Project 31 Day 7: Write a blog to encourage another beautiful woman.

This one's dedicated to all my fellow "Captividians."

It feels like a lifetime ago that we sat in Miss Joni's living room, a mixed bouquet of women from so many walks of life, all unique and beautiful in our own ways, and all united by one thing: a deep desire to restore our feminine hearts to their original vitality.

As I write this, the song "Beautiful" by Mercy Me just started playing. I've heard it so many times in the past couple of weeks; the first time was just after I'd had a battle with myself over my self-image. I was feeling distinctly unbeautiful one evening, and the next day I heard this song on the radio several times in one day. It seemed to always be on whenever I turned on the radio. After about the fourth time, I finally realized that hearing it that many times--almost in a row--wasn't exactly normal, so I stopped to listen to the words long enough to figure out that God was definitely sending me a message. Now, as I write to all of you, it's on again--and I believe God is sending a reminder to all of you, too--that you're breathtaking. Lovely. Cherished. Beautiful. My dear friend Ashley posted a lovely video montage set to this song and posted it on her own blog. You can see it here, and I really encourage you to take the time watch it. 

I know how easy it is to forget the truth about yourself. I've been battling with losing perspective, with losing track of the truth, and I know some of you have probably been walking through a season where you've lost sight of who you really are, too. If you're like me and you've forgotten the truth, or are having a hard time believing the truth even though you know it, then I hope this will jog your memory and encourage you to take a big risk and believe what God says is actually true.

The truth is this: "You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you." (Song of Solomon 4:7).

What does that mean, exactly? That you're perfect? Certainly not. But you're perfectly made. Everything about you is just as God wanted it to be. He made you to be a breathtaking beauty who gently allures, an ezer kenegdo who courageously comes alongside, and a warrior princess who boldly battles in the face of the enemy. You're the captivating crown of creation.

You are altogether beautiful. Remember it. Live it. And pass it on.

Project 31: Day 6--Has the world's definition of beauty ever jaded you?

Sure it has. It currently is, in fact.

Sometimes I catch myself viewing girls the world defines as "pretty" or "beautiful" with a sort of cynicism, thinking all sorts of ugly thoughts about them, the world that thinks they're beautiful, and even myself in comparison. From my vantage point, there has always been a club of sorts, a society of those girls, the girls who everyone wants to be, strives to be. The girls who seem to always be perfect, in style, and, well, rude (gasp! Did I just say that?).

Am I the only one who's ever thought that?

In my observations lately, the world's definition of beauty seems to come with a pass to be discourteous to anyone who isn't "in their club." I admit there are likely many exceptions to this, but it seems that whenever I see someone who the world defines as beautiful, she happens to exhibit some sort of entitlement complex. Her behavior seems to say, "The world owes me this. I deserve that. I get to step all over you, because I am better than you."

The idea that someone is better because they are physically attractive makes me mad. And tired. And frustrated with my own beauty, because it will never measure up. It's too much work to keep up with a girl like that.

And then, in my moments of clarity, I acknowledge that there is a longing to be beautiful that runs deep within me, but I remind myself that the kind of beautiful I want to be is so much richer, complex, and multi-faceted than just the way I look on the outside. Oh, being pretty on the outside is certainly part of it, but it's not all of it, so why do I feel pressure to embody the world's definition of beautiful?

I'm not sure. I guess it's just hard to be in the world and not of it sometimes. I think we all have a deep longing to be accepted, to be acceptable, to be loved, and to be loveable. And the world seems to tell us that the only way we can be those things is if we fit this erroneous definition they've given to the word beauty.

I'm not sure where I'm going with all this; my thoughts on this feel unfinished, but I'm not sure where to go next. I guess the truth is that I'm at a loss for how to make my mind right about all this stuff. It's a battle I've fought for so long, and I'm tired of it. I feel like I've asked the Lord to make this right in my heart for a long time, and every once in awhile, I feel like he has, but then there are those dark moments when I catch myself being cynical or feeling really terrible about myself. Why is it that I can see the real beauty in other women, but I have such a hard time seeing it in myself?

I think I'll end with that question. It's a question I'm going to ask myself a lot this week as I try to sort through all this. I'm going to start looking for the answer (and I'll let you know when I find it).

Project 31 Day 5: Write a blog thanking someone who has made your heart come alive.

I remember it so well: the way the late afternoon sun poured through the slits of the blinds covering my parents' bedroom window; the exact spot on the foot of the bed where we sat, myself between my parents; the way I was so absolutely sure I really wanted you to come live in my heart (even though at that time, I wasn't really sure what that actually meant quite yet).

Since that day, we've had an up and down relationship, haven't we? More ups than downs, but still--I haven't always held up my end of our relationship with the same resolve I had that first day, and for that, I'm sorry.

When I was younger, you weren't a question. You were truth-- accepted without reservation, deeply convinced as I was of you. You were in the songs I sang, the prayers I said, the books I read, the flowers I picked, the stories I told, and the sunsets I watched. I knew who you were, and I was absolutely certain that like the songs said, you did love me--but looking back, I'm not sure that I really knew you. 

When I got a little older, you were woven into my history, so much so that there was no me without you. And then my heart got hurt pretty badly. Instead of running to you for help, I questioned you. I didn't understand you. I wondered why such a thing could happen to me. I don't know that I ever said that I blamed you, but I think deep down in my hurting little heart, I did. If you loved me, certainly this wouldn't have happened to me.

I remember crying out to you in a way that I hadn’t ever cried out to you before. But that’s all it was: crying. In bed. In my car. In the shower. Wherever I happened to find myself alone, I cried. But I didn’t feel like I ever got a response, really. Or if I did, I didn’t hear it; at that point, my complaints and hurt and frustration and anguish were too loud.

Eventually, my heart closed down. Sealed itself off from you. Cringed when I heard your name. Got
angry when good things happened to other people. I eventually began to believe that either you forgot about me, or you just didn't care much about what happened to me.

And then, you showed up. You met me in my basement, the lowest place I’d ever been, the place where I’d been hiding for so long that it had become my new normal. When I finally got quiet enough to hear you, I heard your voice right next to me in that dark place and I realized you had been with me all along. And on that day of recognition, you turned on the light, climbed the stairs, opened the door, and asked me to climb the stairs and walk out the door with you. You didn’t force me; you invited me. You didn’t yell; you whispered. You didn’t scold; you comforted. You didn’t shun; you embraced.

You spoke to my heart in a way that made it come alive. You gave me a reason to live, a reason to love, a reason to take chances and to dream and to desire again. And you still do, every day.

Thank you for sitting in the dark with me. Thank you for urging me to leave that lonely place and for challenging me to take the first step. Thank you for holding my heart in your hands, and thank you that I can trust you to do that. Thank you for your love. Thank you for the dreams you have for me. Thank you for the grace you’ve shown me. Thank you for the life that flows from your heart into my own.

I love being your girl.

Project 31 Day 4: Post a picture of yourself in your favorite outfit

I admit it. I'm cheating.

This picture is definitely not recent. Definitely.

But the truth is that I just don't have a favorite outfit right now, unless you count my ratty old SJSU sweatshirt and my new sweatpants I got for Christmas. But that's a favorite because it's comfy, not because it makes me feel the least bit attractive.

Without a current favorite outfit, I kept putting this post off, swearing up and down that I'd just choose something--anything--that I sort of like enough to post. I kept coming up empty. Instead, I decided to go a different direction, and this is what I came up with.

Photo by AGBPhotographics

So. Why did I decide to post this picture? Well, because I'm wearing my absolute favorite jeans in it, the ones that I always felt like a knockout in whenever I wore them, the ones that currently don't fit (sigh), along with my favorite peep toe patent leather heels from White House Black Market that made me feel sassy whenever I wore them. I miss them terribly. I just gave them away because they too do not fit anymore, and I haven't quite gotten over it yet. (I really wasn't expecting my feet to grow during pregnancy, but, alas, they did. At least I know I will eventually be able to wear these jeans again. The shoes? Not so much.)


So again, I ask, why did I post this picture? Perhaps because this was a time in my life when I felt really pretty. This is one of our engagement pictures, and when it was taken, I was basking in the knowledge that I was about to be a bride. Brides are absolutely stunning, aren't they? And not just on the outside, although brides seem to always look pretty. It's more than outward beauty though. They have this glow that seems to emanate from the inside out, making them exude beauty in a way that seems to fade away sometime between "I do" and the return to reality. But why? Maybe it's because it's at that time, perhaps more than at any other time in our lives, that we know how beautiful, loved, seen, treasured, cherished we are. But the sad part about all of that is that we aren't any less beautiful, loved, seen, treasured or cherished as a bride than we are at any other time in our lives, not really. Maybe in some ways, sure, but Jesus sees us that way always, from the moment our little hearts start to beat.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not nearly as beautiful as I was when this picture was taken. Other times, I remind myself that there are so many new beautiful things about me that I didn't have when that picture was taken. I guess feeling beautiful is just that--a feeling. And can't we feel beautiful because of other things about us besides our outward appearance? Can we feel beautiful when we do something we know is right? Can we feel beautiful when we've accomplished something hard? Can we feel beautiful when we lend a hand to someone in need?

Don't get me wrong--feeling beautiful on the outside is important, but knowing that we're beautiful for more than just what we look like is important too. I struggle with this everyday, to be honest. But I'm making space in my heart to start to believe the fact that there are some pretty awesome things about myself that make me beautiful besides my favorite jeans and a pair of killer heels. It's when I'm in that place that I choose to begin accepting myself as a beautiful woman again.

But I still really like this picture. And I really want to be able to wear those jeans again ;)

Project 31 Day 3: Who is someone you know that inspires beauty?

I've thought long and hard about this (well, since yesterday at least), and I've tossed around many a name as I've tried to decide who to write about today. Stephanie, you're the one whose name keeps making its way to the forefront of my thinking. So Steph, this post is for you.

I guess the short way to introduce who Stephanie was in my life is to say that she was my babysitter when I was a kid, but the truth is, she was far more than that. She was really much more like a sister to me; I never had a sister of my own, and I wanted one more than I wanted a lot of things. But Stephanie was my surrogate, the one who stood in the place where a big sister would have stood, if I had one. She was the one who taught me about make up, listened to my stories about my major crushes on boys, and crashed my slumber parties. She played with my hair and taught me how to make silly faces. She showed me what it meant to be a lady, but to be a goofy one at that. We used to tell her she was weird, but she would always reply "I'm not weird, I'm gifted." She had dreams--big ones, dreams that made me realize it was not only ok to have big aspirations, it was necessary. I remember wanting to be like her, so much so that I played tennis in high school (just like her) and went to Biola University for a small part of my undergraduate career (just like her).

So how does she inspire beauty? She inspires beauty by being fully and completely herself. She may have had her bouts of self-doubt or insecurity over the years, but even if she did, she was always authentic about it. She found who she was in Christ and encourages other women to do the same. She is a compassion incarnate, talented to no end, and totally and completely in love with Jesus. She has three beautiful little girls who adore her world and will grow in the knowledge of Jesus as they model themselves after their mother.

Stephanie, thank you for inspiring me to find my own true beauty, to take pride in the quirkiness of who I am, and to always put Christ first in my life. Thank you for being brave enough to be yourself and to encourage me to do the same.

Project 31 Day 2: What makes you uniquely you?

I know I'm late. Yesterday was a busy day. Joey's brother and sister-in-law were in town, and I was far too exhausted to sit down and write this out by the time they left last night. I'm trying hard not to beat myself up about it (see below). Oh well. I guess I'm just a day behind. I'll try to catch up tomorrow!

Ok, down to business. What makes me unique? That's a question I've been trying to answer for a long time. I think when we're so familiar with our own selves, sometimes we just feel, well, normal (don't we?). Either that, or just ordinary. To look for the things about myself that are special is hard because to me, they're just, well, me. So, here's a quick list of things that make me me.

I love Jesus. He's my everything.
I really, really, really love chocolate. I especially love chocolate covered strawberries.
I hate chocolate combined with either raspberry or orange. Ew.
I am a good listener.
I cry a lot, especially when I laugh. My friends call them Rachel Tears.
I'm a not-so-closet Harry Potter fan. (Seriously, I'm a Harry Potter nerd.)
I pretty much always give a disclaimer when I'm talking to someone, about, well, anything. (Except for when I really mean it. Wait, is that a disclaimer?)
I say I'm sorry far too often, for things that (usually) don't warrant it.
I am an optimist when it comes to other people, but a pessimist when it comes to myself.
I have many, many books. Tons. I love them. But most of the books on my shelf are either unread, or only 50% read. I keep a stack on my nightstand that very nearly topples over every day, but having them there is a comfort, in a way. I get lost in them, learn from them, am inspired by them, and find rest in them.
I tend to beat myself up about things (see introduction to this post for an example...).
I'm a middle child--I have two brothers, no sisters. My brothers are best friends now, and I've always longed to have a sister of my own, one who is my best friend. Even though that dream will never become a reality, I've been blessed with many, many girlfriends who are like sisters to me.
I'm a peacemaker.
I'm an encourager.
I hate trying on jeans. Bain of my existence.
I love to explore, to learn new things, to stretch my mind and expand my understanding.
I love pretty things.
I'm really sorry, but I'm just not a dog person. Actually, I'm not much of an animal person. They're beautiful creatures, but ... well, can I just admire and appreciate them from a distance?
I love to get lost: in books, in old movies, in new places, in the beauty of the night sky, in my husband's arms.
I hate flying. HATE it. But I love to travel. 
I'm quite easy going, but I can be incredibly stubborn about a few things when my mind is made up.
I love to cook, but I usually apologize for what I think is the mediocre quality of what I make (see? I told you I apologize a lot!)
It takes me a long time to make a decision, but once made, I'm pretty committed to it.
My feet are always cold when I get into bed.
I love to learn about health and wellness, and really like teaching people that cooking healthy does not require sacrificing flavor. To me, it simply enhances it (when done well!)
I love wandering through farmers markets.
I have a little beauty mark below my left eye--and I secretly adore it.
I'm a dreamer.
I love to write. It's where my the jumbled mess inside my head takes shape and begins to make sense.

I'm sure there are many other things that make me uniquely me. But for now, I think that'll do.

Project 31 Day 1: What Does Beauty Mean to You?

I honestly thought this would be easy.

Writing about what beauty means to me doesn't seem like it should be difficult; after all, we all have our own ideas of what beauty is (don't we?).

But as I sit here writing about how I feel about it, what it means to me, I keep coming back to the lies I believed about it for a long time, the lies from which I thought I'd broken free, the lies that somehow wormed their way back into my subconscious over the past several months.

Several years ago, I (like so many of you) read Captivating by John & Stasi Elderidge, and it changed my life in many ways. It was a tool God used to set my heart free, to tell me what he really thought of me, and to create a new intimacy between us, an intimacy that I had only dreamed of prior to that. Reading that true beauty is a feminine heart fully alive brought freedom to my weary soul. I didn't have to strive for a definition of beauty that was unrealistic, twisted, untrue. To be beautiful, I simply had to be me, my authentic self. I was beautiful because of who God is.

But over the years, and especially in the last several months when body changed as my pregnancy progressed, I slowly began to forget that beauty is more than the way my physical self appears. I somehow let the world's idea of beauty creep back in and twist my view of myself; when I looked in the mirror, what I saw became a distorted view of who I really was. No longer did I feel pretty. No longer did I feel valuable. No longer did I feel like I was living up to the girl that my husband fell in love with. After all, he thought she was pretty beautiful, and yet here I was, this distorted version of myself--how could he, or anyone else, find anything beautiful in me?

When I think about how we describe God as being beautiful, I realize that we cannot see his face. We see awe-inspiring manifestations of who he is, but we cannot physically see him. And yet, he's beautiful. What he does is beautiful. His heart is beautiful. Who he is is beautiful.

The truth is this: beauty does have a physical side to it. There are pretty things in the world, women included. But just "being pretty" isn't the same as being beautiful. Pretty is one thing; it's what we see with our eyes. And yes, I think as women, we want to be pretty, to feel it and to know that there's someone who thinks we're pretty, too. But beauty is not limited to the physical. Beauty makes us stop and stare in amazement. Beauty makes us experience wonder, amazement. It is awe-inspiring and encourages life to be fully lived and enjoyed. It brings comfort, solace, hope. Beauty captures hearts and imaginations. It's what takes our breath away.

Beauty is the quiet of the morning, the smell of coffee brewing, the sounds of life around me yawning and stirring and waking to the new day.
Beauty is second chances.
Beauty is the sunset and the star-studded night sky that follows.
Beauty is the first time my baby smiled at me. It is feeling her grasp my finger and watching her smile at me while she nurses.
Beauty is the knowledge that the Lord not only knows my name, but thinks I'm pretty great.
Beauty is the hope that life will go on, that things will get better, and that I get to experience each new day with my husband standing beside me, holding my hand.
Beauty is being attuned to what is going on in the hearts of someone else and doing something meaningful to minister to their needs.
Beauty is a flower budding in the early spring, reminding us that new life follows death.
Beauty is the mingling of flavors in a new recipe.
Beauty is the promise of love shared.
Beauty so much more...but like my friend Ashley said today in her own Day 1 entry, beauty simply is.

And perhaps that's the way God designed it, to be a mystery that invites us unto himself, that draws us closer to him.

Project 31

Project 31--What a perfect follow-up to the things that happened last weekend when beauty was so heavily on my heart. Little did I know that beauty--true, authentic beauty--was on the hearts and minds of so many other women. Being part of a larger movement toward beauty makes my role in it feel more important, bigger than just my own little journey in my own little world. It feels like there's a war being waged against the lies that have taken hold of so many hearts and minds for far too long (and it's about time, isn't it?). I choose today to begin a journey toward the truth, to rediscover the real meaning of beauty alongside so many others. (Thank you to She Breathes Deeply for the Project 31 challenge!)

To Joey, on Your Birthday

Today is your 34th birthday! Happy birthday to my friend, my heart, my home.

Tonight we’re having a very short notice birthday party for you. I sent you the Evite I sent to our friends so that you would see who was coming and all the other details of the party I’d planned for you at the last minute. To my surprise, you submitted an RSVP for your own birthday party, you said (about yourself), “I think he's kind of a tool, but I also think his wife is hot and I'll show up just so I can flirt with her all night.” I, of course, laughed at this remark and told you you make me laugh. But deep down, I actually think you're right—you are a tool. Let me explain.

Tools help us build things, they help us fix things, they help us create things. Tools are meant to be used. They are built for hard work. They provide the help that’s needed when something needs to get done. They are strong, substantial, and are not easily broken. Paradoxical as it seems, though they can be dangerous, they are actually designed to be quite safe. In a nutshell, that is you.

You're much more than that, of course, and I could go on and on about how I feel about you and how much you've changed my life and how I can’t imagine my life without you in it (all of which would be very true). But today, I can’t help but think of you as a tool. You build things, fix things, and create things, in a very literal sense. But you also do so on another level in the lives of so many people besides me. You build trust and relationships; you fix broken bones and broken spirits; you create fun, happiness and joy. Although I thought getting close to you was dangerous (at first), I have discovered that with you, I am safe.

But more than all that, I believe you are a tool that God uses over and over again. In fact, sometimes I think you might just be one of God’s favorite tools in His toolbox.

So Joey, today I honor you for the tool you are. Thank you for being willing to be used in my life, and in the lives of so many others. May God use you this year in ways you have been praying to be used. May He give you new opportunities to build, to fix, and to create.

Happy birthday, my love.

Confession

I have a confession to make. It feels awkward and weird, and I'm a little embarrassed to say it, but..well, that's the way confessions are, aren't they? Here it goes anyway.

This weekend, I felt pretty. Beautiful even.

There. I said it. Whew! Feels good to get it off my chest.

I haven't felt pretty in a long time. There have been moments in recent months when I wasn't sure I'd ever feel pretty again. But this last weekend, I took advantage of an opportunity  to wear more than just my same old pair of jeans and my too-big-for-me-now maternity hoodie, and I ended up experiencing more than I'd expected to experience.

We were going to a wedding, a wedding that just a few days ago I wondered what in the world I would wear to. I have no dresses or skirts to speak of, so I turned to a friend to borrow something appropriate. After trying to squeeze myself into one of her dresses (with no success, but a whole lot of laughter in the process), I ended up combining one of her cute tops with a pair of my black dress pants. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it would work fine anyway.

So Saturday morning came, and I decided that instead of feeling like I was wearing the only thing I could throw together to be somewhat appropriate, I'd embrace the outfit and enjoy wearing it. Not only that, but I was going to take the opportunity to get dressed up and enjoy it. And I did. I curled my hair, put it up, wore eye shadow that isn't my I-wear-it-everyday eyeshadow, and wore heels. Shoot, I even ended up painting my nails!

That day I felt feminine, more than anything, which I think is what made me feel pretty. It's not that I did all this stuff to myself and suddenly recognized some shred of beauty there; instead, I felt a little bit more myself that day because I was true to this deep feminine desire inside me for recognizing and embodying and enjoying beauty. I was very aware of beautiful things around me that day, from the warmth of the sun to the way a child smiles when they recognize someone they love. The deep blue of the hydrangeas. The way the white calla lilies looked more white and beautiful against the sparkling blue of the bridesmaid dresses. The tears the parents shed. The shy smile on the bride's face and the nervous smile of the groom's. The prayer the pastor said as he sealed the covenant between the two. The way my husband flirted and played with me. The hug of an old friend. I wasn't focused on myself or how I felt about myself, I was focused on enjoying the fact that I was enjoying beauty, and I felt like I was somehow a part of the beauty around me instead of an outside observer wishing I could join the club. I'm not sure that really captures the way I really felt, but it's the closest way I know how to explain it.

Anyway, it just so happens that a friend of mine wrote to me that night (or was it early Sunday morning) about the importance of recognizing and enjoying beauty. Of creating it. Of living a lifestyle of beauty, in a way. And she even wrote about it on her own blog (which you can read here), an entry that challenged me to recognize and appreciate beauty everyday, to make it a habit, not out of obligation, and not to make it one more thing I have to check off of my to-do list, but to do it out of a deep need for beauty.

I'm reminded of what John and Stasi Elderidge say about beauty, that it heals, that it inspires, that it somehow tells us that all is well, or all will be ok. Beauty brings life. To live a life without beauty is to not really live at all, I'm coming to discover. And I'm also realizing that it's ok for me to want to make things beautiful, and in fact, it's as natural for me to do so as it is for me to breathe.

Will you join me in helping to make the world a more beautiful place? Be it through a smile, through making your home a haven, through recognizing and admiring the beauty of others? Let's live a lifestyle that values beauty, not in a shallow, worldly way, but in the way beauty has always been valued by the Most Beautiful One of all.

I miss my kitchen, and other thoughts on cooking

I miss my kitchen. Or maybe it's better to say that I miss having my own kitchen with my own cookware and my own cupboards. It's my haven. Or it was my haven. Some people stress out over having to cook dinner. I, for the most part, look forward to it. It was my stress-reliever, my hobby, my sanctuary of sorts.

If you know me, you know I love to spend time in the kitchen. Sometimes I pour over cookbooks,  soaking them up and trying my best to recreate the treasures within or use them as inspiration for my own creations. Other times I like to just jump right in, getting my hands dirty while I try to figure out how to make something good out of virtually nothing. (I sort of like it when the cupboards are bare. I (usually) see it as an opportunity to stretch my cooking muscles, to prove my salt, to make something amazing out of what someone else would see as nothing.

But I digress. Today I miss my kitchen a lot, so I'm daydreaming about the things I used to make and even the things I used to hate to make in the kitchen. 

Some things that I like to make:

- Pesto, especially if I grew the basil myself.

- Homemade croutons. They're so much better than store bought--and so easy and inexpensive.

- Cheese plates. They're so beautiful and so delicious, and they make me feel fancy.

- Homemade bread. I'm still refining the skill, but it's a battle I will win. I love the feeling when the bread   rises--it's such a feeling of success! And the smell of a freshly baked loaf cooling in the kitchen? So worth the effort.

- Homemade jam. Again, so much better than its store bought counterparts. 

- Heirloom recipes. Not recipes with heirloom produce (although those are absolutely wonderful too), but recipes passed down to me from my grandmothers. Few things are more comforting than that.

Things I DON'T like to make:

- Anything out of a box. Unless it's cake, but even that's debatable.

- Stir fry. It's messy, and it's a lot of chopping. And mine rarely turns out very good. But alas, it is one of our staple meals. Perhaps I should try to perfect this one soon?

- Curry. Don't get me wrong--I love to eat curry, but I definitely don't like to make it. Well, an authentic curry, at least. The spices are so pungent that they stay in my kitchen for weeks. I'd rather do takeout on this one.

- Things that involve me cutting up a raw chicken. I'll roast a whole chicken, but cutting it up makes me want to be a vegetarian. Sometimes I think I'd make a good vegetarian, actually.

Back to Work, Whatever That Means

I used to hate that question, the one that all adults ask every little kid at some point in their childhood. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" At first, I didn't mind it because I knew exactly what the answer was. It was as clear as the bright blue sky on a warm day. "A mom." That's it. That's what I wanted. As far as I was concerned, there wasn't anything else on the planet that could compare.

And then I got a little bit older and I started hating the question. "Well sure you want to be a mom, but what kind of job do you want to do?" What? Being a mom didn't count? Well, uh, ok...then I guess...hmm...I got nothing. I guess I started to think that being a mom wasn't enough.

Still older I grew, and before I knew it I had an answer. I wanted to be a pediatrician (perhaps because it involved caring for children...) until I took an anatomy class in high school. The day we took a field trip to tour a cadaver lab, that dream was a wash.

So then more time passed and I began my quest for that elusive calling, the one that would guide me into my career and give me joy, happiness, and the approval of society. It took me a long time to find something--anything--that put wind in my sails as much as the thought of being a mom did. But I did. Publishing. Oh, how I loved it. The editing. The writing. The creating. The learning. All of it was so inspiring and exciting. But to make a long story short, my career in publishing was short lived. I loved it, for the most part, but I didn't love the things we were publishing or the overall mentality of the company for which I worked. I think it's because I was working on books that I didn't believe in, on a very deep and profound level, and I started questioning the ethics of what I did every day.

And then a door opened, one that I didn't foresee and certainly didn't expect since walking through this door would pluck me right out of the publishing business and put me smack dab in the middle of education. Education at my old high school, even, where I'd be colleagues with some of my high school teachers. Sounds glamorous, no?

But a change was needed, so through the door I went. I became a college counselor, a job which I knew I could do because, well, I'd had a lot of experience in the whole "getting into college" game. And the "make your way through multiple colleges" game, if I'm honest. The opportunity became a lifesaver for me in many ways. My spirit began to breathe and stretch and move again, whereas it had been idle, as if in a sound sleep for far too long. Pretty soon I became inspired again, inspired to let the writer in me get out of the box I kept it stored in. That writer began to stretch its legs and get moving again.

And then I found out I was going to be a mom. And my original dream, the one that never left me, emerged again. It was always there, but it had been buried for quite some time, hidden deep down inside my heart. Suddenly nothing in the world could compare with the idea of being a mom, and not having to do anything but simply be that.

For 8 weeks, I got a taste of it. It was hard. Very hard. But the kind of hard that makes you realize how valuable, how important it is. I felt more authentically myself during the last couple of weeks of my leave. Being a mom and being a writer were starting to merge into one new way of life. I loved it.

Going back to work (whatever that means) was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was even harder than the  giving birth part (which was no picnic).  My first week back was better than I imagined it would be, but I was in a state of mourning every day, deep down inside. Going back to work was the death of a dream. It was something I so fervently did not want to do, deep down in my bones it just felt so wrong. And yet, there I was, dropping my precious little girl off at a sitter's house and walking away.

I guess as a mother, you do what you have to do, right? Going "back to work" is a misnomer because when I was home, I was working. I'm learning that just because I work outside the home doesn't mean I'm not a mom. I may not be a stay-at-home-mom, but I'm still a full-time mom--and there's no way to change that. I'm not off mom duty when Addie's with the sitter. I'm still thinking about her, praying for her, and taking care of her from a distance. And when she needs me, I'm there in matter of moments. And when I get home from my outside job, I'm still working, very hard, until the moment I finally fall into bed at night. And even then, I'm not off duty. These are the things that don't stop, not when you're a mom.

Being back at work isn't my favorite. I'd much rather spend my days with my little munchkin, sneaking writing breaks in here and there as she sleeps or plays on her own, but for now, I'm working on accepting my new normal and being thankful for the way God has given us a situation that is as ideal as it is (how many moms can walk over to nurse their baby on their lunch break?). It's a rough transition, one that I'm not sure I'll ever truly like, but one that I'm choosing to see the positives in.