You always wonder if it’s going to be enough. If you listened enough, paused enough, dropped down on your knees to look into her eyes enough. You wonder if when she went to sleep that night, she felt it:
Loved enough. Believed in enough.
“You are special.” I tell her this every day, because one day, sooner than I want to believe, someone will tell her she isn’t. And she will ask herself if it’s true. And the only answer she will have is what her heart tells her.
Today I wondered about Enough. It haunted me. There were deadlines, house showings, suitcases and plans and busyness. And there were two little eyes, peering at me–and one little mouth that has so often asked of late, Mom, “You ‘K?”
Not even two years old, and her heart is already wondering if I’m okay.
“That’s my job, Kiddo. Mommy gets to worry if you’re okay. Did you feel loved today?”
It’s a question her dad asks her every night–did you feel loved? She doesn’t know how to answer it yet, but someday she will. So for now, as we tuck her in with Bear securely by her side, we pray she knows…
She is enough. And we are trying our best to be the same..
I would like to thank my oldest for waking me at 5 a.m. so I could work on my proposals for this upcoming book conference. Also the coffeemaker for the sheer moment of terror when it malfunctioned because I’d plugged in the toaster oven instead.
I still remember the moment I was sucked under, the current burning my eyes as my back scraped against the ocean floor.
Talk about exfoliation… but that was the last thing on my mind.
Did anyone see me get in the water?
Could I scream if I needed to?
How many waves were coming after me, chasing me, pulling me down?
It seems like a lot of us have been pulled down lately, in this community.
We’ve lost life.
We’ve lost relationships.
We’ve lost trust.
I’ve watched my dearest go through separations, divorces, funerals.
I’ve had a few deaths of my own; quiet ones of the soul… ones that can’t be published here… ones I’ve needed to grieve alone for the sake of the privacy of others.
Yet every day I wake up to these blue-eyed wonders (here is one) and I know that when they call me Mama (and a few other names I shouldn’t repeat here), they trust me.
I’ve spent years holding them in the night, offering them my chest when they were small and a bag of Cheetos the moment their immune systems could handle it.
They are my miracles and the ones I thought were only a whisper in a prayer, because my voice couldn’t even be raised in faith.
In asking for them I discovered a hand in the dark, the hand of the One who rescued and to this day rescues me from my dark waters.
I don’t know what your heart needs tonight, but I want you to know you’re not alone.
Maybe you’re praying for a miracle. Maybe you’re simply praying for air.
My heart is with you, and while I cannot walk beside you tonight, I know the One who can.
He is my love, and He is my exceeding great reward.
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It came on suddenly, the night before a big event; the night I craved sleep the most.
I was drifting off when… jerk. (Not my husband–my body.) Ten minutes later the full body “jerks” happened again… and again… and again.
It’s just stress. Get through the holidays and pick up the wrapping paper and
eat bake the last cookie and…
Turns out it wasn’t stress.
The holidays passed, school resumed (thank the Higher Power and the saint that is the preschool teacher), and life resumed to normal… except my body.
Now every evening there were a million little pins poking; my muscles twitching in response, and according to the Internet I was either losing my crap or dying.
In addition, I learned why military agencies use sleep deprivation to torture their P.O.W.’s. I might have been agitated, angry, and (please don’t ask my man) a bit on the oversharing of the information side (but let’s be honest, when am I not?).
The culmination came when, after a night with only two thirty minute stretches sleep, I landed a migraine, a doctor’s visit, and a shot in the butt that was supposed to knock me out like Mike Tyson… but… what the heck?
Can I just stop and make a suggestion right here, right now?
The week before this started, I got the redesign for our new site, Grace for Today.
I worked hard on that tagline, and I thought to myself, this is the stuff. This is what we all need. This is our community, our people, our love that has existed to meet here on this page and simply talk grace.
Can I just pause here and make a little suggestion?
Never advertise anything as Grace for Today, because you might suddenly find yourself realizing it’s literal. You’ve got grace for today, Friend. That’s it. And when tomorrow comes, there’ll be grace there.
Even if it means you meet the sunrise in the recliner with thanks to God that the night is finally past and there’s something He made called coffee and it’s probably what’s making my type this run-on sentence as we speak.
So I come to you with dark circles under my eyes and a sense of humor that is slowly returning. Also, a realization that I don’t have much to offer except a passing feeling of hatred for nighttime. That’s why this is titled, P.S. — I HATE YOU.
Not because I hate you. I love you for sharing this life with me. For listening to my #firstworldproblem of sleeplessness. And for sharing your own struggles and victories here.
So what’s going on with you today?
Another PS-The Internet was wrong. I wasn’t dying… just anemic. Amazing what a little liver (excuse me Vegan friends) and some tiny green pills can do to restore sleep… and sanity. (My family’s.)
It’s been three years now, and I can still remember the day I told Ethan I’d found where we WERE GOING to live.
“There’s one street [in this idyllic small town],” I said, “and the houses are in shambles on that road. I’m pretty sure we could [sell our firstborn to] live here, and also there’s water.”
(That last line was all it took to convince the world kayaking king we could call this small southern town home.)
I’m not sure what it was about this place. Maybe it was the crime rate (which I actually knew nothing about at the time-but soon learned when my cell phone was lifted off the sidewalk that the police took the time for a twelve hour manhunt to retrieve it. That preschool kid will never get off his Big Wheel to pick up toys off the sidewalk again.)
Maybe it was the way we could walk to church, or school, or market. The way strangers waved hello, genuinely smiled, were completely charming, somehow without meddling in your life.
Maybe it was the way new friendships were forged over losses, and fears, and 1 a.m. wakeup calls when your water breaks and you need someone to make sure your oldest doesn’t stick a knife in an electric outlet.
I handpicked this place. I love this place. And I love these people.
So why is my heart longing for somewhere else?
I’ve been asking myself this a lot lately, about my longing for somewhere else. I think it must be a mixture of homesickness for family, roots, the place where I grew up.
But it’s also a mixture of just being a little mom-weary. Chronic illness takes its toll, no matter how beautiful your surroundings are or how supportive your friends are.
Sometimes, even when you’re too old to say it out loud… it’s true that there’s no place like home.