tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24160655312897227562024-03-05T16:52:19.049-08:00stuckattempting to write a little about the paralyzing place between heaven and changing 10 diapers a dayJessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-14737296709368320022009-07-22T21:29:00.000-07:002009-07-22T21:50:06.372-07:00this place is hard on stufftonight benjamin and i settled into my favorite chair by the window.<br />i've rested here, worried here, prayed here, drank swimming pools of coffee here.<br />i've laughed here, cried here, watched countless others cry here.<br />i've talked about babies and birth and Jesus and i've yelled and i've apologized.<br /><br />i looked out at the grass on fire, the sunset hitting the blades and lighting them from the inside - the only thing i like about that vast field filled with stuff is how it looks when the the summer light is low and the kids are in bed.<br /><br />wait, what? there is a hammock out there?<br />what? i look out that window every day, every few nights, and i remember no hammock.<br />the weird thing is, it looks like it's been there for years -<br />one side is half torn down and brushing the dust. its ratted and torn and falling apart.<br />and maybe i have overlooked it for a few days, but it can't be more than a few weeks old.<br />i've walked in between those trees, stared right through them and never seen that hammock.<br /><br />this place is hard on stuff.<br />the well water is very literally hard on your hair and skin.<br />the stories are hard on your memories, sometimes too hard to tell, because people wouldn't believe you or they'd only hear the extreme - while you would see the faces behind the words.<br />you'd remember your blood rushing to your face and making your cheeks hot, either with anger or fear or laughter or passion or excitement.<br />the lifestyle is hard on your family, your sanity. you have to build a thick skin around your babes and around your heart, like a fortress.<br />lotion will eventually help the well-water skin, but what helps a thick-skinned heart?<br /><br />so tonight i feel like that hammock.<br />it's only been a year and a half. someone from the past might swear they never even knew i was here and someone from the future might never hear my name.<br />but i've got some frayed ends and some dirty pieces of rope trailing behind me.<br />this place has been hard on me, on us.<br />but Jesus is the one who rebuilds hammocks<br />and makes them sturdy again.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-64209317745042274692009-06-04T10:34:00.001-07:002009-06-04T10:34:54.363-07:00benjamin, birth story part 1<div style="text-align: center;">Tuesday the twenty sixth had been planned out to be really, really low key. Nick and I had most of our errands, chores, & cleaning all wrapped up and we just wanted to spend a lot of time with Glory & Elias - making them feel as loved and cherished as possible before we were gone for a few days to have Benjamin. That morning as I was dressingGlor , I noticed a big old baby boogie and decided she'd breathe a lot better with it out. Like I do about five times a day, I went to hold her down so I could get it out and right then she took that strong little left leg and absolutely socked me right in the baby belly. Immediately I felt a sharp pain and cramping so strong, I couldn't stand up totally straight. I'd been really uncomfortable for the past few months, but this was different. I tried to walk it off/forget about it during breakfast - but as the morning went on, so did the cramping pain and I noticed that Benjamin had stopped being his normal rambunctious self. Nick, of course, wanted me to go to the doctor, but I felt like I was making a mountain out of a molehill - so we tried to walk around the mall with the kids and go on with life as usual. Finally, I put a call in to my doctor and they said to absolutely come in. Yikes.<br /><br />As I drove, I listened to our c-section playlist for the next day. As I was driving and singing the words, <span style="font-weight: bold;">"and I need ... more time/ just a few more months and we'll be fine"</span>, I just sort of lost it. I was having such a hard time, for a million different reasons, preparing for this birth - emotionally, spiritually, and still it came on quicker and quicker. Now my fear was, if Benjamin was in distress, I wouldn't even have today with the kids - wouldn't have my mom here, wouldn't have just a few more hours to get my heart ready. I so longed to be ready for Benjamin... to be enough for him, enough for all the kids. As I drove and cried and prayed - I acknowledged for about the hundredth time that week that I wasn't going to be enough, ever, and just begged Christ to be complete in me. For my sanity, my husband, my kids.<br /><br />When I got to my ob, they found Benjamin's heartbeat really quickly - which was a huge relief and they decided to do a nonstress test for a while. They went in twenty minute segments, seeing what his response was to contractions & kicks. They kept extending the test because each little movement or contraction made hisheart rate go down, instead of up - like they wanted it to. I could hear the nurses consulting with my doctor just outside the room, debating whether or not to move the surgery up to today - but they just kept giving him twenty more minutes to pull it together. All of a sudden, my doctor decided it wasn't that severe. Hisheart rate wasn't that low and since the surgery was already scheduled for the next day - they'd let me go home and wait till then. Before I could even get really nervous, it was all over. I was driving home back to a relaxed day.<br /><br />That night my mom came in and I showed her all my copious lists and notes and directions and Nick and I packed the final bag. I spent some time praying & reading and writing to Benjamin - telling him about his name, what it meant, and how I couldn't wait to see how God unfolded his life for us. I told him about my own struggles and how my major prayer for myself as a mama of three was to let Christ rule in my heart & be the ultimate source of strength. After I went to bed around eleven, I started waking up around midnight in thirty minute segments - just sure that it was time to get up & go to the hospital.<br />I was finally really ready - just antsy and anxious to meet my son.</div>Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-50794632772366192722008-12-07T22:17:00.001-08:002008-12-07T22:17:53.711-08:00beautyA definition is slowly being rebuilt in my dull little mind. <br /><br />It used to be all skinny legs and shiny hair, bulge-free backs and smooth thighs. <br />It was always a comparison that I couldn't stand too close to. <br /><br />Though it took some time, I finally stopped looking at their bodies and looked closer to what it was the women around me were saying and doing and though my vision is still somewhat sandy - the light of truth is more visible around the edges now. <br /><br />Beneath a smile plastered face that should read frustration and instead exudes patience, where smeared mascara is left by a hand that doesn't have the luxury to linger on selfish pain, when hands are raised to praise when they could wrench in sorrow, I saw beauty. <br /><br />When crowns of glory were shorn for sacrifice, when dry and cracked lips chose to speak words of blessing, where women with right to blame and sin let their tightly grasped fingers fall open and let hurt slip down. <br /><br />I see it clearly now - woven into the women around me. <br />Beauty shifted.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-72439106048612942852008-11-23T22:50:00.000-08:002008-11-23T22:52:43.082-08:00first shot<span style="font-style: italic;">This is my shot at fiction/non-fiction. I really want to write fiction mixed with some aspects of real life memories so here was my first draft go at it. </span><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">At some point today, they will all think back to that night. </p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">The mama, in the midst of her own world - protecting the newest daughter from the turmoil and reality of life, will remember the time where she won the gold medal in convincing your daughters that everything is well when the world spins out of control. The big sister, plopped on a couch with her own girlies will see an 80's themed movie and remember the costumes & the show they put on for one another. And the baby sis, she will be prompted at a dinner party to conjure up her favorite childhood memory & will ultimately tell her friends about the night of the greatest slumber party ever. </p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">In September of 1989, a hurricane swept up the East Coast as a category five killer - ending 82 lives and leaving 56,000 homeless. For years growing up, I saw people of all ages wearing t-shirts that read, "I survived Hurricane Hugo", and I'd laugh to myself. I was there, and I certainly survived it - but it wasn't an occasion I associated with danger or harm, not even inconvenience. I do slightly recall being without power for a few days and I know that school was cancelled - but when I look back on my five year old memories, I can't really differentiate between the most expensive & damaging hurricane to hit the US in history and the block party we'd had the summer before. </p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">In those days, as now, I could vascilate between light-sleeping and short-term comas, and that was a deep sleeping night - despite trees falling and limbs crashing. The mama gently rustled me and then probably just pulled me straight downstairs into the party. Again, my five year old memory doesn't serve me perfectly but where history falls short, my imagination runs wild.</p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">Down the stairs and turning the corner into the hallway, my sister and mother were gathered in what was obviously the safest part of our little townhouse. There were cartons of ice cream, toppings, and delicious perishables spread about. In my mind's eye, I can see my sister wearing some hilarious creation from the eighties - because a midnight slumber party just wasn't a party in those days without something sequined from the dress-up stash. We had numerous tubular, gaudy, pieces of fabric that we could wear as tops or miniskirts depending on our mood and in truth, almost every memory from that townhouse contains my sister wearing one of those somewhere on her body. I'm sure her thick brown hair was falling heavily beyond her shoulders and there is little doubt in my mind that I could find a hairbrush in her hand, appropriately standing in for a microphone. New Kids, Madonna, but probably Amy Grant blasted on our tape player - muffling the violence that hit against our windows. </p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">Maybe that night we put on a little Cher and did our own version of "It's in His Kiss", as we were known to break out at parties, church functions, or just for our own good fun on a random Tuesday. My mom would stand in front singing lead and she and I would stand in back shoop-shooping to the left, then the right, then the left, then the right. That will be the first song I teach my daughter. </p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;">Everything about that night was so magical and awesome - so indicative of what life was like in those days. The world probably felt a little crazy and statistically against my mother, we probably felt a little crazy to her, for sure. Two wild women-little-girls, who unfortunately would only get a little wilder... but she convinced us that the storms were fun and the ice cream would all be gone in a few hours. What else was there to do but live and love in the moment?<br /></p> </div>Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-20337351525585630592008-11-17T17:01:00.001-08:002008-11-17T17:02:13.026-08:00memoriesfor my writing group this week, we wrote about memories. <br />this is a memory I think of so often, i wrote two separate pieces about it - one short & one long. <br /><br />(#1)<br />youthful thoughts and bodies<br />stood staring at the sky<br />with words of praise and adulation<br />fingers straining wide<br /><br />my head burned with hunger<br />my body stiff with ache<br />legs enflamed, stomach tumbling<br />is it supposed to be this hard?<br /><br />i can't see the words on the screen<br />or the point of screaming to you<br />when i don't feel enraptured<br />or caught up in the tune<br /><br />im pressing my feet firm in the ground<br />and bending my heart flat to yours<br />you are worth telling you<br />that you are worth alone.<br /><br />(#2)<br />My freshman year of college was like a big introduction to Jesus. I had started to meet and longed to understand him a few years back, but mostly those years were an introduction to christians and trying to understand their life, trying harder to mirror it. But that year, something shifted, and I grew less enamored with the people and more drawn to their Person. He really was perfect. Perfect. Perfect. And we were not.<br /><br />I wanted to be caught up in Him, swept away in relationship with Him, stuck prostrate at His feet and life continued to get in the way. But there was this trip coming up, an outside worship/camping trip with 20,000 people crying out to the Lord and communing with Him. I was all over that. Let's leave it all behind, let's gather and worship, let's get to the heart of what is real.<br /><br />Unfortunately for me, it was a camping event and I am well, not a camper. I started off the trip about as horribly as you can with a massive case of food poisoning at the beginning of an eighteen hour drive. I sat in the back of a fifteen passenger van, swaying with the movement of the van and willing myself to die, and then I'd bust through the doors at each stop to rid my body of the offensive poison that was absolutely ruining my trip.<br /><br />As we approached the small town of Sherman, Texas - my stomach was beginning to heal itself and a new ailment was raring its head. If anyone should get their period on a camping trip, it should be me - for sure. With about 200 portapotties for 20,000 people, I could calculate that trouble for myself. This just wasn't what I expected and I was beginning to get frustrated. I longed to be with Jesus - period and stomach virus free. Picturing myself on the open field with my hands stretched out to him and my heart filled with his presence, I vowed to get through the next few days. There were two days of messages from theologians and evangelists, time to prepare our hearts for the big day of corporate worship.<br /><br />In those two days, there was a Texas-sized thunderstorm that electricuted several people, left our tents with a few feet of water, soaked our clothes and food, and expanded all my tampons - leaving them useless and me just a step more miserable. Somewhere in there, I got about a thousand chigger bites and because I couldn't shower, they stayed beneath my skin & got infected. Instead of closer and closer to the throne of God, I felt closer and closer to my own personal hell. I wish I could say I was encouraged by teaching and fellowship, but I was really just miserable.<br /><br />The night before the main worship gathering, Nick and I were sitting just outside the designated field, watching and listening as people continuously read the Word over the area from a watchstand, and I think we were both feeling a little reflective and anxious in our hearts. What do you talk about when you know you are about to experience the Lord in a few hours in such a tangible & amazing way? What things do you talk about? Our wordless conversation was abruptly interrupted by the fist-sized raindrops we'd come accustomed to over the past few nights, and we knew we only had a few minutes to race back to our campsite, about a mile away. As we started running, we got separated and I was just standing in the middle of a field - with a wall of rain in front of me and behind, feeling so stuck and so disappointed in Jesus. I had come all this way for problem after problem, so I just sat and sulked in the rain. I saw no point in moving my body or my heart.<br /><br />The next morning I woke up with itchy legs, a sensitive stomach, and woman troubles galore and we all headed out to the field. We made sure to scout out seats up front, but didn't bother to be sure we could see the screen and sure enough - we were too close. These were all new worship songs and none of my group knew the words. So we all sat and stood in silence, gathered with all the thousands, worshipping God. Probably every one but me.<br /><br />I remember feeling apathy and confusion. Jesus was who I wanted to know and who I longed to be near, but this was miserable and I didn't feel him. There were no fuzzy feelings and no prophecy on my lips, I couldn't really even see the words everyone was singing - so it was hard to comprehend what worshipful thought I was missing out on.<br /><br />In the middle of my grumbling, amidst my hunger and irritation, it hit me. Worship had nothing to do with Jesus making me feel good and everything to do with me trying to bless his heart. He deserved praise and good feelings, I deserved much worse than little bugs stuck beneath my skin and second-degree sunburn. For the rest of those hours, I never felt good. I never felt peace or joy or other-worldly inspiration. But I felt indebted to praise. Required to dance. Blessed to be able to sing.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-83941669888661401482008-11-12T18:28:00.001-08:002008-11-12T18:28:33.914-08:00romanceOne day on a spring break trip, I couldn't climb a tree and I was sad and the boys laughed and I cried a little. My friend planted a little romance by walking casually over and sticking a flower behind my ear. I have a picture of us, sprawled out in the grass - my eyes still teary but struck with wonder at the man who sat beside me.<br /><br />Six months later, we were in a massive water fight and running all around and he splashed me and I splashed him and all of a sudden we were face to face and the kind of romance that you don't want to awaken was rushing through me, so I ignored it and laughed at my handsome friend.<br /><br />Two months after that, he found my hand beneath a blanket<br />the night after that, across the armrest at the movies<br />we stayed quiet about it, but romance was spreading like a rash.<br /><br />Then, all of a sudden, we were in a fight and like the friends in Song of Solomon - my girl friends were all staring at me in the middle of a grocery store, telling me I was stupid to not get it. Stupid not to go to his house this minute and apologize and find him, stupid to let another day pass pretending.<br /><br />Our first valentines day, romance was making me homemade angel wings and bringing me a dozen roses to school. Our second valentines day, it was takeout in the dorm and a christian fish ring that turned my finger green. Our third, we babysat for my sister. Fourth, we babysat for both of her babies. Fifth, we were married and went to Chili's because I was starting a diet the next day and wanted to eat fries. Our son was two weeks old on our sixth valentines day and we were overwhelmed with love and warmth and exhaustion. I made him a mug & he got me one too. Coffee was important then. For our seventh, he swept me away to a northwestern sea bungalow where we loved and laughed and slept and talked about our baby girl, who we'd meet in a month.<br /><br />It's better than homemade angel wings and fish rings, now. So much better. Now, I think flowers are a waste because they die but I think back rubs are amazing. Every few nights we light some candles and get dressed to get undressed and in the morning we usually slap each others butts before nine a.m. On a good day.<br /><br />Romance for us is choosing, daily. I choose him through his stupid, stubborn thickheaded yet still sexy gracious christlike life and he chooses me through my lazy, bratty, whiny, rebellious hard trying self. But geez, I love that guy.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-60731713964605692922008-10-19T23:26:00.000-07:002008-10-19T23:28:51.505-07:00Open hands, essay 2The other day Nick and I were talking about a friend with new babies who had family come in to help and I was immediately transferred back to a hilarious, scary day of my life. Elias had been home the hospital for almost a week. My mom had rushed in from 200 miles away to be with me each step of those crazy few days. She stood beside me as I triple checked his car seat. She helped me plan our first trip to the doctor, which we carefully navigated making a stop halfway to make sure the baby boy was safe. It was her that walked into our Starbucks with me to show him off to our favorite baristas and her that pushed Nick and I out the door for a thirty minute coffee date so we could talk a little – even though we just itched to get right back in the door. She even slept in our bed with me and did midnight duty so that Nick could get rest since he had just started a new job. <br /><br />The day she left was the scary day. I started crying around an hour before she started packing and it only picked up when the door closed behind her. I’ll never forget pacing our little 1,000 square foot townhouse, Elias in my arms, looking down at him and bawling – saying, “I’m so sorry!” over and over again. Inept, Unprepared, Alone, and Overwhelmed. Those were my banners. I wasn’t even slightly disappointed in the son we had prayed and waited for – but I was overwhelmingly frustrated with myself. In that first week alone, I changed out of my pajamas once – maybe twice. I cancelled a doctor’s appointment for Elias that was at one p.m. because I couldn’t manage to get us both dressed and out the door in time to leave. All of a sudden, I was busy with nothing to do and exhausted without barely moving. <br /><br />Seriously – so much of that yuck can be blamed on hormones but I know now most of it had to do with unintentionality. Yearning to be a mama meant nothing without knowing why you pined for the position in the first place. Holding a baby was confusing when you didn’t understand what the next step was. <br /><br />Fast forward a bit over a year and the scene was familiar and different all at once. I was sitting in the hospital bed, c-section incision even more fresh – one baby learning how to nurse and one baby trying to find his sweet spot in the other arm. Elias was puzzled by me being in bed and he was really confused by the lifeless blob laying in my arms. He wriggled and squirmed and she cried and fussed and we all sat there, in that noisy bed – drinking in our new life. I should have started crying then. Had I been in my right mind, I would have been pacing then… Two kids under two. One barely walking and not talking and the other with horrible colic and a mommy complex. Two in diapers, different stages. Different nap times, different lunch times, no real bed time. Intentionality was the balm for my soul. Panic was no longer part of the equation because Jesus had slowed my heart down long enough to think and pray and decide why these lives were important enough to give mine for, why they deserved my utmost patience and purpose. <br /><br />I spent my pregnancy with Glory doing a million things. I tried to work outside the home and then decided that would not work for me. I got to know Elias and got to know the kind of mom he demanded. I got to know Jesus’ word and researched and prayed and poured over any verse that could be related to parenting or motherhood or raising a child. I learned how to spank, how to make up songs on the spot, how to say no again and again and again to friends asking to go to coffee. I listened to my husband and he listened to the Lord and we moved across the country for a lot of different reasons. I spent the last month holding Elias and singing to him and delighting in him alone. I found peace and excitement in giving him the greatest gift I could ever present him with – a sis to soften and challenge him and to look up to him like the prince that he is. <br /><br />So when my mom left this time – I should have been a thousand times more stressed. This time, she was going 2,000 miles back home and we couldn’t say when we’d see one another again. No one was coming to replace her, no one to accompany me to the doctor’s appointments or to meticulously pack the diaper bag with. Interestingly enough, my heart was devoid of fear and filled with relief. I needed her to leave to prove to myself I could do it – Elias crying and needing attention, Glory whining and needing my whole life. For weeks I poured over processes and plans and figured out exactly how to feed two at once, how to carry them down the stairs at once (even if you busted your stitches open), and how to rock one while you kicked a soccer ball for the other with your spare foot. It’s just a different world though. With each bottle sanitized and every shirt washed there is intentionality. The mundane of today is preparing the eternal for tomorrow – minute by minute and child by child. My haphazardly open hands had suddenly been filled, my quiver absentmindedly made full and my new banner became reflection – stop and think, stop and pray, stop and plan. It was like looking at a mall directory that was actually your life, recognizing where you are and moment by moment, redirecting yourself to where you need to go.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-84999847276473975522008-10-14T09:20:00.000-07:002008-10-14T09:38:17.970-07:00joyIs there anything better than a morning walk?<div><br /></div><div>It was chilly but I didn't notice, raining lightly - but I didn't care. For some reason, this particular day - I was letting the hilarious scenery burn itself straight through my eyeballs and into my memory. Really beautiful handmade fences, breaking down after years of wear, covered in moss and not doing anything to stop overgrown weeds in grass up to my waist. The morning light makes the Northwest green look lit up from the inside and I'm drawn to it like some strange emerald. </div><div><br /></div><div>In two minutes, I pass two farms - two actual farms, with signs that say "_____ farm". I cannot stop myself from chuckling. About sixteen beautiful old trucks, abandoned all in a clump and still that same crazy green lighting everything on fire. It looks contagious in the morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thinking back to the place I just left, the insanity that spreads there too. It's strange to be in a place where you so badly want to help, but if you sit too long - it gets under your skin and you think that abnormal is normal and dysfunctional is just ok. Baby Daddys are unreliable, yelling is an appropriate means of communication and the appearance of tears or placenta-centered conversations at dinner are totally and utterly understandable. </div><div><br /></div><div>But on my walk I know better, because there is one real neighborhood on my path. I pass real people's cars - bought and not shared. Doorsteps that are owned, that can be decorated with planters and not donated water heaters and two second-hand strollers. Inside, kitchen tables that are cluttered with only one families mail and with only one mama - making the decisions. One daddy - setting the pace. Friends come and go, and there is joy in it. Everything isn't bought in bulk and if a child yells, they are punished and repent. No one gets kicked out, people get invited it, and there is joy in it. You can wear your pajamas downstairs, you can protect your babies, you have no audience. You live your life and there is joy in it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So now I'm wistful and thinking about hope deferred and how - is that really joy? Is it okay to always be joyful about what is in store, what is ahead? For now, the answer for me is no. Walk back past the farm and the old trucks. Let the dog down the street follow you for a few paces. Once more admire the colors and the green and the rural and laugh, you live in the country. Take a deep breath and open the door with the mismatched paint. Go get your precious babies ready for breakfast and find joy in the semi-stranger that scowls when she makes her breakfast. For now. </div>Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-11213168711193653892008-10-04T15:45:00.000-07:002008-10-04T15:46:20.946-07:00Open hands, essay 1Open Hands, essay #1<br /><br />I fell haphazardly into motherhood. Like Alice in wonderland, I looked out on a crazy landscape and saw what my own eyes chose to see. I didn’t stop to ask for directions or whether or not I was even purposed to walk forward, I just sort of started skipping along – smiling kind of absentmindedly as I moved. I was eight months into marriage and four months off of birth control. I had done a little bit of research, but not nearly enough, and I knew there was something about hormonal birth control that didn’t sit right with me. It didn’t help that it made me into a raving lunatic, either. Really quickly I learned that I shouldn’t even advertise the fact that I was partially doing naturally family planning because not only was I doing it totally wrong, but I also was almost completely unfaithful in taking my temperatures or checking my fluid. So – we were winging it. Did we necessarily want a baby this minute? No. Were we opposed to the idea of it, however? Not so much. Had we put an ounce of thought into what kind of careers we wanted to have when children showed up, where we wanted to live, how we wanted to live, or what kind of parents we would choose to be? Not a chance.<br /><br />It’s hard to remember what was going through my mind then – and I’m scared to say it’s because my mind was pretty blank concerning the concept of motherhood. Six months into marriage I got the notion to leave a well paying job that I absolutely loved to become a nanny. Mostly because my friends were doing it and meeting up for coffee playdates sounded more appealing than working hard 40 hours a week, but somewhere in the back of my head I was hoping this job would prepare me for mommydom – just a little bit further down the road. Well, the family was a bit maniacal, the kids were defiant, and the coffee dates just didn’t happen – but my hard heart began to soften and my idea of purpose was very quickly readjusted.<br /><br />I worked for a stay-at-home mom, who had three children. I was one of three nannies and worked around forty-five hours a week. For the first few weeks I was intrigued and possessed by what a wonderful life my boss seemed to live. She had these children who were so attached to her, so in love with her – she was always the mama. But she had oodles and oodles of time. Money wasn’t under a shortage either, but time seemed to be her true luxury. I arrived at seven a.m. so she could have time to shower and get dressed. I dressed and fed the kids so she had time to make herself a low-carb omelet. She took the two eldest daughters to preschool and I stayed home with the youngest so she could workout, lunch with other important mommies, shop, and have a really seemingly glamorous midday. When preschool was over, she brought all the kids home and was around… I played with them, but they always wanted her. If they fell, they ran to her. When they fought, she was interrupted from her magazine to mediate. She taught me the standards by which they were to live – dishwasher always clean & emptied, laundry baskets always bare because clothes were in their place, portion sizes small, and tv – off. During rare naptimes or quiet moments, she would impart life lessons to me – “Start saving now so you can have someone like yourself when you have babies… I didn’t have a nanny with my first and I didn’t have time for anything”.<br /><br />Two months in, my ideals were shot and my little nannying dream was broken. I realized I was learning everything about childcare and nothing about mothering. On top of that, my little slightly chubby belly was suddenly becoming swollen-feeling and the sight of raw chicken made my throw-up. It had to be an occupational hazard, not enough days on the treadmill and a mental aversion from too much casserole prep. With my husband between jobs and no insurance to our name, I let weeks pass as I ignored my nausea and started buying maternity pants just because they were more comfortable. On a weekend getaway at my mom’s house, she took one look at me and crashed my denial to a thousand little bits with her simple statement, “your face looks pregnant”. So with the video camera rolling, Nick on the cell phone, and a glass of wine in hand – my sister, my mother, and I all stood over the bathroom counter… a plus sign glaring back at us.<br /><br />I went to bed that night and woke the next morning with a million questions facing me, ignoring the most important one. Boy or girl, to gain copiously or to be careful, midwife or doctor, natural or aided, which vitamin to use, where to register, what to name, who to honor, which books to buy, who to tell, how to place my hand just so – in an effort to look pregnant, not chubby. Every decision revolved around me, or us, each thought was of myself. I was prayerful, mind you, praying for safety for him and less sickness for me… his future, my weight, our marriage, and more money. But somewhere between morning sickness and maternity pants, I turned down the volume on the Lord when He asked for a response from me. Too busy planning and growing, I continued to fall down the silly hole – not ever stopping to consider why I’d jumped in and what would happen as I continued moving through life.<br /><br />Suddenly, he was here. I could speak volumes on the actual process – and used to at length. I’ve learned now, that while birth is monumental – it isn’t important because of how it happens but because what it brings. So it all happened, not at all like I’d planned, and he was here. I heard my ob say, “he’s out!” and Nick and I looked at each other as if to say – “well, isn’t that nice!” It wasn’t till a few moments later when he actually cried that it dawned on me that he was a real person, with his own life - that God had started through me. I could no longer shut out the Lord’s persistent question, try as I would for the next few months. What would I do now that he was here? Who was I because of him? How did Jesus fit into all of this and what was he asking of me? One thing was for certain – the clock was ticking for me to figure it out.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-15331842306915549872008-10-01T23:07:00.000-07:002008-10-01T23:32:30.585-07:00with each day that passes.close to my heart<br />i hear your deep laugh<br />when kids are funny <br />and he makes the jokes.<br /><br />somewhere in my head<br />i see the wince <br />when you sense my composure <br />fall to the floor. <br /><br />in memory i recall <br />your tears for your son<br />it was your will<br />& still your deep pain. <br /><br />i'm climbing up closer<br />nearer to you<br />still the more I ascend <br />the weaker the view.<br /><br />with each day that passes<br />i understand more that<br />with each day that passes<br />i'll understand less.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-91639959936258509012008-08-24T18:45:00.000-07:002008-08-24T18:47:49.496-07:00burdenWe went hiking last week, which was out of character, but so sweet. It wasn't like us to seek out such a challenge for enjoyment, but the massive steps - lunges straight up with babies strapped to our back - felt really purposeful and right. I was heaving, my shirt was soaked, Glory passed out, Elias cried, Nick stayed strong. We could see where we wanted to go and see what it was we were going to conquer, it was still hard. I almost had to laugh as we watched skinny punk boys in tight v-necks with cups of coffee - walking with their scantily clad, flip-flop wearing gals, stroll quickly by us. We were still heaving, still having to take breaks to catch our breath and recommit to our mission. <br /><br />I hate to say, but reaching the top didn't feel beautiful or inspiring. It felt like sore calves, wet t-shirt, and oh crap, we still have to go back down. Babies unimpressed by the biggest mountain they may ever see, adult eyes not so much staring in wonder but stinging with sweat. There was even a spat at the top because Dad didn't take a flattering picture of mom. To add insult to injury, we went the wrong way down and had to drive around the mountain backwards to get home. "You can't go under it, can't go over it.... must go around it", he says when we realized we've just added time to our trip. <br /><br />Grace has begun to feel that way for me, for others. Such a huge mountain to climb - to forgive, or even forget. To allow myself humanity and patience and so many many mistakes. A good day has begun to feel less and less sweet when at dinner I realize there is still laundry, still a quiet time, still emails unanswered. I'm panting with exhaustion over my sin and yours; I remember it as my human legs lift me slowly out of bed in the morning and when I feel them aching in the night. Our entire existence screams a lack of competency, a need for the Fixer. I don't believe my cries for righteousness and I don't know what your voice sounds like when it's truthful. I don't know how to walk forward in full knowledge of both of our sin. Sadly, I don't know how to walk forward in full knowledge that I am so far from the full understanding, and only to know it in part cripples me. <br /><br />Grace is the obscure mountain that I climbed in a dream & Jesus shattered the whole great rock for me to pass out to everyone else. When I woke up I realized that try as I might, I can't climb it. If I happen to look up, I'll see others running by me - completely comfortable, completely unhindered, calling others to come with them. I want to jog up beside them and keep their pace - be the one beckoning to you to follow me. <br /><br />Instead my burden is to stop trying to go up it or around it. Grace must swallow me whole. <em></em><em></em>Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-21674130102168087152008-08-04T21:49:00.000-07:002008-08-04T21:51:51.067-07:00introduce yourself<span style="font-style:italic;">i'm really excited about my new writing circle i'm doing with some women... this was our first idea - write something to introduce yourself; i probably won't put all of my writing from the circle on here, but I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it! I love reading novels, especially the beginning of novels, so I introduced myself as a character in a novel</span><br /><br />It's the confusing part of the morning.<br />Scrambling for her phone, she hits a random button on it to illuminate the time and fights off a swear word. "What comes out of the mouth is what's in the heart", she grumbles inwardly and grabs her glasses off the nightstand. She hates to wear them outside of her bedroom, but since she inherited the horrible eyes of her myopic grandfather - it's wise to put the glasses on to find the contact case. She hears baby #1 on the monitor that the hot husband has carried into the bathroom. That noise is what alerts her to said husband's presence, since the contacts have yet to be put in. A pat on the bottom for him and a smirk, "What time did she fall back asleep?", he asks. "Hmmm... around five-thirty", referring to baby #2, whom she shared a good cuddle with this morning.<br />The scene that follows is stereotypical. He showers and shaves, she pulls at her temples - looking carefully for the tale-tell signs of exhaustion. The juxtaposition in the scene is limited to the youthfulness of their voices. Where you might expect a seasoned thirty-something couple with the requisite two kids, you find a twenty-three and a twenty-five year old. She glares at herself from top to bottom and chuckles.... it's not a twenty-three year old body she sees. Two c-sections, forty extra pounds, 1/2 inch roots, more stretch marks than a watermelon, and a whole lot of God's grace stare back at her.<br />Another ten minutes before both babes are in full need mode, so she loses herself in the quick shower. These inner conversations and imaginative daydreams used to be somewhat sinful. She'd wistfully consider what life is like for the average twenty-something: cellulite free, normal sleeping nights, maybe thinking of marriage, probably complaining about being "busy" or "stretched thin", with no real idea of either concept. Now she enjoys the comparison because she knows the grass on her side isn't more green - but it's her yard and it's just right.<br />On to shampoo, she knows why it's ok to look back now - why it feels good to trace the steps and evaluate why she is here and not sleeping in or arriving at a job where she is considered powerful or important to the outside world. Nine years ago she had her heart ripped out by her Savior. It was as if He folded it open, jumbled all her intentions and life goals around and spoke real life into her decaying little heart. Those crazy piercing eyes of Jesus looked into her heart and saw what was real and what wasn't, what need to be sifted out and what seeds He would grow. He placed a handsome man in her life and began lifting them both - intertwining their roots till the two couldn't be distinguished.<br />That's why when her maternal grandmother shrieks, "and she was the one who didn't want any kids!", she can smile knowingly. It didn't matter what she wanted, only what He wanted for her.<br />Back in the shower, she's smiling broadly now. Not because it's particularly luxurious (the rickety farmhouse they live in has well water), and not because she's beautiful (again - two kids, two years, no metabolism or sleep), but because she's alive and those piercing eyes are still roaming her heart. In summary, she's a wife and a mama, she delights in checking the mail and taking naps when she can. Her son is her silly goose, her daughter is her little lamb. Jesus is still the sure-fire way to make her smile and her husband makes her blush. But seriously, it's time to get out of the shower - the days is getting ready to start.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-60023479658876123342008-07-22T06:26:00.000-07:002008-07-22T06:38:26.068-07:00tiny dancer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzX-s4cDLrMqjg1zT2SxfNVvZ0al5nkmJufkQ_-xy8Pbbcz7di_Wev4FH9tVPSlDgnJoZIgSEqrd6ph-rVsh7iyfOdXACcaPLlEaOsRl-H8SPxnfBV_SoismlUH80a-MRlFFP7ia0gdA/s1600-h/pic.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzX-s4cDLrMqjg1zT2SxfNVvZ0al5nkmJufkQ_-xy8Pbbcz7di_Wev4FH9tVPSlDgnJoZIgSEqrd6ph-rVsh7iyfOdXACcaPLlEaOsRl-H8SPxnfBV_SoismlUH80a-MRlFFP7ia0gdA/s320/pic.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225832269985904162" /></a><br />When I met him, he loved to dance. <br />Slowly but surely as time passed, he became more reserved - more mature, more controlled and we've stopped dancing. "You have five slow dances", he'll say before weddings and ultimately - he ends up watching me from his table, with a smug smile... as I dance with kids or friends or myself. <br />I never imagined I'd be in this place - peering over the balcony... watching him, my husband dance with abandon. I feel like a voyeur, slightly entitled to be studying his moves and busting in on an intimate moment that does not belong to me. I didn't really mean to find them, my eyes were scanning the beach... but their figures were unmistakable and now I'm enraptured, my eyes are transfixed and I cannot look away.<br />The lines of his body are so familiar to me. I know those strong arms, the legs that were always more steady and graceful than mine. The eyes fastened on the one that he adores. If I'm honest, these moves are even more exaggerated and excited that those that I've seen. He's lifting, dipping, twirling... not moving haphazardly, but with all the intentionality and purpose that he possesses in every act of his life. <br />His partner knows this too. They feel safe, and free to experience the wash of the wind in their hair because he is holding them safe.<br />So there I am, three stories up, watching my husband and son jump the waves and twirl in the sand. My loves are out there, dancing with one another, utterly oblivious to my watching eyes.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-22521062833722363082008-07-01T12:32:00.000-07:002008-07-01T12:33:01.000-07:00mirror"It's like when you look in the mirror too long" I say<br />"It's our strength and our weakness" she says.<br /><br />Introspection is like a dry hot dog bun stuck in my throat. I can't swallow me down. Thinking Thinking Thinking.<br />One time when I was sixteen a boy hurt my feelings when he said, "Nice shirt-dress". For eight years I've been mulling over my comeback. For sixteen weeks thinking about cellulite and jiggle. For the last two weeks debating packing or buying diapers.<br /><br />When did thoughts become indulgent and just passing the time with them become dangerous. I want to want to be Christlike but it becomes harder each day. When I first met Him, I focused on stopping what was wrong - running to what was right. But at some point, even when you're surrounded with "right", wrong wins. Sometime I think Satan lives in "right" places and people and freedom lives in the pursuit of the Godly. If you've thought it in your head, you've done it with your body. Seriously, that's what it says and I believe what it means. That pegs me guilty and I can't take that too seriously. Or can I?<br /><br />Taking all thoughts captive, I've become a wild bandit - tying them up and wondering, where exactly do I throw them, store them once I've bound them? I'm dragging them around in a trash bag, over my laundry, out the front door... don't let the kids see. Don't let anyone see. Too heavy, I drop them at His feet. But what do I replace them with? It's sometimes hard to remember that positive self talk is still not spirit giving. I write in a circle, think in a circle, & everything comes back to the start. I want to walk from point A to point B. From sin to glory. I want what Adam started to end and it won't - not yet. But it will get better.<br /><br />Sometimes when you've looked in the mirror too long, you need to blink, hard.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-63771550655914177992008-06-23T22:58:00.000-07:002008-06-23T23:28:16.283-07:00walkingTonight I was walking fast, by myself, down our road. Alone is not usual for me. A two and a half mile track was laid out before me, a borrowed ipod in hand. I had an agenda to pray about, a purpose in my steps. Teen feet into my little journey, I was totally engulfed by the beauty of the northwest outdoors. It's almost July & it was nearly chilly, everywhere I looked I saw intense beauty. The sky was opening up and the blues were leading to oranges and pinks and yellow. I could see the breeze alive on every piece of flora around me. I saw sweet moss on fences and lavender flowers that towered over me. Old cars, makeshift scarecrows, and a roadside berry stand. The raw puyallup backroad enveloped me and I felt really at home, not in this city or state - but in that package of minutes.<br /><br />On the ipod, a live recording of a worship event I went to back in 2004 came on and in an instant, I was reminded of a day that reminded me of another life I used to live. I was engaged and on a mini-vacation with Nick, my roommates, & several thousand other college students. The conference was in Nashville and was geared towards worship & teaching and I can still remember how unshaken my little Jesus-world was. Unfortunately I'm being totally honest when I recall that the most pressing concerns to me were about myself. I had just put some low-lights in my hair that were a bit too dark, was I ever going to reach my wedding-weight-goal?, would I be able to fit all my credits into the next two semesters so that Nick and I would feel free to move wherever the Lord called?<br /><br />Despite my selfishness, God was still speaking to me and loving on me and allowing me to see Him bigger and bigger. During one teaching session, I got caught up in the crowd of people scattering all around downtown Nashville, trying to find the speaker that would suit them best. I think I got stuck in a line at the only Starbucks in downtown and before I knew it, I was by myself. Sans-fiance, not a roommate in site. Alone wasn't usual for me then, either. I was uncomfortable and unsure of myself and so I wondered back to the main arena - figured I'd read or browse the ministry stations until everyone got back. While I was wandering around I stumbled on a prayer room and there was a really nondescript sign on it that read "Boston/New York". What I walked into was shocking and awesome and really, really what my heart was looking for. The room was dark but filled with students and a popular worship leader was in front, praying - singing over the two aforementioned cities. There were only about fifty people in the room, but everyone was moaning and groaning, whispering and weeping over these great cultures that needed redemption. Inspired, shocked, & shifted forever - I cried and prayed along with this small sector of my generation, for another small sector and I felt at home in that package of minutes.<br /><br />A few minutes later I was still walking... passing a dormant tractor, the KFC chicken coop at our house in my line of vision, and I had to chuckle. Life has not quite taken me where I expected to go. Now I live in a sleepy town, doing a generally thankless ministry, living off support, being excited by things like playdates & library trips. But Jesus, thank you that I feel intensely alive. Thank you for keeping me walking - whether into spirit filled rooms in the midst of big cities, or down well-water lined streets where there are more crops than people. I'm still walking, still in awe. Still alive.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-61136242967896987612008-06-15T15:51:00.001-07:002008-06-15T15:51:59.150-07:00old poem02/2006<br /><br />fingers in my ears, I scream at the top of my lungs<br />LA LA LA LA, I hear myself, my needs, my fears.<br />My self, my voice, my unrest.<br />Justification over sanctification -<br />explanation over expansion -<br />comfort isn't always complacency...<br />These lies I believe, the hope I receive<br />from myself, my world, my view<br />I see what I need to see<br />In your word: I read what I need to read<br />The louder I talk, the stronger the story<br />But all I do, all I think, all I say -<br />Does it compare? distract?<br />Is it even cohesive with your story?<br />My habits, our plans, the path: Our way,<br />at the end of the day, is it what you<br />Wanted?<br />Needed?<br />Desired?<br />Heeded?<br /><br />pry me open.<br />break my locks.<br />I'll hand you the key -<br />albeit increasingly reluctantly.<br />This is Your head, Your heart, Your life, Your girl.<br />These are more than words -<br />more than letters falling numbly to the page.<br />My pledge;<br />my cry;<br />my need.<br />Yes, the tension in responding to Your call wells up -<br />but the life You offer - in comparison to this -<br />is far too great.<br />Open our minds, sweep through our hearts,<br />invade our futile and failing plans.<br />Expose our inabilities, capture the You in me.<br />Rip it out, make it first.<br />Feed this world<br />Lord, quench our thirst.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-43781883458539726332008-06-15T15:47:00.001-07:002008-06-15T15:47:47.829-07:00mothers day poem<span style="font-weight:bold;">puppies & porcupines</span><br /><br />"hes like a teddy bear"<br />but truly hes not.<br />more loyal<br />more fickle<br />more charisma than me.<br /><br />"Shes like a porcupine",<br />but thats not really fair.<br />more precious<br />more delicate<br />more treasured is she.<br /><br />she hates the sun<br />and he loves to run<br />right out of my arms and into some trouble.<br /><br />she loves mamas smell<br />he heeds daddys stare<br />but we all giggle on top of my covers.<br /><br />her breath on my nose<br />his hand on my knee.<br />i feel honored & needed & peace.<br /><br />potential, hope, future, & truth<br />stare back at me from under<br />his lovey.<br /><br />grace, faith, beauty, & life<br />nuzzle right into<br />my chest.<br /><br />in just a few moments<br />the floodgates will open.<br />more fear<br />more doubt<br />more uncertainty.<br /><br />but Jesus for now<br />keep me close to these babes.<br />more time<br />more love<br />& more You for me.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-87471241874878750762008-06-15T15:45:00.000-07:002008-06-15T15:46:25.500-07:00fathers day poem<span style="font-weight:bold;">wise hands</span><br /><br />daddy has wise hands<br />his hands know rhythm<br />taught mommy drum beats<br />at coffeehouses in college.<br /><br />daddy has wise hands<br />they moved when he talked<br />sharing grace with the needy<br />in Jesus' name.<br /><br />daddy's hands are so wise<br />he made that shelf<br />you can pull your toys down<br />it won't fall, babe.<br /><br />daddy has wise hands -<br />he squeezed your mama's.<br />she was scared and excited<br />you were coming so soon.<br /><br />coffee stained<br />flipping the pages<br />cupping our faces<br />held open with love.<br /><br />daddy's hands are wise<br />held you right<br />from the very first time<br />we laid sweet eyes on ya'll.<br /><br />i see those wise hands<br />throwing you<br />lifting you<br />I shudder, then secretly smile.<br /><br />daddy has wise hands<br />and loving<br />and trusting<br />and just like his fathers.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2416065531289722756.post-75442027361287456392008-06-10T18:50:00.000-07:002008-06-15T15:45:20.720-07:001I know a few things for sure. <br />During my junior year of high school, I met a boy who I thought was the greatest thing ever at my church youth group. Turns out, he really was. Eight years later - we've been married for three, have two kids, and we laugh a lot. <br />One year before I met him, I met the real love of my life in Jesus Christ. There were days that year when I would feel slightly hopeful in my head about something - probably an event coming up or good news I had forgotten for a moment. Upon further examination (due to an over-analytical personality), I'd remember grace, remember Jesus' love for me. Nine years later, I am still finding myself happy for no reason at all - except for, oh right... my soul being saved. Of course it's not all roses up in here. I've got more than enough pride, anger, denial, blame, self-righteous yuck, laziness, and doom and gloom to go around. But in general... I've got a good thing going.<br /><br />I really truly love Jesus. I love to tell people about Him that don't know Him at all. I love to remind myself how good He is to me. I love to find new ways to describe how I see Him, how He makes me feel. This past week I think I may have used the words, "like something really good to drink". Sometimes I feel like I'm such a Jesus-veteran... what a joke. I've been walking with him for less than a decade and I have so much to learn. I know very little about very little, but I do know when it's all said and done, I still won't know much. However, I am certain that my love for Him will still continue to surprise me throughout my life and I'm more than certain that His grace will baffle me for years to come. <br /><br />I'll never get over the fact that despite my sin, despite the shame I should possess - He loves me enough to redeem my soul from the pit of death and still, still, He goes on to bless me further. It's hard sometimes to really give Jesus the intense reverence He deserves and be able to enjoy the awesome gifts that He gives. Somewhere between weeping at the cross and rolling on the floor with my kids, my heart lies. I could dissect three verses in Genesis for sixteen hours - shocked at the words "Let US make man in OUR image" but I could also laugh for sixteen hours with my husband about something as mundane as celebrity golf. That's the place I want to write from - stuck, absolutely fastened, in between my messy existence & a celebration of the divine. <br /><br />I love to read and I like to write, I think because I'm a story teller. If you ask the wrong person, they may go as far to say 'embellisher' but I think that sometimes a story deserves a little fluff, some extra glitter if you will. My sister and I tell a mean story about a ghost we saw the week before her wedding, and in the six years since her marriage, our little apparition has gone from six to twelve feet, but the fact is we saw him - and that is a story for another time. But the sweet thing about story telling and Jesus is that no glitter need apply. How do you jazz up the minute when you first felt grace? Or conviction? Or peace? Seriously, when you feel real Godly, heaven-given peace... what can compete with that? Only telling that story again and again to spread hope and encouragement. So I'm writing from the sticky place between heaven and life, with full knowledge that I don't need to jazz up a single detail. Some serious writing seminars may be in order and at some point I should probably buy a twenty pound grammar book, but I think most people who don't take themselves too seriously and take Jesus as serious as a heart attack enjoy a good story - even when it's missing the necessary punctuation. So grab some coffee & read my stories, while you're at it... write down your own so I have something fun to read when my kids go to bed tonight.Jessihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17771219694662156043noreply@blogger.com1