my mom about it, I shouldn’t be doing it.

But I think the Bible covers that too, that things in the darkness are brought in to the light. I used to think that was a warning to the wicked and I would cling to it and yell it when I was sure there were dirty dealing going on. But lately I have been seeing it as a gentle reminder to me, that it will be better if I am just honest about it. Whatever that it may be.

 

Welcome to Franceland

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WARNING: The following story happens within the metaphysical space my sisters have dubbed “Franceland.” Franceland is the space where we who are married to or are descendants of John S France screw up in a very specific sort of way. The classic example of Franceland is leaving the car for someone to use, but taking all sets of keys (including their set) with you. This happens more than we would like to admit, and more times than you would believe. This story is far more ridiculous than that. Feel free to be completely amused at my expense.

Last night I got all ready for bed and wandered upstairs. For the first time in a long time. I remembered both my Kindle and my phone so I did not have to trudge up and down the stairs multiple times when I just wanted to go to sleep.

At four the Rooster woke me up to feed her and on my way back into the bed I noticed that my phone was nowhere to be found. So I woke Christian up to set his Ipod as a back up (which he did without even grumbling). I was sure I took the phone upstairs and it would go off but just in case….

Fastforward to the Peanut waking up and Christian checking the time and “I’m really sorry Abby, but it is 7:04.” Turns out I took Christian’s phone upstairs, not mine. I am supposed to leave my house at 7.  I jump out of bed and rush around the house as quickly as possible and have to leave the Peanut in a fit on the floor because I am leaving. Never did I think I would be glad I leave every morning before the Peanut gets up, but it turns out I am.

And I need gas, like really need it. So I get gas and text someone that I will be late but am coming, and rush to work as fast as possible and make it to my classroom with about 6 minutes before the bell rings.

Right as that bell rings my most jocky of jock students points to the floor and says, “Ummmm, Ms. Norman I think you dropped something….” Right in front of his desk is a breast pad, which he thinks is a maxi-pad, that I did not put in because I was trying to save time and I figured  would put them in between classes.

Then I explained to a room full of tenth graders that I am still breastfeeding and sometimes my boobs leak, as I blushed uncontrollably and probably should have stopped talking but babbled on. I do that when I am uncomfortable. Even when the little man in my head is screaming JUST STOP TALKING. Because while I am a huge advocate of a woman’s right to breastfeed anywhere anyhow, it is still awkward to talk about when you are talking to adolescent boys about your boobs specifically. I am blushing just typing that.

So I was having trouble gaining traction anyway as I stumbled through the discussion about Antigone when my phone rings. My phone never rings during class, I leave the front of the room to discover Christian has called. Something is wrong.

Yup, something sure is wrong. Specifically, I took the car seat and the double stroller with me to work. And the Rooster has a doctor’s appointment. When Christian asked me what we were going to do, I answered “we are going to call Tiffany to come rescue us.” So he called Tiffany, who ditched her plans for the day, and by God’s mercy had an extra car seat. She got herself and her two-month-old in the car and delivered the car seat to Christian so he could take both girls to the doctor sans the double stroller (I have no idea how he got them both into the doctor’s office). Meanwhile I was frantically calling the Doctor’s office to see if they could delay our appointment.

They could reschedule the appointment (yeah!) for one thirty which is too close to Christian’s class today (boo!). So I had to teach my class amidst all of this. It was a disaster to put it mildly. Out of my mouth came, “This is why I am a teacher and not a surgeon, in this profession I can just say, well botched that one, we will try again tomorrow.”

Mostly, it was this. I have three jobs, mom, wife, teacher, and in that moment I was failing at all three. All of them. I was trying to laugh it off, but my kids could tell I wanted to cry.

Tiffany did in fact come to the rescue. Christian got the Rooster to her appointment (18th percentile weight, 72nd height, 75th head size) and the Dr. gave us the okay to turn the Peanut’s car seat around.

All is well that ends well I suppose. I am so grateful for the community of people I have in my life that would abandon their plans because I botched mine. I am trying hard to simply chalk this up to Franceland antics and laugh it off, and I am sure I will. But right now it stings a little. I suppose that is my pride again. I am certainly glad that Jesus’ mercy is new every morning. I could use a re-do tomorrow.

Rooster: 4 months old

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The Rooster is officially four months old. Two days ago she was sitting on my lap and when the dog came up to join us, she lunged in his general direction. This noticing the dog thing, this is a major milestone around our house. I was shocked.

As interesting as that furry thing is, nothing is as fascinating as big sister. When the Peanut walks into the room, Rooster lights up and tracks her as she spins in circles. And the Peanut has declared herself the keeper of the little sis. If  you go anywhere with just the big one (it is how we are distinguishing them  of late) don’t be surprised when you get a constant barrage of “sister. sister, what happened?” out of the backseat. Yesterday Rooster was crying, and I was told in no uncertain terms by the Peanut “Rilla, Rilla, UP! UP! Rilla UP!” Translation: Mom, my sister is crying because she wants you to pick her up. Do it. Now. I love the way they already love each other.

I learned on Dooce.com yesterday that dimples are actually a malfunction of the cheek muscle. It is something messing up. If Rooster’s dimples aren’t proof that God can make beautiful, beautiful things out of our malfunctions I don’t know what is. I love that she wears a metaphor of God’s goodness in the midst of our brokeness on her face. We have ourselves another very happy baby and those dimples make friends and strangers alike melt into a puddle on the floor.

Speaking of puddles on the floor, girl can spit. This is a first for us and yesterday at the grocery store you could hear the splat as we stopped to pick up the free sample. I am glad I don’t wear expensive shoes. But she isn’t bothered by it at all, if anything she thinks it is funny. But what else are you going to do besides laugh about it I suppose.

Now that I am back to work, it seems as though she is bigger every single time I come home. Perhaps she is. She now goes to Elizabeth’s and seems perfectly happy to hang out there while I am gone. Who wouldn’t be really. In a perfect world I would be hanging out with Elizabeth a few times a week myself (shout out to loving your sitter-swapper partner!).

In short, happy baby makes a happy mommy, who could only be happier if baby decided to start sleeping through the night. Christian and I make adorable and delightful ginger kids….but not great sleepers. Sigh.

Does God believe in working moms?

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Yesterday my sister told me about another family from our church. The mom was all set to go back to work full-time after maternity leave (serious baby boom over at 1027 church). She loves her work, is good at it, and has always planned on being a working mom, at least since I’ve known her. And suddenly and unexpectedly the Lord provided a way for her to go back only part-time. And today the only other full-time working mom told me she had quit her job and was hired part-time elsewhere.

I know that these stories have nothing to do with me. Really I do. I know that no one but my family bases their decisions on what is best for me and my kids. But somehow this felt very personal to me. She was supposed to be my working mom friend. My one friend who the Lord called to the same place He called me.

DISCLAIMER: If you are reading this right now and thinking, what the heck I am a full-time working mom that is following hard after Jesus, don’t I count? The answer is probably you do count, the Lord was taking me through something. And I am sorry, I should have thought of you, I was just being self-centered. I am working on it.

I suppose I should have heard this story and thought, wow, just as the Lord moved a woman’s heart, He provided the means to follow that dream…..and I should have been encouraged. And I suppose that today I should have heard that if the Lord wants to move me out of teaching full-time, He will, just as He did this woman. Instead I heard that God didn’t have the same thing for someone else as He had for me, and I began seriously doubting myself.

What if those Christians who insist that anyone other than the mother being the primary care-giver is against God’s plan are right? What if I only thought we have been openly praying and seeking the Lord’s will in our life but really I am just totally closed off to the possibility of not working, so God can’t tell me even though I sought Him for a month with what I thought was no agenda but I really did have an agenda I just didn’t know it? Wow…that last sentence did not seem that ridiculous in my head, in fact it kind of made sense. Now it is just really embarrassing.

Anyway, I was having some serious working-mom issues. Like, if I only wanted to be with my girls bad enough, God would provide a way. Or, the women who stay at home more than me, they are better mother’s than I. God has me working because I am not a good mom. Or most ridiculously, I should at least be miserable in my situation. Liking my life as it is right now, spending 40 hours a week away from my kiddo’s speaks to my ineptitude as a parent. Every moment I am not with them should kill me. I am a bad person for enjoying myself at work. It means my kids are not my greatest treasure.

As I type this out I can see how absurd it truly is. I had teachers in High school who hated their job, those classes were miserable even if I liked the subject. But my tenth grade English teacher, and my ninth and tenth grade history teachers, and the entire Spanish department at Whitmer High School (shout out to Senora Jaeger!) they really enjoyed what they did, and it ministered to me. I still remember their names and the things they taught me. And I remember how they seemed to like me and my class mates and the things we were learning. I know that me getting such a kick out of my job most days is beneficial to my students. I hope my girls have teachers who enjoy their jobs. Feel called to them even.

Beyond that, I have prayed repeatedly that God’s will be done. And rather than have me hit it big on the blog scene and get offered a book deal for the book I have yet to write, He put me in a relationship with Elizabeth and her kids, expanded my family in ways I did not know were possible, and allowed me to truly live the gospel. This semester we changed the kids schedule for the first time in a year and a half. The same semester we moved from Tuesdays and Thursdays to Mondays and Wednesdays, an employment opportunity landed in her lap for Thursdays.

God has so clearly gone before me. In school switches, in child-care, in moving to Atlanta. But none of the other women in my church are doing it this way. So I doubt. Even though I am happier when I am working, and my marriage is better, and I never ever doubt that my kids are being loved as well as I could love them.

No one from my church has ever made me feel anything but encouraged as far as my work is concerned. But there is something about doing anything in a way that isn’t normal, especially within the larger Christian culture, that doesn’t sit right. I have heard one too many speakers insinuate that a woman’s place is in the home, her only place. Read one too many “Biblical Woman” bible study that cites any woman’s greatest work as her submission to her husband. And while I know these things are not true, there was a piece of my heart that believed them.

I am replacing those lies with this truth. My mother-in-law worked. And the Lord provided her with a woman named Fay to take care of her children. Christian stills speak fondly of Fay. Christian doesn’t say that his mom didn’t invest in him or that she loved her job more than him. He says “Mom worked really hard, and our family is still reaping the fruit of that today” and “Fay was awesome.”

Those of us who were really into the youth group circuit when I Kissed Dating Goodbye  came out are used to this narrative: I am a Christian. God spoke into my heart that I was supposed to do (fill in the blank) this certain way. Which make this certain way God’s way. Period. For everyone, not just for me. Do it that way.

While this would certainly make being a Christian easier, I am learning daily that God does have some certain way kind of words: with kindness, with gentleness, prayerfully, lovingly, faithfully. That is the way God wants me to mother, to teach, to live. And that is hard for us, because it looks different for everyone, there is no set path.

I am a good mom because I am following God’s design for my family in this season, as are everyone else that I mentioned here. Maybe that doesn’t look like anyone else’s path (Seriously, anyone else a sitter-swapper out there…..anyone?) and maybe that is just fine. With me and with God.

Welcome to My Humble Home.

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Hello there, and welcome to my new place. Much like a first apartment after you move out of your parents house, it is a little sparse. But that will soon change. Have patience with me as I slowly turn this space into whatever God has for it. I am sure there will be lots of mistakes, but we will get there in the end. Hopefully, like my daily life, those mistakes can lead to a hearty laugh or a truth about God.

This post marks the beginning of a new phase in my journey. Today, I am making a go of this writing thing. I am believing that my words have value, not because of who I am, but because of who God is and who He has created me to be.

So, (deep breath here) I am opening up my new space and this is my housewarming (blog-warming?) party. I am registered at the bottom of this page and I am asking for the gift of you following me here. It is easy and free and it would truly be treasured. Oh, and if you have twitter, follow me there too.

Thanks,

Abby

Traveling Mercies

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We travel a lot as a family. Christian and I in the front, the Peanut next to the Rooster next to the dog in the back. It is a tight squeeze, especially with the Christmas haul in the back. The Peanut got a ride on fire truck and a Radio Flier big wheel for Christmas. Grandparenting looks like it will be a lot of fun. Every time we leave a driveway to go up and down interstate 75 we pray for traveling mercies.

When I pray for traveling mercies, I have a certain idea in my head about it. In my world traveling mercies look something like this: kids asleep or playing nicely with each other in the back (yes, I am speaking about children who are not yet old enough to be front facing), dog asleep, no traffic, no inclement weather, no line at the Starbucks/Dunkin Donuts when we pull off, no poopy diapers, minimal bathroom stops and inside warm bathrooms with changing stations for both mom and dad when we need them, we arrive in the destined driveway 15 minutes before the GPS originally said we would. The crazy thing is that I can recall multiple trips that were like this.

The way home from my in-laws started the same way we always start car trips. We prayed for traveling mercies. And then just an hour in to our trip we hit dead stopped traffic outside of Cincinnati. Both kids were asleep in the back and we were not about to let a stopped car wake them up. (Rilla Rilla Rooster Head, hates it when the light turns red.) So we turned around to go the other way, and 45 minutes later we were stuck in another branch of the same stupid traffic jam. What. The. Heck. And when we finally got passed that the going was snowy and so so slow…….So we took a dinner break outside of Elisabeth town.

And wouldn’t you know it the there was a Chik-Fil-A, (traveling mercy) that was having kids night so they were fully prepared to help us get the tray to our table and entertain the Peanut (traveling mercy) and it gave the good plows enough time to go before us (traveling mercy). It was slow going but doable until we got outside of Lexington, and we hit a patch of black ice and started fish tailing and Christian started steering and I started praying, and when it was all said and done and no one was hit my 20 month old rear facing Peanut started pointing “see, see, flying see.” No, I don’t see, but yes I certainly do see, angels of traveling mercy.

We got stopped again outside of Knoxville, and after being dead stopped on the side of the road for over an hour where I tucked the Rooster into her bear suit and walked her up and down and up and down the freezing cold high way to get her to stop screaming until we were finally moving again we decided to stop. This was one of the first times we had the money in our account to not blink about the cost of a hotel. And there was a Red-Roof-Inn, that takes dogs, with one room left. Traveling mercies anyone?

We arrived safely the next day in the beautiful sunshine well rested enough that it wasn’t a big deal to bring all of our stuff into the house. In fact there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with fresh clothes and a hot shower for all.

And I was struck with the thought in my little house with my little family and my little dog, that we were home safe and sound and showered. That maybe it wasn’t the kinds of mercies I was anticipating, but the Lord is merciful all the same. Sometimes God parts the clouds, and we avoid the storm all together by His mercy, and sometimes God takes us through the storm and provides His mercies in the midst of it.

You would think that there I would have learned my lesson, but just a few days later someone lost the paper I needed to go back to work, and I prayed for God’s mercy. I was just so sure He was going to show me where I had placed the extra copy I had been hanging on to, I was so sure I would find it in the trash I was digging through. I would find God’s mercy and my paper there. Instead, I found His mercy in a mid-wife who wrote whatever note I needed, and an incredibly gracious and understanding department that covered my classes until the moment I walked in the door with that paper. His mercies…..I need to start looking better, I seem to be finding them in the most interesting of places.

Where have you seen God’s mercy lately? Surely I can’t be the only one discovering them.

Ohhh baby (body).

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I was walking out to the stadium in a sea of fire drill induced students last week. As I rounded the corner I heard it. One girl to another “I am like going to get soooo fat this semester.” I didn’t have to turn around to know that the girl probably weighed less than 125 pounds. Only skinny girls say that. Only the ones who don’t actually have to worry about anyone else commenting about their weight. Why in the world was she concerned about her body fat? If I still had that metabolism I wouldn’t be wasting time saying “I am going to get soooo fat” when I could be shoving copious amounts of peanut butter m&m’s in my mouth.

This came just hours after I had had a mini break down in my closet because I couldn’t find a work-appropriate-Friday-casual-sweat shirt to put over my post baby body. I looked in the mirror and all I could see was what was wrong. My pull over was just too tight for my vanities comfort. And dress pants are less than forgiving as well. The “bottom half” part of dressing every day is not something I look forward to.

And yesterday, a girl in the special-ed class pointed at my stomach as we were passing in the hallway and said “you are going to have a baby!” Wow…..that…felt….awesome… I couldn’t even yell at her for doing it as developmentally, she is just in that stage right now.

In high school and college I never thought I had body issues. I mean, not the looks kind. No matter whether my body could get me out of bed and to school on time, It turns out that at 5’6″ and 120 odd pounds you do have body issues, you just don’t realize it because society approves of your body. But it turns out I have them. And having babies back to back has brought them out in me.

It is ironic in the worst sort of way. I have never been healthier. Truly. I am stronger than I have ever been (thanks to the healthy weight of the Peanut and five pm toddler dance parties). I don’t wake up every day in pain or so exhausted I am literally puking. I have the freedom to make plans without saying “as long as I feel up to it.” I can grow and birth babies with comparatively minimal difficulties. My body works great. And yet, I have never been harder on it.

When I tell my daughters that it is what is inside that counts, I want to mean it. When I tell them they are beautiful, not they  would be  beautiful if….I want them to believe me. I want to be conscious of my diet and exercise because I want to be able to play with my girls, not so I can fit into all my pre-baby clothes. I want to live out for them “beautiful and healthy comes in lots of shapes and sizes” not “it matters what the boys think, and they like skinny bodies.”

I know that I am slowly making my way back into my clothes, but I also know that my body will be different than it was before. And I want to be okay with that. Proud of that even. I don’t like the way my students talk about their own bodies as the enemy at the ripe age of 15. How did that happen? How did a 15 year old in a size 0 come to fear an extra five pounds above all else? How did a 28 year-old who was miraculously healed of a disorder Dr.’s still don’t even know how to diagnose come to loathe a healthy working body that has fed and housed two beautiful babes? How did that happened?

Could it be that this world offers very little grace? We are told that good enough isn’t good enough! Perfection is the new good enough! That if we only tried harder did more we could and would reach the standard that is in fact impossible to reach. And not just in our physique, in our jobs, as parents, as friends and Christ followers. I feel like the world is screaming at me: If you only tried harder you would do better! You aren’t enough! Bad parent! Bad wife! Bad teacher! Bad, bad, bad, step it up!

It is time for me to tell the world to shut it. There is no longer space in my thoughts for those lies. God says I am enough. My body is enough, whether it fits into my dress pants or not. I am done running on that treadmill that gets me nowhere even as it increases in speed and incline. I will instead stroll hand and hand through the day with my savior, whose burden is light. I will do the best I can, and trust His grace to see me through. Rather than depend on my own efforts. And I will be kind and gracious, even to myself.

This body of mine seems to be ground zero for me when it comes to my year of giving grace to myself and others. And I am starting to understand why. It is the thing I can’t hide. The thing that is out there, not explained away. It isn’t perfect, and that is okay, imperfectly perfect even. Yes, I think we will start calling it that instead. After all isn’t that what Paul said? Something about God’s perfections coming through from my weaknesses?

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

Yeah, that. I think that sounds good.