Three Words

This time of year is notoriously hard on me. I tend to get overly emotional and sometimes feel depressed.You see, I miss my grandparents dearly. Time has not lessened that fact.

From the date of my grandfather's birthday on April 30, followed closely by their anniversary, and my grandma's birthday with Mother's Day always close in proximity, my heart is just a tender mess. 

I long for the times when I knew I could always go home. I long for a time where I felt I belonged no matter what circumstances spiraled around me.

I was dreading today. Like absolutely dreading it. I have a propensity to be thoroughly let down. No matter how much I try to lower my expectations, it never seems to be low enough.

I hit snooze a few times this morning. By the time I was coherent, I only had 20 minutes before my friends were supposed to pick me up for church. I was feeling uneasy. So much so that my stomach hurt.

So, I pulled the covers back over my head and tried to go back to sleep. When the mister arrived home from work, I decided to get up.

Both mister and the boy were asking me questions and talking jovially, but no one uttered the three words I was waiting to hear. Even if they felt forced or rushed, I would have been okay with that.

When the tears spilled and I couldn't stop them despite my best efforts, I decided to get dressed and go to work.

It felt good to get out of the house. After about four hours, I decided to head back home.

By then, the oldest was up. He asked me if I had talked to grandma. Clearly he knew what today was. I waited, but he never said the three words.

Rebellious hot tears slid down my cheeks. I didn't want them to see me cry. And at this point, I was honestly beginning to get angry. Like crazy mad. The kind of mad that stems from a deep hurt.

I mean, I am not by any stretch of the imagination a perfect mom. But, by golly, I have always tried my best. I work incredibly hard to provide for my family. And saying those three words wouldn't cost them a thing.

Exasperated, I left again. I drove across town and back again. I ended up at the Goodwill. I walked around until after the sun set and then made my way back to my car.

I sat there feeling totally sorry for myself. And I cried some more {I think I have cried more today than I have all year}. Then, some movement across the way caught my attention. I looked across the street. Under the Flamingo Antique Mall was a middle-aged woman. She was spreading out her blankets, shaking them with a flourish, and laying them on the concrete in the doorway.

I began to wonder if she was a mother, or if she had a family. How many beds had she made for her little ones, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for that matter.

Then I saw an elderly woman next to her. She was setting up her blankets next to the other lady. I mustered up some nerve and took out all the cash I had in my wallet, although it wasn't much, and crossed the street.

I greeted the first lady uneasily and handed her some bills. She thanked me. I walked over to the elderly lady and did the same. She looked at me with big, gray eyes that were quite similar to my grandmother's and mine {I always marveled at the fact that my eyes resembled my grandmother's even though we didn't share the same DNA}.

She took the money, but didn't have much to say. She seemed confused by my presence, her eyes carefully studying me. She wore an oversize pea coat  and men's tennis shoes that were at least four sizes too big for her. I noticed that she wore a wedding ring and a dainty watch. I again wondered about her family. How many babies did she raise? Why was this sweet woman on the streets?

Cici, the name of first lady, said that she watched out for the older one. After all, she had said that there was word of a rapist in the area, and the older one had been jumped before by some juvenile delinquents.

Suddenly, my pity party seemed so insignificant. I wasn't alone. I wasn't on the streets. I hadn't been beaten up by anyone. I have so many people who love me. The mister and my boys, even though they can act like selfish assholes sometimes, love me even if they have a lousy way of showing it. Let's face it, we can all act like assholes sometimes.

And as I walked back to get into my car and drive to my home where it is warm and safe, the three words that occupied my heart, the three words that I think I really needed to hear today were not "Happy Mother's Day," but the reminder to LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

So, at the end of this day {which I am glad is coming to a close}, I have a headache and swollen, red eyes along with the reminder to live a life of love and that is always done best when there aren't any expectations.

On the eve of my grandma's birthday, a woman who demonstrated what sacrificial love looked like with her every day actions, I am  grateful for the impact she had on my life.

And tomorrow, until my tomorrows are no more, is another day to practice loving one another.

Easter Eve

It is Easter Eve. I walked up to the cross atop Mount Rubidoux this morning and came home in a pensive mood. I took some time to ponder on this Holy Saturday.

And sometimes this world is too noisy. Harsh. The older I get, the more introverted I become. No, really. It's true.

And sometimes we need to be silent.

It was the eve of the Sabbath. The others had fled in fear. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus retrieved Jesus' body, wrapped it, and laid Jesus in a garden tomb. The tomb was sealed.

And what of that Sabbath? What of the disciples and their dismay? I wonder if Jesus' words came flooding back to their memory. He told them that they would weep and mourn while the world rejoices, but their grief would turn to joy.

I wonder if, in their devastation, they thought he was a liar. Because how could joy replace this grief? How could anything good, anything redemptive, ever be birthed from death?

And we know what they did not. We know how this story ends.

So tomorrow, I will put on my pretty Easter dress and when someone says to me, "He is Risen!" I will reply, "He is Risen, indeed!" And I will sing hymns and songs of praise.

But, I will not forget the dark, Black Saturdays where we struggle with all of the in-betweens of this life. Where in the darkness, in the waiting, in the doubting, we come to find a faith birthed out of grief.

You see, there is no other way to get from Friday to Sunday with all of its revelry, than through Saturday.

Of Rain and Roots

I told the mister that rain was coming. You see, I like to check the weather forecast via the internet several times a day. I check out the current weather, tomorrow's forecast, and even take a peek at the ever-changing ten day forecast.

So, after the drizzle early Tuesday quickly dissipated, the mister, while running errands together, would look at the sunny sky with fluffy clouds and say things, like: "Boy, I'm sure glad it was going to rain." {lucky for him, I can appreciate a snarky sense of humor}

But we needed the rain. I needed the rain.

So let’s know Him; let’s strive to know the Eternal.
    As surely as the sun rises, He’ll come out from His lair.
As surely as the rains come each year—
    those spring rains that drench the earth—He’ll come back to us. Hosea 6:3

And I had so many plans to dig deep this Lent. And, per usual, I end up feeling like a failure because I don't. 

After church on Sunday, I took Mason outside for a walk. We looked at the flowers and the bricks. We came to a mature tree that had some leaves on the ground. I stooped down, Mason's hand in mine, to pick up one of the leaves that had fallen and was taken aback by the roots of this particular tree. The root system was a jumbled mess of a mass of roots with roots above the ground, beneath the ground, and overlapping every which way. 

And I immediately thought that I was like this tree. I saw these wayward roots as a woven tapestry of grace.

Because my life isn't always rooted in Him like I need it to be, like we need the rains to sustain us. My roots don't always grow straight down by the streams. They are not always established. They are a mess.

And it's messy, this life. It speaks of the grace we so desperately need. And sometimes I just clumsily feel my way through it and end up back at the surface when I should be digging deep. Going low to the places that matter. But, there is still life in the learning and growing, and such beauty in that tapestry of grace.

Some time during the night, I woke up to the sound of rain. It was the rain in which I was waiting; the rain my heart was anticipating. It was such a lovely sound. I sleepily smiled and mouthed, "Thank you."

To me, it sounded like grace.

Mi Corazón

I said I wanted to write more this year. I have said a lot of things in my life. And when the feeling isn't there, it is hard for this feel-y girl to fake it. It is hard to pretend. Pretending isn't authentic to me.

And it felt scary to not be drawn in, to not really seek Him out. It felt uncomfortable to be in a valley and not even look for a path leading somewhere else. Anywhere else.

It was more like a, "I don't feel you, and I suck at faking it and pretending, but I'll try, and I hope you will meet me there. Wherever 'there' may be." And so it went. And I was numb. So numb.

Numb from being treated abominably by so-called Christians. Numb from lack of community, and just really tired of trying to find something different. Anything.

Then, on Saturday morning, there was an unexpected knock at my door. I opened the door to find two women with their Bibles and pamphlets. The older woman greeted me in Spanish. I, mostly from habit, responded in my poor, broken Spanish. She seemed amused, and kept speaking to me solely in Spanish, even taking the time to correct my tense. She opened her Bible to the book of John and read several verses there. She kept pointing emphatically, and even though I didn't understand all of what she was reading, she needed to know that I understood. I was initially at a loss, then I spoke it without even thinking: "Jesús es mi corazón."

Jesus is my heart.

And He is. Even when I don't feel Him, He's there. Always there. Inextricable.

And I will need to be reminded from time to time, because I am a sentimental, feel-y girl. And I expect that I will always struggle with church, but I am beginning to see that there is value from that tension, and a unique desire from this bruised heart of mine to love those who are wounded. To just love. Unapologetically. Like Jesus.

And even as I type this, I really want to move forward. I really want to move on, because I have been here long enough.

And it's time.

It is time.

And I am ready.

Sometimes....

It was Saturday. The mister was at work before dawn. I had planned to sleep in, but I woke up early. I filled  my five-cup coffee pot with water from the tap and the Christmas blend I had left over from 2012. The weather reports had been predicting a warming trend. I opened the front door. The sun was brightly shining and the fresh air was clean and crisp. I breathed it in deep. The lone glitter wreath sparkled where it was carelessly hung on the door. It was the only festive item I had out, and it happened by default as I had found it while rearranging the dining area.

Sometimes you don't see the stagnant until you touch the fresh anew.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and went outside. It was a quiet morning. The skies were bright blue with a few scattered clouds. I sat in silence on an old, weathered bench in the front yard. I closed my eyes as the heat of the sun kissed my face and warmth of the Son touched my soul. Then the sun hid behind some passing clouds, and the breeze turned instantly cool.

And sometimes you don't realize what was hidden until it is found again.

For most people, Christmas is just one day; Christmastide (the Twelve Days of Christmas) is not observed. I think most people spend December 26 trying to clean up Christmas and subsequently fill the recycling bin with discarded wrapping paper. This year, I am anxious to slowly unwrap it. To delve deeper. It's a real page-turner, you know. So, I spent some time reading about Saint Stephen {today is his feast day}. He was the first Christian martyr. He was a deacon who served faithfully. He called the Sanhedrin out on their crap: "And you continue, so bullheaded! Calluses on your hearts..." from Acts 7. And it's meant for me, too.

Sometimes grace, the kind that sent a babe here for the cross, hits you hard and busts open the stagnant places in your heart. And you realize the One was not hidden after all.

{And this post feels unfinished, yet I have nothing else to say. As I sit here, quietly listening to Christmas hymns, I somehow think it is exactly how it's meant to be}

Happy Christmastide. xo. Jadie

Christmas {deconstructed}

This Christmas has wrecked me. The kind of wrecking that hits hard and forever changes you. I have been so blissful, so content. Early in the Advent season, joy filled my days with family and friends and laughter as cherished memories were forged. Then it happened, interspersed with the baking, the Christmas tea, the caroling, and all of the festivities, came the grief.

The grief came when a sweet friend's father passed away, and I grieved for all of those in mourning.

The grief came when I read about a precious baby girl in Haiti who died of pneumonia, and I grieved for all of the mothers who lose their babies to preventable diseases and treatable illnesses.

The grief came when I saw the tag hanging on the cheap, artificial tree inside the Coco's from a boy, age 7, who asked for socks and a coat before a toy, and I grieved for all the children who are cold.

The grief came when I received an email from a friend who has a heart for (and has served) Ojos Negros and the pastor who serves this poverty-stricken community, where a four year old girl was found in charge of her two younger siblings, without food, while their mother was away at work, and I grieved for those without food and care.

And the culminating meltdown happened while I was sitting in the car in the Target parking lot. Silent tears that ran hot down my cheeks turned into shoulder-shaking sobs. Our tight budget wouldn't allow us to purchase much for extended family and friends, and I didn't want to get just whatever. So, I didn't.

And there is nothing wrong with giving gifts, but this year, for me, I heeded the nudge to give differently. After all, my dad doesn't need another plaid flannel, and my mom doesn't need any more tchotchkes. I decided to use my Christmas budget, as small as it was, to give. To give to different charities that are making a real difference.

I came across this quote by Mother Teresa this week: "It is Christmas every time you let God love others through you. Yes, it is Christmas every time you smile at your brother and offer him your hand."

And this is why the weary world rejoices.

{My friend, Dave, is traveling to Ojos Negros sometime in the first half of January. For approximately $10, a care package of beans, rice, masa, sugar, oil, and coffee can be assembled and distributed to help combat hunger this winter. Want to give a small gift that will make a big difference? Ask me for more info/contact information.}

Merry Christmas. xo.

Come What May

It has been about three and a half months since I have written anything. It is surprising how quickly the time seems to go by. In some ways, I feel as if I am not the same person anymore. I have grown a lot over these past months. And through the stretching and the growing, I have come to recognize with even more clarity how much more growing I have still ahead of me. In the meantime, I am holding tightly onto the grace that covers me. Imperfect, hopelessly flawed me.

This year, I haven't joined in on the "30 Days of Thanksgiving Challenge" posts on Facebook as I have done the last few years. But, I am so thankful, even if I am not posting it daily on FB. I am even thankful for the hard things because it's going through those things that cause me to pause. And when I pause, I can see how all of the struggles - the hard, stretching things - shape and mold. And each chisel strike might be painful, but when the healing comes, I am ultimately more whole.

So, without further ado, here is a list (not comprehensive by any means) of things in which I am thankful. So, so thankful.

• Grace. The grace that Jesus gives. Grace extended to others. And learning to be gentle and give myself grace as well. 
• My mister. He recently told me that he is happier than he has been in at least ten years and my heart swelled. And for the fact that we haven't given up after all these years. He has been so supported as of late. What can I say? After 23 years, I'm still smitten. 

• My boys. And all the ways in which being their mom has shaped me. Their health. Their future. They're amazing. 
• My friends who are part of my crazy family. The shoulders that have helped bear the burdens and been soaked in tears. My comic relief. My cheerleaders. My confidants. My kindred spirits who tell it like it is when I need to be reminded. 

• Those friends who have walked away, and by doing so have helped me to learn (and I am still learning) how to let go and to wish them well. 
• Creating new memories and accomplishing new things, like completing my first 5K. 

I am just genuinely content and hopeful. And I haven't felt that way in a very long time. This wild, messy life is a gift from God. And in remembering that, there is joy. Such joy. Come what may.