We are exhausted. 

We are exhausted, 

so we say, don't worry 2021 is coming. 

We are a people in need of hope and answers. And yet, we're exhausted. 

Things still feel dark. If we are honest, those feelings of joy and cheer feel fake and contrived this year; 

So we watch some more Hallmark movies in the hopes that we start to feel it; that joy we yearn for so badly, even if we know it's temporary. 

And maybe for an hour and a half we feel some semblance of it; we grasp it and hold it tightly wishing so badly that it would stick around.

But it leaves and we are left in our exhaustion. 

Because this year has brought pain and heartbreak. 

It has brought death and amplified loneliness, and these things don't just go away.

Grief and loneliness linger. They proade and poke until we finally say, OK, fine! 

And yet, we are reminded that a scared and lonely Mary was told to hope. Even more, she was told that Hope lived inside her.

Some are reminded of hope as they light another candle; remembering that the impossible is possible and the light will prevail.  

We view hope as some grand gesture; a miraculous event,

The Hallmark movie of our lives.

But maybe we have the wrong idea of hope.

Maybe those huge moments aren't supposed to be the norm.

What if hope is meant to be small?

A flower growing underneath the snow.

A warm day in the midst of a cold winter.

The excitement our children still feel as they wait for Christmas morning, no matter how different it may look this year.

These small pieces of hope might give us a moment, but the darkness will inevitably creep back in, it always does.

Hate will spew and families will go hungry.

Children will be locked in cadges and bad men will be let off.

But, the flower;

We have to remember to look at the flower.

Remember that in the morning, the sun will rise because it always does.

The sun promises hope, however small that may feel.

So we hold on to the light in the midst of the darkness. We hold it in the midst of our exhaustion even if we're not sure when we will rest.

Maybe this is all we can do, even if it doesn't feel like enough. 

Maybe that's what hope asks of us.

.

33

32 was a lot of things. It was busy and exhausting. It was exciting and scary. James ran for political office and I took on most of the childcare and household duties, all while working a full time job. I withstood public scrutiny of my husband and tried not to yell at the kids before bedtime.

32 gave me more wrinkles across my face and a few more pounds around my waist. It also reminded me how much I love my friends. This past year, I drank more wine than I probably should have and definitely slept less than recommended. I binge watched plenty of shows and drank 10,000 gallons of coffee.

32 gave me my 10th year teaching and reminded me how lucky I am to have found my teacher soul mate. It also reminded me that I am so much more productive with a to-do list in front of me.

32 showed me that my kids are growing up and with that comes more attitude, sass, and fuller, more meaningful conversations. Plus, they're just so damn cute (that hasn't really changed).

32 made me feel old and young all at once; I now get what Brittney Spears meant when said not a girl, not yet a woman; thanks, girl.

32 brought me my 4th year of living in Maryland, even though my heart still beats for the salty sea breeze and warm sunshine of the West Coast. Not sure that will ever change.

32 was a lot of things.

33 is exciting. For one, I've always liked the number 3 and now I get two of them, woohoo! Second, I'm ready to sink into a new normal; one where James has a full time job and we begin to pay off some debt (thanks student loans!). One where I can reset and focus back in on my health and fitness. One where some of the things I've said I want to do actually happen, including things that make me uncomfortable.

So, 33, here goes nothing. I promise to live this next year to the fullest and to make it a good one!

Happy Birthday Baby Boy

Baby boy, you are five today. Five years, you have been in my life, and yet, I can't seem to think of you as anything but my baby. 

You are my youngest child, my first and only boy. When you were born, I finally understood the phrase, "no woman will ever be good enough for my son," because as silly as it sounds, I kind of want to be the only girl you love.

You were such a calm and cool baby when you entered this world. Your dad and I thought this was telling of how you would be when you got older. Turns out, we were wrong.

You spent your first two years physically catching up to your sister and cousins. Your arms were a bit more fragile and you took your time learning how to walk and how to run. But once your had it down, you took off.

Now I smile as I watch you charge down the street, or jump up and down in your batman cape as you rescue the good guys and capture the bad guys.

You care so much about people, you get sad when others feel sad and are happy when others are happy. 

I will never forget taking you to see Pete's Dragon in the theaters.

At one point in the film, when Pete has found a family to take him in and is reading a book with them in his room, Eliott, the dragon, peeks in and sees that Pete is happy without him. Eliott then turns away and flies off.

As you watched this scene, you broke out in tears. It was all too much for you, watching a sad and lonely Eliott fly away. You said, "Mama, Eliott still needs Pete, but Pete doesn't need Eliott." You were so distraught that I considered taking you out of the theater. Eventually you calmed down and continued to watch until the end when everything worked out and Eliott was no longer alone.

This is all part of who you are; a rough and tumble little boy who loves to play in the mud and sword fight, but also a boy who cares deeply and isn't afraid to cry. 

I couldn't think of a better combination. 

I am so proud of who you are and who you are becoming. You make me smile constantly. I love you with all my heart and am convinced you will always be my baby boy, no matter how old you get.

Dear Isa

Dear Isa,

My girl. You are my complicated one, my passionate one, the one that feels everything deep down in her bones. At one point during my pregnancy with you, the doctor thought you had stopped growing. She was concerned that you weren't getting enough amniotic fluid and she told me to rest. But then you grew. In the first month of your life the doctor realized you were not thriving. You needed more food; so we added formula into your diet and you grew. Up until you turned four months old you had Colic. You would scream and cry and your dad and I didn't know what to do. We felt helpless and exhausted. But then, just like that, you grew and the Colic went away.

Since before you were even born, you have been fighting to grow, to get even bigger. It's like you knew and still do know what you want. At the age of six, you have already grown into this phenomenal girl, a girl who is so ridiculously confident in who she is.

And I have embraced it. This idea of you getting older, bigger, stronger, smarter. People always ask me if I miss the baby phase with you, and my answer is always the same; no. Not because I don't like remembering you as a sweet little baby in my arms, but because your growth excites me. I love watching you discover what you love and what you are good at. Your curiosity and intelligence are a force to be reckoned with.

And yet, my sweet girl, you are also the child I struggle with the most. When you push on me, you push hard. You yell and you stomp with such stubbornness and gal. Sometimes I find myself yelling right back, jumping into a fight without remembering that I am the adult in this. And at the same time, you are so gentle, so sensitive. When you feel like you have hurt someone you break down. You are immediately sorry, embarrassed that you let it happen. I have never known such an empathetic soul.

Fierce and gentle, stubborn and sensitive. You, my girl are all of these things. You are the daughter I never expected but always knew I'd have. Your existence breathes life into my body and for that I will forever be thankful to you, grateful that you grew in my womb and continue to grow outside of it.

Love, forever, your Mama.

On Fear and Mama Ducks

Being seen is scary.

Staying hidden in a protected circle of loved ones and trusted friends is safe and has always been my mode of operation.

It's comfortable and keeps me warm.

And I hate being cold.

I need sunlight on my skin like I need water to quench my thirst, like I need the blood that runs through my veins.

Pumping, pumping, pumping, giving me life.

Maybe this is why I've discovered I have slight seasonal depression. Winter does not sit well in my veins.

The cold can feel lonely, and dark winter skies often claim loneliness.

Strange that being seen can also mean feeling more alone.

Exposed for all to judge, to decide if they like what they see.

And it's that judgement that kills me. It eats away at my heart until my chest gets heavy and feels like it might give way to the weight of the pressure, of the others who like to push down on me.

To be true to yourself is to be loved. To play it safe is to be adored.

But I like being adored.

I need to be adored.

So much of my childhood was out of my control. It was heavy, and I could either suffocate under the pressure of it all, or I could focus on that adoration. Because I could control that. I could make sure people liked me. It was surprising how easy I found this.

I was agreeable. I never spoke out too much, as to not upset anyone. I let it sit. That voice inside of me that wanted to scream.

But a scream can only stay muffled for so long.

Sometimes it would sneak out of my small body in random outbursts with a friend, or an acquaintance. They would stand back in stunned silence. What just happened?

The scream often sounds like anger, but sometimes it sounds like sadness, like crying.

Sometimes it sounds like sleep, like exhaustion.

Sometimes it feels so tight under my skin that I wonder if others can see it straining to get out.

Mostly that scream looks like fear. The fear of disapproval. The fear of ridicule, the fear that maybe, just maybe, they won't like me.

But I have a logical mind. One that has, up until this point, kept these screams at bay. It tells my fear that it's silly, that of course there will be people who don't like you, because, well dear, that's life.

Life is not for the faint of heart. It can be scary and mean.

You will not understand it, nor will you be able to change the minds of those who have decided they dislike you, your husband, your family.

I defend myself, my husband, my family... in my mind.

But I am the only one who hears it. I know my heart, I know the goodness of the person He created... and that is enough.

God's love is enough, says my logical mind.

And yet, my fear still keeps me up at night. It greets me in the morning when I rise out of bed.

I hate it. I'd like to see it crumble, to die, or at least to slip quietly out the back door in the middle of the night.

Because I've heard that there is beauty on the other side of fear. There is release... or so I've been told.

It's like that runner's high I hear so much about. The shot of endorphins that supposedly make the difficulty of the run worth it. A sort of euphoria.

The thing is, I've never run far enough or fast enough to feel it. Because the fear you guys...

The fear is strong. The fear is the Hulk and King Kong combined, with a bit of the Joker mixed in just to screw with your head.

The fear changes its focus from time to time, but it always has the same affect. You feel out of control, lost in the sea of endless possible what if's. The made up scenarios of death or loss of those dear to you. The wave of anxiety that rushes over you as you imagine someone's distaste of you.

I told you... I hate it.

There is a resident mama duck that wanders around the school I teach at. She is well known and is comfortable in her environment. Each year in the Spring, she finds a spot on campus to create her nest and lay her eggs.

There is a small, enclosed courtyard in the middle of the school that is mostly untouched and undisturbed. The children are not allowed out there too often. In the past, this has been the mama's nesting area of choice. Quiet, calm, safe, warm.

But this time she chose a different spot. She chose a small bush that happens to be right next to the back door of my classroom. It's directly in front of the preschool and kindergarten playground and rests along a path that the students consistently bolt down on their way to the back field.

It was a risky spot for her to choose and exposes her to all kinds of unknowns... rodents, other animals, curious and clumsy 3-year-olds, just to name a few. But she has committed. She took her time this past weekend to carefully build her nest and has already layed her dozen or so eggs.

Now she sits, hidden only by a small bush and exposed to all the unexpected of the outside world.

I want to tell her this may not have been the wisest decision, that there was promised comfort and safety just yards away. I want to ask her if she is scared, for herself and for her babies.

But she is committed. She has chosen her spot and now she must sit. She must protect her eggs and pass on her heat to them.

I can't help but be jealous of her bravery, her dedication, her strength.

She is sitting on the other side of fear and it is beautiful.

I want to sit in that place with her, on the other side of fear and anxiety. To rest in my decision of being who I truly am, who I was created to be, loved into existence.

Loved right out of fear. Committed to being who I am in spite of the judgement that will inevitably follow.

It's a work in progress and they say that the first step is to admit the problem out loud. So here I am, proclaiming my fear, my anxiety.

Saying the words out loud.

Why I Wish it Was Cold... an Update Of Sorts

It happened. We moved and are starting to figure out a routine. That huge life transition we anxiously awaited for months has happened. It's over... And yet it's not. I feel like the time limit for "the transition" has expired, and yet, I still feel in limbo. Yes, we have a house. Yes, James and I have a job. The kids are in school and life as we know it would seem to be moving right along.

And yet, I still feel like I am being dragged through the motions right now... New motions.

My head tells me not to complain. We have it so good. We live in a great neighborhood, have the amazing support of family just minutes away from our house. The jobs are great, the schools are great... It's all great.

And yet, sometimes I feel so weighed down by it all that I want to either sleep for days, or cry.

But that would be silly, says my head. You've got nothing to cry over. You've got to be strong for the kids... I mean they're the ones going through a huge transition right now. You've got to be on top of your game at work. It's a new fancy school and everybody's watching you... The new girl.

Friendships are new and relationships still feel like work. I am no where near my groove. And yet, I tell myself it's fine.

How quickly I forget that just months ago I was living in a foreign country... Or am I living in the foreign country now? How quickly I forget that this move was a really big deal, not just for the kids, but for me too. For James, for our marriage relationship. It's all just really big.

So I guess it's ok to admit that... Although, in all honesty, I haven't admitted it to anyone out loud... Like real words coming out of my mouth and not through a key board. I'm afraid to admit that this is hard. I feel as though I'm not allowed to admtit my weakness.

And yet, isn't that what God has called us to do? To admit our weakness and come to Him?

As the days go by and the heat of summer lingers on I can't help but wish for the cool breeze of Fall. I am longing To put on jackets and scarves as though they are some sort of covering and protection against all of this new.

The heat and the Mosquitos are just a reminder that I am still in this transition. This limbo of feeling normal. Every morning as I gaze into my closet to pick out clothes for work, I stare at my sweaters longingly, the warmness and protection they provide. The covering. I need that. And each morning as I grab the short sleeve blouse and skirt, I am reminded that I am being called to live in the transition.

So here I sit. Cold drink in hand, fans blowing as I try to stay cool. Uncomfortably in the transition.

Marriage... I Have No Idea

I've been thinking a lot about marriage lately. So many of my friends are either married, about to get married, or sadly, experiencing the aftermath of divorce.

I've been thinking about how it works for some and not for others, how some couples weather the storm, while others get caught up in the fallen branches.

I don't think divorce is wrong. In fact, in many cases, I think it is right.

I have read a few books on marriage, listened to the wise words of couples who have made it 20, 40, 60 years...

And I still can't tell you how it works, or why it works for some and not for others.

I cannot tell you the one thing that all marriages need.

The thing is, I've known a lot of incredible people who are awesome communicators, quick to forgive, good at finding balance, a team player, have a solid relationship with the Lord... and their marriages have ended.

And I've known couples who seem to have a whole bag full of issues, starting from when they were very young... and their marriages work.

There is no formula, no "three things to remember," no rule...

Some marriages work and some do not.

Is it pure luck? Well, no, I think there's more that goes into it then that.

But, yes, in some sense, it is luck.

You are lucky if you and your spouse happen to change together as people (count yourself extremely lucky if this cohesive change happens throughout your 20's).

You are lucky if you and your spouse mostly agree on how to parent your children.

You are lucky if you are secure and willing to talk about ALL THE STUFF with your spouse... the big and the small... or the small that is actually the big.

You are lucky if, after 20 plus years in the relationship, you still get excited to see each other and miss each other when you're apart.

So, yeah, I think luck has something to do with it.

And then there's the expectations. Choosing to expect a great love instead of a perfect love. Because perfect is not reality, nor will it ever be. Perfect is the stuff in the movies. Perfect is meant for God.

The purpose of this post is not to end with some profound answer or truth. I am not here as an expert, only 6 years into marriage, to say I've figured it all out. I am certain I never will.

I'm here to say I don't know. That I don't think being a good communicator, or saying I forgive you, or even having a shared relationship with the Lord is a guarantee for a solid, lasting marriage.

Because it's not.

There is no guarantee. There is only hope. Hope that it will last, hope that you will weather the storm, hope that in 20 years you still like each other.

So, I guess in my marriage I have some luck, but I also have a shit load of hope.

Basically marriage is jumping off a cliff and hoping the ground is soft. And love... there's a lot of love that goes into it, too.