The Gift of Authenticity

 I came down to my desk today while Daisy was napping to get some work done on some commission pieces. But I remembered I needed to send an email and then I remembered I had a blog in my head and now I want to write. 

Lately I have felt a stirring in my heart and soul. Something coming up, something mixing around in there. A call to be more involved, to be studying, to be reading. A shift in what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. Not only to disciple myself, but my children. I am not satisfied with Sunday Morning mediocrity right now. If my Bible isn't open in the days between Church, I just don't feel like I'm doing it right. 

I want more. For me, and for our kids. 

As I think more and more about what I want for my kids and for us as a family, I can't help but think about my own parents, my mom and my dad. 

Both would admit to not having all the answers, both would admit to being sinners in need of Jesus, just like me. Recently some conversations about authenticity have come up in my life. What does it look like? Who are the authentic people in your life and what characteristics do they have? What makes you want to be around those people? Would you consider yourself to be an authentic person? Would you consider me to be authentic? 

When I think about my parents and the faith that they each showed me, I would consider both of them to be authentic people. I'm not sure I appreciated it as much as I should have when I was younger. In my skewed sense and own misperceptions I'm sure I felt they were "hypocritical" at times. But then, I think I threw that term around like confetti at a party without really taking to heart what I was saying. My parents were the same person at church on Sunday as they were on a Thursday night. If you came to our house and Mama was mad? She was still mad. She didn't stop being mad because someone else was there and might see her be mad. My Dad was still the grouchy looking guy on Sunday morning that he was on a Friday night. I saw them be mad, I saw them cry with people who held grief, I saw them fight for people who needed someone to fight for them. I saw them pray. Deep heartfelt prayers to an audience of one. It didn't matter if we were praying before dinner or together in the living room, they were talking to Jesus, and I knew that. 

I don't know if my siblings feel the same way I do. They all have their own perceptions, opinions, and life experiences that I may not have. The parents that had my oldest brother are vastly different than the parents who had me or my youngest sister. Their ideas changed and they grew with each of us. Of that, I think all of my siblings can agree. 

Now I have kids of my own. And this has changed so much about me...but in all the best ways. I have benefitted so much from the way motherhood has shaped me. The mom I was when I had Ellie is different than the mom I am now with older kids who are able to do things on their own, but who still has two little toddler girls who require much of me, still. 

As Ellie gets older I am starting to think about who I want to be when she is  32 years old and thinking about her own childhood and her own memories. 

I want my kids to see me as the same person Sunday morning as the person I am on a Wednesday afternoon, or a Thursday night when I'm exhausted. I never want my kids to feel like I put on an act in Church on a Sunday morning. I long for and seek out authenticity. 

I want to pray over and out loud with my kids as much as I do my friends. I want to talk about the Bible with them, share what I've been reading and the way it shapes me. I want to make sure they know the deep truths of the Word, the way Jesus loves them. I can teach them math, and history, science and geography, how to read and write, but if I'm not teaching them about theology, and Jesus...am I really doing my job? Am I really being authentic? 

I am not perfect, nor do I want to be, the last guy who was, know what they did to Him? No thanks man. But I do want to be as like Him as I can get. He is good and kind and patient and gentle and had so much self-control. I want to be so rooted into Jesus that the fruits of that spill out of my life in the most beautiful ways, starting here in my home, with my kids. I won't do it right. That's not self-deprecating, its just the truth. 

I feel like there are all these things we try to do to give our kids a good future as well as a good childhood. There are plenty of things I do differently than my parents. I am not my mother, nor am I my father, but. I am thankful for the people that they were and are. For the way they taught me to be part of a community, to love, to feed, to welcome people in my house. For being the same person on a Sunday morning when they were annoyed with us all for making them late, to a Tuesday night when my Dad called us all into the living room to pray out loud with one another. For my moms tenderness, for my Dads strength of conviction. For both of them admitting when they were wrong and trying to learn better ways. For the laughter and the worship. 

I am thankful for the authenticity my parents gave us, gave me. And my prayer is that I can give that same authenticity to my children. In all my sin and mistakes and issues, I know that I can admit, ask forgiveness and move forward.    

My mom was here with us in March and something has stuck with my since she's gone back home. She came to our co-op one day, helped watch the babies, was there when we sang our songs, read our devotional, corralled children. She pulled me aside and told me "Your Daddy would have loved this, he'd be so proud." I felt disorganized and loud and silly and she'd seen me holler at my kids, and here was, telling me how proud she was, how proud he would be. That day, there didn't feel like there was anything for her or for him to be proud of. I was simply living my life...

Yet there is something precious about letting people get a glimpse into your life in a beautiful and real way. No changing. No pretending. No acting like I have it together when I for sure do not. 

So come on over, any day of the week. If there are crumbs from cracker packets on the floor so be it. If there are dishes in the sink, so be it. The person I am on a Sunday morning is the person I am here in my home, loud and joyful and silly and compassionate. When I raise my hands in worship on Sunday, I raise them in my kitchen too. When I pull you into a hug to pray for you at Church, I do the same for my kids in our living room. 

I decided I want my kids to see me live a life of authenticity, I have to be willing to be vulnerable enough to be that way. It's not easy. The desire to hide the messy is always there. Heaven forbid you know I'm grumpy at my husband (which happens y'all, I love him, but he's a man. And men are sometimes....well. They're just men!), or that I haven't folded the laundry, or I left dishes in the sink, or that I narrowly avoided a panic attack right before you showed up (that actually happened this weekend when a friend asked if she could come by!), or there is cracker crumbs literally all over my living room. It all gets cleaned, I promise. This is not me advocating a house that is falling apart on you, but for allowing the small bits that don't matter, to be that: small things, that don't matter. 

People won't remember the laundry or the messes. They'll remember being welcomed. They'll remember being fed. They'll remember being loved. The same way everyday, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing. 

I don't remember all the times my parents messed up. I know they did. I know sometimes they yelled and it was loud and people got upset. But I remember that there was never any pretense. We didn't actually have to pretend. 

That's what I want for our kids. A life of authenticity, where they don't have to hide how they feel, not even from me. Because when they learn to be authentic with me, they will learn to be authentic with their Savior. 

And I can think of no sweeter gift to give them. 

                                 

Grace Valley

 It's pretty amazing to me how long this blog has lasted. It's also interesting to see the way my life has ebbed and flowed, the years when I wrote all the time and the years that it was slower. 

Every now and again I go back and re-read some of these. That can be both good and bad. Memories are so incredibly powerful, our stories and our lives are shaped by the way they are carved into our hearts. 

Right now I wonder what I should even be writing about. What do I even have to offer?                 

My days are filled with mothering. There are still diapers to wipe, toilets to clean, there is always dishes and I don't understand why or how there is so much laundry. We still have a strict nap time, I'm still convincing my kids we have to bathe every now and again, and don't even get me started on the dinner time struggles I encounter. 

Nothing about being a mother is what I thought it would be like. The daily struggles, the worries, the issues and behaviors I am up against. Seeing too frequently an older generation that glorifies and romanticizes a time  that is past. Feeling so inadequate in the face of technology, emotional needs, and the constant unrelenting feeling that I am not measuring up. 

Also, I'm homeschooling, so if my kids are dumb, that's on me now too. 

As I talk with more and more friends, as we build our community I am in awe of how much I need real life friendships and face to face connections. The internet is not and never has been, enough. 

There is a comfort in Friday night pizza nights. With kids running everywhere, a hot stove, extra salad, and finding ways to love one another in hard seasons. The routines keep me looking forward, not just to the next week, but the next few years. I know that the friendships my kids make will be good and helpful, the same goes for me. When I am connected to these friendships I tap into the parts of Maddie who was Maddie before she was a mother. That part of me still exists, these friendships solidify that one day, when my kids move on from me, I will still know how to make and keep, friends.

Every week we meet on Thursdays for a co-op full of women and families that only God could bring together. There is joy and discipline. There is teaching and learning and stretching. Grace Valley is not just a place, it is a mindset, a comfort, a blanket of security and joy in a world that is shoving information down my throat. I find so much peace there amongst my friends. They help me to be a better mother in all aspects. I bake more, play outside more, pray more, and get down on my kids levels because of these women. Because of the strength and community I find there. 

There is a comfort in knowing that any of them are a phone call away. In knowing they showed up to an art show for me, in knowing I would do my best to show up for them. They make these hard days of mothering less lonely. Five women with such different parenting styles, homeschooling styles, and even life styles and we still make time to hang out together. 

This is not something I stumbled into either. I worked for it. I think I worked hard for it. As often as I have asked for help I try to extend a hand to any of them. As often as I have asked for prayer from them, I have been willing to offer up my prayers for them. 

People like to bring up how "it takes a village" and its true, I believe that. I also think we don't acknowledge how hard it is to find and make that community. How many tries it takes. How vulnerable you have to be. How you have to be willing to show up, on both sides, the giving and taking part of things. No one knows you need help unless you ask. No one will ask unless you show a willingness to help.  

As I went back today and looked at some old blog posts, I found a comment on one of them from my Dad. He said something he said a lot to us kids during his life...that Relationships are what are truly important. 

He was a smart man my Daddy. Because the relationships with my Grace Valley moms? Those are ones I'm taking to Heaven with me. And I couldn't imagine my life without them...

The One and Only JLC

When Mawmaw was here she wondered about Heaven. She always wondered if those who were with Jesus could see us here on Earth. Some questions we will never know the answers to, and I just always said “I think the people in Heaven are to excited about being with Jesus.”

Then you died John Lee Cunningham, and I changed my mind. 

I changed my mind because it was abrupt and awful and shattered us and the community and it shattered your wife. I have watched the things you’ve missed this year and I find myself wondering, often, is there a window from Heaven where you get to see? 

Do you get to see your wife? Do you know the depth of her strength and vulnerability? Have you watched her endure day in and day out as she learns to navigate this life without you? I remember a year ago the phone calls, multiple, vividly. I remembering screaming in my van and telling the person who told me that it was a sick joke and I was mad as hell she would joke like that. I remember the look on my two oldest kids faces. 

I remember the Cicadas all over everyone outside of your house John as we stood in stunned silence. Your widow looked at me and “I’m so sorry your kids have to go through this again.” 

Did you watch those things, or was Heaven just too glorious and blinding? 

Did you know that the next month was a blur and my life was, once again, put on pause? All the times I was at your house unsure of what to say or do, knowing my words were empty when put up against the pain and grief my friend felt. 

Do you know I gave part of your name to Daisy? Daisy Lee. Daisy Rebekah Lee. She’s a comfort to us, and you would have LOVED her, like you loved all my kids. God gave us her sweet smile and personality after the tremendous grief that shook through our lives as we learned to move forward, just a little, each day. 

In your life I knew you loved your wife deeply, and I knew how immensely proud you were of her. I wonder if that continues over in Heaven. I imagine you talking with Jesus after a day of watching her and how the two of you high five at her victories and hurt when she hurts. Maybe you can’t hurt in Heaven…maybe you don’t know. 

All of me wants to think that you know John. 

Did you watch your godson struggle with his grief? Did you see the way he insisted on being rough and punching all the men in his life in the belly, because that’s what he did with you? He clings to that memory of the day you and Kackie took him to ice cream and the thrift store. He says he wants to name his son John. He can think of no higher calling than to be someone’s Dad, and to “play like Uncle John.” 

Your death ripped through us all like the worst Earthquake any of us have ever endured and the entire community suffered aftershocks. 

Yet still…I know Heaven is better.  I know you’re  whole and complete and spending every day of eternity with the Savior you love. We all somehow managed to survive the year without even though every single one of us woke up remembering you were gone. 

I’m thankful John Lee Cunningham, for the time I had you in my life. For the memories you gave my kids, for the way you encouraged my husband, for the way you teased and made fun of me. I’m thankful for your story about Tuesdays, and how you broke into our room to save the stupid cat when Dean locked the door. I’m thankful for you unwavering determination to make sure my van didn’t blow up. 

I don’t know what you can see from Heaven, but I hope sometimes you see the strength and resilience we’ve used to navigate this life without you…

I hope you can see your wife sometimes…because John…she’s the most amazing person I know. She didn’t have to forgive that man who made that choice that led to your death. But she did. She didn’t have to wake up every day and still chose to love the Lord and carry your legacy. But she does. 

We miss you a ton John.  We really do.  But I know Heaven is better.  I really do. 

See ya there one day Buddy….

31 Year Old Me

 Today it is snowing and wet and gray. It is also Monday. Monday are my best school days with the kids, we seem to get the most done on Mondays. We woke up today, made my bed, all had an easy light breakfast, and I put Daisy down for her morning nap, all the regular things. Dean and Ellie did their school work on my bed with me while I hollered at Ana to leave them alone for five seconds. 

Thankfully today the kids gave me a moment of quiet time, it doesn’t always happen, so I was extra thankful for it today. This afternoon I looked down and realized I’m wearing my most comfy black sweatpants. On the right leg there are, as with most of my clothing, some paint stains. 

Man people have given me a hard time for the paint on my clothes since…since before I can truly remember. There always seems to be something on me somewhere. It’s just a Maddie Fact. 

Here is something that many people do not know though: I remember many of those paint stains. 

The black pants and the paint there, a lot of that was from the night my Dad died. My mom called me, I told Blair, I wept bitterly while also rejoicing his pain was gone. I couldn’t go back to sleep though. I went down to my art desk in the same black pants I’m wearing today. The white circle of paint on my pants is from that night. I painted and painted and wrote and prayed and cried the night my Daddy died. 

The purple shirt I’m wearing, towards the top, there’s some white paint. It’s from only two weekends ago when I painted the cabinets and yelled at John for not being here to see how awesome it looks. I have a shirt that says Addystrong. There’s red paint on it from when I painted beautiful red tulips for my friends mom. She supports my art in crazy wonderful ways which include asking me to make art for her family. She is one of my favorite patrons. I think of her every time I see that red mark on that shirt, which is often, because I love that shirt. 

I have a maroon sweatshirt that is baggy and worn and pre-loved. A gift from my best friend. There are turquoise splatters on it now from nights spent with another good friend at my desk doing art and life together. Their memories and faces are a blue now in my mind when I see those turquoise spots. 

The older I get the more secure I become in who I am as a person. I will never love wearing high heels and I don’t do my make up often. I go through periods where I like making my bed, but to be honest, most of the time I don’t bother. I don’t care if my kids never make their beds and I don’t fight them on it. I don’t match socks. I just don’t care if socks match. 

I have paint on my clothes. Often. Usually. It’s more rare to see me without paint on my clothes. You can tell too which clothes I like the most, they will have the most paint on them. I love my flip flops, my water bottle has a bajillion stickers on it. I get really loud and really animated when I am passionate about something. My heart and emotions are worn on my sleeve and sometimes I make people uncomfortable with how much about my life I am willing to share. I can’t decorate well at all and my house will always look eclectic. I hate driving in the snow and I am in therapy consistently for the first time in my life. Worship songs bring me to tears and I cry when we sing of how Christ has conquered the grave. 

Hello. My name is Maddie and the paint on my clothes tell stories. 

I am settling into this part of my life. The 30 something’s where I have kids and a house and my bones are settling into a routine. Where I am not only not ashamed of the paint clothes, but finally feel I can embrace them wholeheartedly. I can embrace my loud emotions, my vulnerability, my need for space and unashamedly stepping back when I need to, or saying no when I need to. 

31 year old Maddie is a vastly different person than 21 year old Maddie. 

And I like this version and stage of my life very much, even with the heartache I’ve endured. 

My Grief Has No Eloquence

About a year ago, when I was decently pregnant with Daisy, I begged Blair to help me make better shelves in our pantry. The house had all these awful wire shelves that didn’t feel sturdy and didn’t hold enough for my liking. They annoyed me. In my pregnant induced condition I demanded something be done. Blair took out the wire shelves and gave me wonderful sturdy wooden shelves that could hold all the canned things ever. 

The wire shelves left some bigger holes in the walls inside the cabinet though and I knew they needed to be fixed. So, because I couldn’t text my Dad, I shot a text real quick to my best friends husband and The Godfather to my three and a half kids. 

I asked John if he had an drywall repair, when he said he didn’t, he told me what I should buy and also asked if I wanted him to pick me up some from the hardware store. I told him no, I’d grab some. A little while later when I finally did get some and work on the holes in the walls, I sent him another text that I had worked on the pantry and I was pleased with myself. In true John fashion he said “Pics or it didn’t happen”. I told him I didn’t want to send pictures until I had sanded down and painted the spots I had fixed. 

He told me he would be waiting. 

And I pushed back sanding and painting. 

And then John died., 

That morning on my way to Church I remember thinking about the way Daddy died…and how I remember every single detail about that night and the following day. At church I remember seeing John walk past us in the back and how Dean wanted to go say hello. I didn’t let him, I told him he would be able to after church. 

I regret that nearly every day. 

It has felt…hard to write about John. His widow and my best friend and godmother to my children does an excellent job sharing her grief journey and she’s so much articulate than I am. I have a hard time formulating my thoughts and ideas into something that makes sense. And I have had a hard time owning up to the grief I have felt about Johns death. 

John was larger than life. He had the biggest heart and the biggest laugh and he was hysterical. And he loved my kids. He deeply and wonderfully loved my kids. He spent TIME with my kids. He MADE time for my kids. He helped raise Ellie while we tended to Dean in the hospital. John showed up to see Dean in the CICU and he came with Katharine the day that my Dad had the tumor removed from his brain. 

John showed up. 

And I feel the hole he left in my life, my kids lives, and in my husbands life. 

Today I was able to stop at the Dollar Store and buy some cheap bins for my pantry. When I got home I started to take everything out of the pantry. Then I realized I should really take the time to sand, paint, and organize this pantry. Finally. 

The kitchen looks like a bomb blew up in there. The entire contents of my pantry are strewn about the kitchen, the baby cried, I frustrated Blair, and I ended up asking for pizza tonight because I want to see this project get finished and I am determined. 

But the whole time I was sanding, painting, and working I was just…mad. 

Mad that I can’t text John to tell him I’m finally getting things done. Mad that I can’t send him this picture of the little girl he didn’t get to meet who shares a middle name with him. 

I was mad that I was painting again too. After we moved in with my parents and we helped them fix their house to sell, I never wanted to touch a paint roller ever again. I would never trade that time with them, and I knew helping them was the right thing to do, however, it was a lot. It was a lot for my kids, a lot for my mom, a lot for my dad, a lot for my siblings. It. Was. A lot. We painted all the walls, fixed all the things, and my parents house looked beautiful. But by the end of it, I was sick of painting walls. 

When we moved into our house here in Strasburg, I had no desire to paint any of the walls. I just didn’t think I had it in me anymore. So today while I painted, I marveled over the way sanding and painting my pantry made me miss two of some of the best men I’ve ever known. 

My grief holds no eloquence. I can’t make it make sense. There are no patterns to it. I let it come and go as it pleases, and ride the waves as they come. It never ceases to amaze me that the weirdest things at the weirdest moments hit me like a force of nature. 

I am not knocked over by it. It doesn’t force me under, it doesn’t drown me, its just there while I tread water. 

Before my Mawmaw died, she always used to wonder if those in Heaven could see or hear what what happening here on Earth. I always maintained that Heaven would be the best thing because Jesus was there and I just wasn’t sure we would WANT to see what was happening here on Earth. 

Today though, today I hope people can see small glimpses of what’s happening here. 

I hope John sees my stupid pantry, all sanded and painted and awesome. 

I hope he sees his daughter and that he marvels how he is part of her life even now. 

I hope he sees his amazing, beautiful, courageous wife. How she carries his legacy and dreams with her, how she honors him so well while still loving God. 

I hope he flies kites with Jesus. 

I was honored to be part of his life, I was honored to have my kids be part of his life, and I am thankful that my sweet Daisy Rebekah Lee shares a middle name with them. 

I hope that however bumbled my words are they convey the way grief has played a part in my life. 

I hope it encourages those in the thick of things that ebb and flow eventually helps lull you to sleep, instead of pulling you further out to sea. 

Shifting

I’m pretty sure every time I start to write I talk about how I’ve been thinking about writing something for ages. But then, how am I supposed to actually find time to sit and write? The demands of motherhood seem never to end. 

Right now I am wearing my shoes in my kitchen because I know I need to sweep again, there are still dishes to put away and dishes to be done. There are things that need to be brought in from the van after a busy morning at our Co-Op and clothes that I know need to be folded. The kids, mercifully, are all actually taking quiet time in their rooms, something that has been a struggle since we shifted Ana into her room with Ellie and Dean to his very own big boy room. My house, dare I say it, is quiet. I hear the hum of our heat and noises from outside on the street. 

I started Therapy in January. I didn’t realize how much of it would be stopping to actually realize how my body feels in these overwhelming moments. As I sit here my shoulders feel relaxed and I’m not tense, not even in my jaw. I have realized my need to release tension over the past month. Easier said than done…

There was such a shifting after Blair and I got sick with Covid in January. The isolation and desperate need I felt grew to be more than I could handle and I was overwhelmed all the time. suddenly the grief and emotions I have carried with me for the past six years bubbled out. I was angry. I was exhausted. I was the worst version of myself I think I’ve ever been and I could see the way it was hurting my kids and my husband. 

So I did something about it. 

I refused to stay in that place of despair and brokenness. I refused to let my mind wander more than it already had. I knew I needed help sorting out the mess in my mind and I didn’t want to wait until my kids were older to do it. Once a week I have a Telehealth appointment with my therapist while Blair wrangles all the kids. It is not a break. It is work. Important work. And it is hard. 

Often I will talk about things that have come up and she will stop me and ask me WHY I felt that way, or WHY I reacted a certain way. And because I can’t get out of it, I stop and think about it. More has surfaced than I thought possible. Therapy is wild like that. 

Slowly I feel like I’m starting to come up for air after years and years of medical trauma, grief, death, and showing up when all I wanted was to hide. We talk about my Dad, we talk about John, we talk about Daisy and how much I struggle/still struggle because four kids was not part of *my* plan. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes she asks me to just stop and breathe. One time just doing that made me feel panicky and I had to stop. 

This shift feels important to note. 2022. The year I stop saying “ill get to this” and I *actually* get to it, the year we finally get fed up with debts and commit to being debt free and sticking to a budget. The year Blair and I commit to one another and really work hard to communicate and pray together. The year I stop saying “next year” or “when the kids are older”. 

I want to remember. I want to remember the way Anas nose crinkles when she smiles at me. The way Daisy is learning to eat and makes small demanding noises for more. The way she lights up when she sees Ellie or Blair. The way Dean has started to really learn to control his emotions and how hard that is for my sweet boy. Or the way Ellie has found ways to connect to me and asks for things to do, just me and her, and how good it feels to have time with just each kid, one on one. I love seeing them grow and learn, no matter how challenging and hard it is, and it is, challenging and hard more often than not. 

As I feel the seasons shift and I wait anxiously to welcome Spring, I feel the lightness of it, for the first time in years. I’m not waiting to birth a baby. I’m not waiting for a surgery. I’m not waiting on a house to sell. I’m not in crisis. I’m not in turmoil. Most of my people are relatively safe and healthy and those who are not I am able to face it without panic and fear. I don’t cringe when I go past Winchester Medical Center anymore, I don’t panic when I hear a helicopter. I am finding a rhythm to my days and weeks. Mondays we do school and catch up on housework. Daisy takes consistent naps. Tuesdays are Library days. Thursdays are for co-op. Friday is pizza and movie nights. Saturday mornings are for family. Sundays are for AWANA and Church. 

The worlds chaos is there in the fringes, I know what is happening, it is impossible to not know. I allow myself to feel it all and then I put it back in a book on a shelf where I can see it and read it when I need to, without trying to hide or shove it down. My small slice of World, for now, is embracing these new shifts and welcoming in the changes I see in myself and my kids. It will help me be a better mother, wife, and friend. 

I find myself more and more in awe and thankful for each day is it comes. Nothing negates the hard, life will always be hard. It will always be demanding. I will always want to give more of me than I have and I will always need people who help me check that when it comes at the cost of my husband and kids. 

My Dad always told us, family first. 

This particular season embraces and embodies that wholeheartedly and I am just sitting on a Thursday afternoon, in my random bit of delicious quietness, thankful for that advice. 

Movement

 It is 1:45 AM. I am up nursing my sweet three month old baby and I want to write. 

Last night while Blair was snuggling Ana and I was with the big kids encouraging them to pick up Ellie asked me if I would read more of our big chapter book to them. 

After a long day of co-op, dinner, little girls…I didn’t want to if I’m being honest. I told Ellie that. 

“Ellie I’m tired tonight I still have to clean the kitchen and try to get some sleep before Daisy wakes up and fold that last basket of laundry.” 

My seven year casually says, “can’t you make Daddy do it?” 

I said “Well Ellie I don’t *make* Daddy *do* anything. I ask for his help and he helps me because we’re a team and we love each other. But some days Daddy is even more tired than Mama.”

Then we talked about wirk and why Blair goes to work. Every now and again my kids do this, they get sad Blair can’t be home with us and mention that they wish he could be home. When that happens, I like to remind them *why* Blair goes to work. 

Them. He works because he loves them. He makes sure we can pay our bills because he loves us. 

Usually then the conversation shifts to what I do to show them I love them. I mention clean laundry, food made, hush when they’re hurt, or even just that I wake up some days when id rather not. 

Or I read an entire chapter sitting on their floor watching Ellie inch closer and closer to me because she so invested in what we’re reading. 

Motherhood, parenthood, is so messy and requires so much Grace. And so much action. It’s an *active* love. 

I thought about that today when at co-op my friend got up and went across the room to help a two year old who was just so excited to play with friends, but was so excited right when we were trying to eat our lunches. I’m a “yell across the room” type of Mama but after being friends with her, watching her connect physical and take action to discipline or distract I’ve adopted some of her ways. 

To change the behaviors it took action. Movement. Physically getting up and DOING. 

Lately one of my best friends has mentioned that she is not good at waiting, but wants to be doing something while waiting. Or taking steps forward while waiting. She has so much love to give…that love seeks action. Movement. 

As I sit here in the quiet listening to this three month guzzle and snuffle and curl into me, as I hear the low hum of the still going ac unit and Blairs feet shifting in his blanket, I am just so thankful for the way love manifests and moves. 

I think for the past five years I have, overall, felt so paralyzed by so much. Heart surgeries, medications, a colicky baby, brain cancer, death…I have been non-stop flight or fight for nearly five years. More if I’m being honest. 

I have been brought to my knees in grief over the loss of my babies. I have begged God to let Dean live. And I watched my Daddy slowly and painfully, die. I watched my best friend in shock over getting the news no one, ever, wants to get and I have marveled at her as she has done the hard work of grief. 

Watching her made me realize how much of my own grief I have tampered down. 

For the first time in six years I realized I can’t get through these struggles without more professional help. The anxiety that manifests as rage, the tensing of my shoulders, the sheer panic I feel knowing I have to leave my house (even when I’m doing things I love), the way I’ve made my lip bleed biting it when I’m angry…it’s not good. 

So I put actions to me saying “I’m trying.”

Trying means I sought actual medical help. Trying means I step away when I get irrational. Trying means I let go of what in”should” do in favor of what I “could” do. Trying means we pick nurturing our kiddos hearts over yelling about things needing to be cleaned. Trying means I say yes to one more chapter and I go to bed when the kids go to bed to make sure I’m getting *as much* adequate sleep as I can. 

Trying means I start taking a medication for anxiety. Trying means talking to a therapist. 

Love means I don’t stay in this place in my mind anymore. It means I get help. 

It means movement.