Through Her Eyes

When I sat down to write a post for Father's Day, I began to think of all the things I wanted to say about my husband and the wonderful father he is to our children.  I realized that I couldn't think of a better way to describe him than my daughter did in a poem she wrote this Christmas.  
She was seven.

Avery's class was working on a poetry unit, and they were given the assignment to write an “I Am” poem from the perspective of someone they loved.  She chose her dad.  She was given the first two words in each line, and she came up with the rest. 

Dad

I am a dad who is funny, kind and works hard.
I wonder how old I will live to be.
I hear horses neighing.
I see my children growing quickly.
I want my children to do the right thing.
I am a dad who is funny, kind, and works hard.

I pretend I am in my own Neverland.
I feel happy when we are all together.
I touch the horses dirty hoof.
I worry about not making enough money for my family.
I cried when Grandad died.
I am a dad who is funny, kind and works hard.

I understand when my children are upset.
I say I miss Grandad.
I dream about being in my own Neverland.
I try to be kind.
I hope I make enough money.
I am a dad who is funny, kind and works hard.

Every time I read that poem I cry.  She gets it.  She gets him. 

I’m so thankful to be married to a man who is “funny, kind, and works hard.” A man that I can trust with my life, and the lives of my children. 

A pastor once said, “Respect means showing your husband that you trust that he has the best intentions for your family.”  Avery looks at her daddy, and she sees that he does.  She knows it.  Her respect for him is unconditional.

I can be difficult.  Unforgiving.  Unkind.  Committed to defending my idea of how the plastic bowls are supposed to be organized in the dishwasher.  This Father’s Day, I am inspired to see the big picture, my husband as he really is.  A man who dies to self every day as he gets up to go to work to take care of us.  Who smiles at the end of a long day and takes the kids out to ride their bikes.  A man who might forget the way I like things organized in the kitchen, but who doesn't forget to tell me or the kids how much he loves us. 

It has been said that through the eyes of a child you will see the world as it should be.  Sometimes, through the eyes of a child, you see the world as it is.

On Time

My two-year-old, Logan, holding his great-great-grandfather's pocket watch.

In honor of my 34^th birthday in ten days, I thought I'd share a personal essay I wrote in college, June 19, 2002, five days before my 21st birthday.

On Time

Time marches on.  I wonder who ever thought of putting time in a band.  Or is it an army?
Once when I was six years old I put a cheese quesadilla in the microwave for 60 seconds.  I remember watching each second tick by in green digits with a growing sense of horror, 59, 58, 57… flinching when the timer buzzed.  “I just watched a minute of my life tick by,” I thought.  “A minute that I can never, ever get back.  Ever.”  The tortilla tasted stale and stuck to the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat.  I washed it down with a glass of water.

Time flies when you’re having fun.  When I was three and a half years old I went to a party thrown for most of my extended family.  Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends all pinched my cheeks and took turns carrying me around in their arms or playing with me.  My dad says that most of the evening he would look over at me and see me laughing, enjoying the attention.  Until at one point when he was in the middle of a conversation with his brother whom he hadn’t seen in a long time, I interrupted him by putting my hand on his leg and saying, “Daddy!  Daddy!”  He looked down to find me weeping.  He lifted me up, asking, “What’s wrong honey?”
“Well, it’s just that we’re at this party, and we’re all having so much fun, and pretty soon—it will all just be a memory!”  I put my face on his shoulder and sobbed.  Hard.  He had no idea how to console me.  He just let me cry.

One moment in time.   I’ve never understood people who live like they think they’re going to live forever.  I’ve never understood why professors and pastors always feel like they need to remind us of our mortality, remind us that our lives are short.  Don’t we know without their telling us?  Can’t we just feel it?  Everywhere we look around us, can’t we just see it?  I’m turning 21 in five days.  12 months, 360 days ago I was turning 20.  That’s one year gone, just like that.  One year that I watched tick by, just like the microwave.  I’m gonna need a glass of water to wash this down.  If I blink again I’ll be 22.

Time heals all wounds.  That always struck me as sounding rather calloused.  Cold even.  Certainly not true.  But I remember when a four-year romance and my plans for marriage ended in a flat rejection.  “Time heals all wounds” became my saving grace.  I remember waking up every morning clinging to those words.  Begging God to help me make it through one more day.  Begging Him to make the time heal me.  I suppose it did.  Only time will tell.

Redeeming the time.  I would like to wake up in time to watch the sunrise, every day.  I would tell it, “Good morning,” and the sheet of blue slowly covering up the great page of black would be its “Good morning” back to me.  I’d like to read my Bible every morning and go for a walk outside every day.  I’d like to actually “smell the flowers” and play with my little sister every afternoon.  I’d like to close my eyes every time I put ice cream in my mouth and feel its cold sweetness trickle down my throat.  I’d like to look the people I meet in the eye, really see them, and bring a little joy or hope to their day.  I'd like to tell more people about Jesus and what He’s done for me.  I’d like to.  I’d really, really like to—but I just don’t have the time.  

Well, a lot of time has passed since I wrote this piece.  I have been happily married to the boy referenced above for almost ten years.  At the time I wrote this, we had been broken up for a year, and it would be another year before we got back together.  We now have three wonderful kids. Looking back, sometimes I've remembered to cherish the moments, sometimes not, and I think that's okay.  Thank you for reading.  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Writers Write

I have always wanted to be a writer.  For as long as I can remember.  I “wrote” my first book when I was five and actually couldn’t even write or read yet.  I drew the pictures and dictated the story to my dad, and he wrote it out for me.  It was a riveting tale about Cookie Monster and Big Bird and their picnic trip to the park.  My dad had me draw a self-portrait on the back page and he wrote an About the Author.  Then we hole-punched the pages and bound my first book with yarn.  I still have it…somewhere. 

Fast forward a few years.  With the confidence that comes only with childhood, I would refer to myself as a writer to anyone and everyone.  Not “a writer when I grow up.”  Just a writer.  My parents jumped right in with me.  My dad would check in with me sometimes, asking what I was working on and what I’d written lately.  He’d never ask to read it unless I offered, but he would often check in.  If I answered, “nothing,” he would say, “Remember, writers write.”

Writers write.  But writing is so hard.  And the older I got, the less confident I got about my writing and about disclosing my identity as a writer.  I found that I feared people’s reaction.  What if they wanted to read something I wrote?  What if they didn’t like it?  Or worse, what if they did and then I found that that was the best thing I would ever write?  Or even worse still, what if they said, “Isn’t that cute?”  Or, “You mean you want to be a writer when you grow up?”  Shudder.

So I kept writing (sometimes) but I became extremely selective about whom I shared my writing with, and I shared it less often.  Over time, I filled a whole shelf in my bookshelf with journals and I started thinking that I would still be a writer, only someday.  And then I would go for long periods of time without writing anything except an occasional journal entry (and the voice of judgment in my head, “Do those even count?”) But writers write, and I wasn’t really writing, so…

In 2005, right after I got married, I played around with the idea of starting a blog.  It didn’t stick.  But there was still the hunger for connection, the hunger to tell my story. 

Then, last February, I started sending emails to a few of my closest friends, many of whom are also writers.  I would jot down a snippet of my day or a thought about the world or taking five kids to the store… (which, seriously, you have not lived until you’ve taken five kids to the store) but I was still hesitant to commit to an actual blog.

But then I did.  And I am sharing it with you.  And I feel like I jumped off a cliff without a parachute.  Which, incidentally, I’ve seen someone do.  It’s not pretty.  Well, he didn’t actually jump, he fell.  But still.  Don’t worry, he’s fine now.  He’s my husband and the father of my children, so I guess it has a happy ending, but the cliff doesn’t really have anything to do with the happy ending part.  Jumping/falling off of cliffs is still bad. All that to say, I’m free-falling here.  And I’m scared. 

And then my lovely friend Lauren reminded me of a great quote recently. (Lauren has an amazing blog called The Thinking Closet, which you should check out.  She does a lot of excellent creative tutorials, but even if you don’t consider yourself crafty, you should still visit her site.  I mean, I can’t D.I.Y. my own stick figures, but I loooooove reading her blog.)  Anyway, Lauren reminded me of this quote:

“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” –Joseph Chilton Pearce

I felt like someone hit me in the stomach and my eyes filled with tears and I knew, I KNEW that more than anything else, I am afraid of being wrong.  Or looking silly.  Or making a mistake.   And you know what?  I will make mistakes.  And look silly.  And even (gasp) be wrong.  But it’s worth it.  Because you know what else?  I will also be a writer.

When I was reading The Artist's Way today I came across another great quote by an author known as Colette (I know, The Artist's Way again, I’m telling you, I love that book.)  Anyway, the quote was, “You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm. ”  I laughed.  And then I enthusiastically wrote this post.

Here’s to reawakening dormant dreams.  To losing our fear of being wrong. To doing foolish things with enthusiasm.  Here's to sharing our stories with one another.

And in answer to that voice of judgment from before?  “Yes.  Journal entries DO count.  It all counts.”

I’m a writer.  But at almost 34 years old, with three kids, a mortgage payment, and two jobs, I’m still not grown up.