when you have a lot to carry

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but it did. 11 years and several months later, it seems that none of it can be taken back. The hard wiring that defines you is there to stay. You're a worker. You're a real life problem solver. You're one of the strongest kids I've ever met, and I'm not just saying that because you're mine. It's the truth - and everyone around you sees it. You don't like to be wrong. You don't like to be in trouble. You don't like to fail and sometimes that keeps you from even trying.

You're about 10 days away from 6th grade. A grade that puts in you in a whole different part of the school you've called home for the past 6 years. A grade with different expectations and different teachers, and different relationships with your friends. It's a grade where you'll have a lot to carry.

You've already started having small panic attacks about not knowing the right answers, about not being the one raising your hand to answer questions, and about having to do "school" again after a couple of months off. The teacher in me is cringing, but at the same time, I'm so very hopeful. Hopefulness is one of the best things I can hope and pray you gain this year. Here's the thing though, Mas ... hopefulness is developed through struggle. And as hard as this is for me to think and type for the world to see, we all are going to have to let you struggle.

I know what you're thinking ... what kind of people their kid struggle or even hope for such a thing?  I do. Your dad does. Your grandparents do. We all do. And I can confidently say that when you have a lot to carry, the only way it will ever seem like it's not too much to bear is when you have hope.

Hope is knowing where you want to go.

Hope is knowing how to get there.

Hope is believing in yourself.

Hope is learned.

"Children most often learn hope from their parents. To learn hopefulness, children need relationships that are characterized by boundaries, consistency, and support. They've been given the opportunity to struggle and in doing that they learn how to believe in themselves." - C.R. Snyder

We have to let you experience disappointment, deal with conflict, and have the opportunity to fail. Yes ... fail. And through it all, I'm praying that you'll come out as one of the strongest, most courageous, brave young men the world has ever seen.

Your head's not meant to hang down forever. And in the moments when all you can focus on are your folded hands and your dirty boots, please remember that daring greatly in life isn't about winning or losing. It isn't about how much or how little you have to carry. It's about having the courage - and the strength - to show up in those difficult situations and let yourself be seen. It's about walking into your 6th grade classroom 10 days from now and seeing what you're made of and knowing it's more than enough.

...................................

* this post was inspired from the last chapter of Daring Greatly by Brene Brown ... a chapter worth reading and rereading over and over again *

my take on wholehearted parenting

I stood as quietly on the other side of the stock trailer door as I could. It seemed ridiculous because I'm certain the cows and calves could see my tennis shoes sticking out underneath, but nonetheless, I was quiet. The flies were swarming almost as bad as bees - biting at my ankles that already ached from the scrapes from alfalfa earlier in the week. I couldn't see a thing and had to let my ears guide me as to what was happening on the other side of the aluminum door.

The boys pushed the four pairs into the the pen we had made with the trusty panels without much trouble, and things were moving along fairly quickly. The cows got sorted back out and it only took two tries at loading the calves because of the one stubborn black one. Go figure.

I breathed a sigh of relief to myself thinking that this was going better than expected ... when suddenly things didn't go so well. Aren't most things like that though?! Smooth sailing and then chaos - which then seems to lead to tears, hurt feelings, and someone getting covered in crap.

Seconds. That's all it took to go from good to bad. Just a few stupid seconds. I stared at the ground, not sure what exactly had happened for one boy to be closing the trailer door and the other lying in the greasy, stinky crap, but somehow with the turn of my head for a few seconds everything went wrong.

..............

Turns out one boy wasn't doing something the other thought he should be doing and instead of using kind words, frustration won. Shoving and kicking won. Piles of crap won.

I grabbed Mack up off the ground, quickly said goodbye to our friend who had witnessed the entire scene, and put a blanket down on the pickup seat for Mack to sit on. If only I had a shower on the side of the pickup. Mason pulled the pickup back around to the road & then got in the back seat, I latched that gate, and we drove the 30 miles home in silence.

..................

On this last Thursday of summer with my boys, I was silent. As I drove, I contemplated what I could have done differently, what I could have modeled, what I could have said, and I came up with nothing. I thought about the last chapter of Daring Greatly that I need to reread at least once a month. I questioned my wholeheartedness and the shaming I've caught myself in with them, and with myself. It was a long 30 minutes.

And then during the last few miles before home, I realized that the pile of crap was exactly what needed to happen today. The turning of my head was a gift. Reality looks you in the face during those seconds that go all wrong and basically challenges you to wholeheartedness. Moments where you can be brave, hopeful, and risk being vulnerable in the best sort of ways. Letting my boys struggle and experience adversity was exactly what they needed today, even if it was mortifying to watch. My discomfort of the situations they seem to be in hourly with each other, and even with themselves, can't dictate my behavior or more importantly, my reactions to the things they're doing. I have to let them fall & fail, all the while praying they know that getting back up and trying again are two of the most hopeful things they can do.

....................

We got home. I made them lunch. And then I took a two hour nap. I let them figure out how to get along without me, and wouldn't you know - they did.

Parenting wholeheartedly is hard. It is uncomfortable. It strays away from normal and suggests to throw perfection and prerequisites out the window. It's teaching the difference between guilt and shame, and practicing what I preach. It looks like I've got my work cut out for me.

"What we are teaches the child more than what we say, so we must be what we want our children to become."

lines, a pencil, and a whole bunch of grace

I picked up the pencil and held it in my right hand. When was the last time I picked up a pencil for me?
I write and write and write ... if 4th grade writing counts. 4th grade journal prompts, 4th grade Cornell notes, 4th grade sentences.

I write names, make check marks, draw stars, underline, circle, add bullets to notes, and keep my pencil behind my ear most of the time - just in case I need to write.

..........................

It was a Sunday in November. The wind was blowing outside. It was dark, so the lights were on in the house. Lamps in every corner turned on. I sat at the counter with a blank piece of beautiful white paper in front of me. Blank, white, hopeful paper.

My friend beside me, my husband watching from across the counter, and my boys wondering what I was doing with a pencil in my hand.

I didn't really know what I was doing either, but I was willing to try. I listened about lines and curves and held my hand out in front of me. My left hand ... the one that isn't as strong as the other, the one with hundreds of lines that for once didn't seem dry, the one that folded around air as I held it out.

Could I draw at all? Could I make my hand look real on a flat piece of plain, white paper? All I could think about was how I know I can write, but how I can't draw. Thoughts swirled around in my mind like the wind outside, and I twisted and turned the pencil as I anxiously started to draw one line and then another.

The size was off, the lines didn't quite match up, and I squirmed a bit. I wondered if my feelings were obvious. I wondered if the insecurity I was feeling was pushing through to the piece of paper. I wondered why I was doing this thing that I wasn't good at at all. I wondered and wondered and wondered.

The clock ticked and the pencil moved - pushing and pulling like my emotions often do - wanting to be brave, but holding back ... wishing for things to turn out just right, but realizing that imperfect is really what I need to be striving for ... hoping I could actually do what I was scared to try. I tried to erase the mistakes, and I even started over completely. Twice.

Later, as I walked through the house turning lights off, I saw the paper sitting on the counter. I looked at the ridiculous (for lack of a better word) attempt of making my hand have dimension and depth, and I stopped, sat by myself in a room with one lamp on, and flipped the paper over. I knew I could do it.

Sometimes, when you stop worrying about who's watching, stop worrying about being perfect, stop trying so hard for all the wrong reasons, you might surprise yourself in a matter of minutes. In fact, it turns out, all you need to give yourself is a pencil, a paper, and a whole lot of grace to see what was there all along.

To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole story - the light and the dark. In admitting my shadow side, I learn who I am and what God's grace means. 

- Brennan Manning

at the end of 1st grade

Dear Mack, 

This morning you weren't feeling well and quietly sat on the couch as the rest of us scurried around getting ready for another full & busy day. I was stationed to work in the nursery at church today and instead of holding a baby, I held you. Your feverish body that isn't so little any more curled up on my lap and slept - and I treasured every second.

I sat and rocked, and watched a room full of little people play together - remembering how much you hated the nursery as a toddler. The minute we walked through the church door, you would squirm. And you would cry and cry and cry some more after I left you even when you knew I'd always be back to get you in less than an hour. 

You have always been a mama's boy, and still today - weeks away from turning 8, that fact rings true. Thank you for your precious grin, your ability to make others laugh, and your sparkling eyes. You have always had me wrapped around that grin of yours, and I'm certain you always will.

This afternoon, you're asleep on the couch and I'm reliving your year of 1st grade through pictures. Pictures that have captured you at your best and at your worst. Pictures that give me the happiest of tears as I scroll through each one.

You lived this year so very brave, very happy, with some really good friends, running miles at a time, and reading chapter book after chapter book - along with a lot of Fly Guy too. You opened every gate you could, you were so much smarter than you thought you were, you did your homework without being asked, you ate a lot of great food (and plenty of candy too), you won some awesome awards, and you gave us every reason to be proud over and over again. In fact proud is an understatement.

We love you sweet boy. More than you'll ever know. And we're so very lucky to call you ours.

P.S. I hope you always know what a gift your smile is. It's contagious and beautiful in every sort of way - making the world better & brighter with each grin.

steady and sure ... and this season called summer.

Ian gathered our last bunch off of the 'Forth' piece we've leased the past several years a few mornings ago. When I saw them come over the top ridge, I grabbed my camera and headed toward the hay shed. Perched on our fence that borders the thousands of acres to the east, I watched him push the pairs and a few bulls from behind. He was slow and quiet as they made their way toward home. Steady and sure.

Not much has been slow or quiet lately. And it definitely hasn't been steady or sure. It's been a rush to get to the end of a school year, the end of a lease, the end of a the first cutting of hay finally being stacked, the end of almost two decades at a school, and the end of spring. There have been harsh words, frustration, exhaustion, worn out tears, and even sleepless nights. Decisions have made and so have opinions. Steady and sure, we're on the edge of everything being new whether we're completely ready or not.

I'm not going to lie and say that we're big fans of 'new' around here. We like steak and potatoes. We opt for ranch dressing. We like to be defined by the traits of  steady, faithful, and true. We are dependable, known, and comfortable. Adventure is not what has defined us in the past, and as one season ends and another begins - change and adventure seem to be staring us right in the face.

 And you know what, it feels right.

So very, very right.

Everything about it seems to be trustworthy.

It's taking one step at a time toward something better than we could have ever imagined. And as each day passes, the end is now becoming the beginning - turning into something comfortable and refreshing.

It's becoming familiar - just like Whitey.

Honestly, we are surviving the transition better than expected - finally being brave enough to stop tiptoeing around the reality that we need to be more than we've ever been before.

And although we're not exactly sure what we're going to face, grace and mercy seem to be the best sort of buffer we could hope for as we transition from one spot to the next.

So for now, we're going to enjoy our time in the holding pen called summer. The season that will offer a chance to breathe, a chance to plan, and a chance to dream - a time to get ready for all things new that are just up over the next hill and around the next bend.

Yes, thank you Lord ... for a chance to grow and live without abandon through this season we call summer.