Pint-sized Enemies

It’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m pounding down bites of cold steak from off my dinner plate when the word that comes out of my mouth to describe my current state is “seething.” Oh, is that what I am? Obviously there’s a problem here.

Out of the overflow right? Well, what I’m overflowing with right now is hot injured anger.

“I’m just so sick of being treated like crap,” I say. “I am so COMPLETELY done. I am done-er than done. I am over it, all of it. Find my replacement.”

Matt’s listening. God bless him. So I keep purging. And then the hot tears come; the disappointed heartbroken truth rises like steam from my boiling lips. Honesty’s first impression is almost always an unlovely one.

“It’s just that I let her get to me. I know that I shouldn’t let her get to me. But how can you give someone everything- all your energy, all your attention, all your love, and still just get handed disrespect and the crappiest sort of CRAP. I don’t even like her right now. I don’t want to wake up to her tomorrow because I don’t even LIKE being around her, and I can’t remember how to get back to where we were. Am I making any sense?!”

He’s nodding, but his face is quiet. I’m begging for noise and amens and loud agreement. “Complete sense,” he gives me.

These are things you aren’t supposed to say out loud about your two year old daughter. Things you absolutely aren’t supposed to publish. Shhhhhh!!! you rotten bad feelings about my offspring, just sshhhhh. Keep it down before someone sees you!

Who is the best at keeping all the thoughts, feelings, musings, ramblings, etc… stuffed deep down inside? Not this lady, and definitely not when I’m with my guy. This scene is in some ways typical. When Matt and I are in the room alone I tend toward explosive weepiness and much hand gesturing, letting the “I can’ts” fly around willy nilly. Remarkably though, one solitary “Mommy?” can cut through my funk and put a cork on it all in the strangest sort of way. Matt calls this my game face.

Did I mention that it’s the day after Mother’s Day? Awesome.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you…” (Matt 5:43-48)

Who’d have imagined that the Tiny Humans I bore in my own body would be the truest enemies I’ve yet to encounter? Who knew my firstborn could strike me down so completely? -that her disobedience, disrespect, ingratitude, and selfishness could lay me out.

Cursed? Hated? Spitefully used? Persecuted? Yes, yes, and yes again.

Motherhood is brutal. Tonight I am bruised and floundering, struggling to find the Spirit so He can bandage me up.

I know the right answer. I know that the answer is love. I know that the way to fix this, the way to be the grown-up, the light to my Little Lost One is to choose to get closer instead of running. But everything in my being is screaming DANGER!! I can feel it in my muscles, my bones, my face. This pain is so deep it’s showing up in my posture. She’s only going to hurt you. She’s dangerous to love, violent and selfish and not to be trusted with your heart.

And then the truth:

Aren’t we all?

But Love…

He chooses to come close- impossibly close. He offers to step inside our dry violent selfish bones, to pour cool Life water and tender whispers of nearness all over every bit of it. Jesus came to this stinking murderous planet, coming close and then even closer to His beloved- though loving us was sure to kill Him.

“Arise Little Girl.” (Mark 5:41)

Love is here. He has come for you when you were nothing, but a pile of death. Now live, Little One, and don’t be afraid.

“For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:6-8)

On things like sleep and showers

Almost seven years ago when my boyfriend and best bud of six years was getting ready to take the eternal plunge, pledging never to leave or forsake me (such a brave boy), my mother handed down to him just one piece of advice:

“If Jo’s suddenly being grumpy, irrational, and unusually weepy? She’s probably tired, but she has no idea. You need to find a way to tell her gently (and carefully), Honey, have you gotten enough sleep lately? Do you think you’re maybe just tired? And then put her to bed. Talk about important things AFTER she rests.”

How is it that mothers are so universally wise about such things?!

Now if just any old pair of people had had this conversation about any old person it may have come across as condescending. But being that these two love me even though they know oh-so-many more of my flaws than I’m comfortable with, and that this conversation took place while I was in the room at a volume I was intended to hear, AND that this is me they were talking about, no offense was taken. As you may have guessed this wasn’t exactly news.

It’s been one of my mother’s life long goals to get me to recognize when I’ve reached the end of myself and to give in to The Sleep.

The thing of it is I just NEED it.

And not just any kind of sleep will do. Sleep and I, we have a very specific arrangement- same bed, same pillows, same fan, same level of darkness, same teddy bear (yes he made it into the marriage bed) etc etc. I’m a 9 pm to 9 am girl if you want the best version. So yeah, that one time when I wept like an overtired toddler on the shores of the Delaware after a youth group overnight canoe trip for no reasonable reason??

Take away my sleep and I can no longer cope with life.

Having finally cracked the code on the exponential happiness and functionality a good night’s sleep added to my life, in college, sleep actually became my new favorite thing to do. My darling roommate would go out after dark with friends on any given weeknight. Me? Homework done, cup of tea, nothing else to do and it’s 9pm? Glory!! It is bedtime!

And then came the babies.

So on days like today when I say I’m tired, I mean I am extremely, chronically, haven’t slept in years, in the hole, TIRED. Yes I know- not exactly surprising coming from the mother of an almost three year old and a five month old. But what I’ve just gone to great lengths to explain to you is that this is very VERY bad. The very hand of God must be steering this ship on a moment to moment basis. Because how else have all four of us survived these extreme sleep deprivation soaked days? Angels I tell you. Very tired, very kind angels keeping this boat afloat.

Not surprisingly, round two of motherhood has included some very real cracking. I’m talking the wide open, nice-to-meet-you-I’m-absolutely-off-my-rocker-right-now kind. The husband used to be surprised, now I can see it in his face as the hysteria is thickening, it’s this kind of Oh no I’m losing her. Yup, there she goes…

Which is why when I got out of bed at 3 am the other morning, tried to settle the baby, then gave up, and got in the shower it took him several minutes to collect himself and confront the crazy.

Except just this one time I was operating as clear as a kettle.

I was mid-mothering, so stinking tired, trying to hold it together when suddenly it was like you know what? I haven’t showered in a really REALLY long time. And I’m a person, and a person needs to shower now and then.

Because here’s the thing. I am really super good at going it alone. In fact, I can go it alone so far and for so long that I don’t even realize I’ve got no go left in me. Add on top of this the whole but-Jesus-wants-us-to-be-smiley-sacrificial-mothers-of-perfection thing, and I will carry all four of us on my back down a hill with a giant plastic smile on my face for an unreasonable length of time. All the while my poor husband is gently trying to flag me down (from above mind you, atop the load I’m now hauling). But I’m all “No no. I’ve got this silly, you just stand back and watch me be a super wonderful housecleaning, child-rearing, food cooking, boss of the world machine.”

Problems? Yes, I’ve got a few.

Not the least of which is my tendency to hear the smallest sigh, a slight pause before Matt jumps to my aid as some sort of lapse of love or loyalty. At which point, my mother takes over my body, and I start being all “Fine. I’ll just do it myself.” Bad, bad, bad.

And then the sweet kind Lord breaks through my headstrong heart at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, giving me permission to exist. He calls attention to all the things I’m shouldering that are just not mine to handle (um hello, the emotional/physical/spiritual well-being of your husband and two small children?!).

Just stop. Go take a shower, love.

Being a mother is beautiful. The work is lasting. Some days I’m so thankful to be here with them in our tiny kitchen dancing like a fool, eating strawberries and dipping veggies in hummus that I spill out laughter and joy all over.

But the name of the game is balance.

If I lose myself, who’s going to dance with my babies, who’s going to tickle them til they cry. The more hungry, angry, lonely, or tired I get (or some sick combination of all four) the less of me there is to give. I hardly know what balance looks like right now so this is not going to sound insightful or full of wisdom. I am completely in the middle of learning this lesson.

What I do know is that JoLynn needs to write to exist. JoLynn needs to bake to exist. She needs to kiss her husband, to sing all day, and yeah she needs to shower when she’s dirty, change her shirt when it smells like puke, and sleep whenever she can. She also needs to stop it with the God-complex, and allow the beautiful man by her side to be the daddy and husband he was made to me.

So I found myself standing in the shower at 3 a.m. just because I wanted to, and that Divine permission to “be” became a precious whisper right to the heart of all my weariness. And there was just one glorious truth washing me inside and out- that even in this place, this jammed packed season of sacrifice, there is REST to be had.

There is rest to be had even here- if I want it.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.       (Matt 11:29-30)

A Nurse in the Night

It happened after the third wake up of the night for the Littlest one. Same old routine: nurse, nurse, nurse. Attempt number one to put her down. A botched dismount followed by unhappy flailing, quiet whimpering, and then full on flustered begging for my arms when she feels the cot beneath her. Nurse, nurse, nurse. Attempt number two. Careful now mama. Smooth transition of slumbering Nugget. Hand on back for five minutes.

I more or less hurl myself back under the covers because apparently it’s one of those nights where sleeping without pants means being super snuggy beneath the blankets and frozen as soon as you’re out from beneath them.

It feels like a blink before the next nursing, and then it’s Daddy’s shift. He must have been up pretty late tonight because even in his delirium he manages a chuckle when I tell him she’s ready to play.

This is when my Biggest Girl finds me, rolling the width of our bed in search of the warm body she senses is gone. But when she lands on me, the heat of her small hand finding mine in the dark makes me jump awake.

She’s way too warm. Our thermometer confirms it. There’s something about the radiating hotness of a fever that always sets you fierce to mothering.

One moment I’m wearily working, internally begging the child to sleep, self-focused, sleep-desperate and the next I’m a wide awake woman with a sick child who needs tending to. All at once militarized and softened to my baby’s whimpering. It’s remarkable really. Where does that strength come from?

There’s this timelessness to it. Your arms feel ancient and wise when they’re holding your sick baby.

This body of mine suddenly creaking and achey, feeling the wear and tear of what my mom calls “repeat offenders,” the one that couldn’t stand one more minute of consciousness, now it’s carrying my forty pound Darling down the stairs to the bathroom where the running shower steams to soothe an unruly coughing fit.

I don’t care if she pukes in my hair because I just want to be near her.

I call Daddy to get her the apple juice she’s sputtering for between coughs because the way she’s saying Mama is begging me not to leave her.

Standing watching the water run she leans her full weight back against my chest now and then saying Mommy like she’s declaring it, that I’m really there.

It’s the sickness that pulls us close. My little Bigness so full of sass most days that it’s hard to tell if we really like one another.

But then the sick falls, and I am weak with affection for this very small person. Her offenses vanish. Her rebellion? inconsequential. Her bad attitude this morning about her second bowl of cheerios because she waited to long to eat the first so it got “TOO MUSHY!!!” ? None of it matters.

She is sick and she is mine, and that’s all there is.

And I hear Love reminding me that He calls Himself our Abba Daddy, and in the dark of night, in the thick our sickness, He tells us not to be afraid.

I’ve been learning since I’ve been given these two Littles to care for that any of the love I find welling up in me- it was all Love Himself’s first. He designed it, intentioned it’s spilling over onto each other the way that it does, the when and how that it does…

And there’s Jesus speaking life into things we can’t see, reminding us of who Love is, astounding us with the kind of heart The Maker has for those He’s made.

He answers those openly criticizing the super gross state of His beloved ones:

“And when Jesus heard it, He said to them, Those who are strong and well have no need of a physician, but those who are weak and sick; I came not to call the righteous ones to repentance, but sinners (the erring ones and all those not free from sin). – Mark 2:17 AMP

I guarantee you that Jesus would have held my snot covered hand while I puked in his hair. He would have held me close while I cried boogey ridden tears all over him, the God Man.

And let’s not forget about the way he touches the contagious outcast leper with his bare hands, how he helps the lame man to his feet and empowers him to walk, how he opens the blind man’s eyes by mixing mud with his own spit (a little gross, yes. But effective, and oh so intimate), how he tenderly speaks life over death in a small girl…

The Lord unabashedly clings to those who are anything but lovely- to the small sick rebels everywhere. Not once we’re cleaned up and presentable, ready to be put to good Christian use, but when we’re stinky and gross and sick.

His love is fierce, complete, and without apology- even in the middle of the night.

Talking Crazy

There are lots of things I wish I hadn’t said to my husband.

This guy, he’s heard it all. All the ugliest overflow from my unkempt heart, because you see, the “me” he fell in love with was that broken and battered teenage version still grappling with all the wrong in the world, in her parents, in herself…it was not even a little bit pretty.

I was an expert manipulator, my mother tongue a sharp biting fire that could cut a person in half, and walk away feeling justified, even relieved, for having been honest. That’s how we do it in my family. We inherit a passionate position on our opinion, the boldness to speak it like it’s gospel, and the venom to lay it all out there regardless of the devastating blows dealt the listener. We’re a “scream it out as fast as you can and over top of one another if you have to” sort of family.

My sweet husband’s family of origin? They specialize in what I call the “baseball and weather” kind of conversation. A very together, very polite, very private bunch. Needless to say, I was a bit of a shock to the system. And because of his upbringing (and his genuinely good and kind nature) my guy is an AMAZING listener, which I’m sure made all the funk I flung at him in the early years even harder to stomach- because he caught it, every word.

Every now and then he or I will notice the tempered mellowed honey behind my words and remark on how it’s one of the clearest evidences that the Holy Spirit is refining me.

So when recently I felt this burning rising hunk of ugly honesty lurking just below my surface, it was all I could do to choke it down. But this mess had been hanging out there a long time and was getting desperate to be heard. The thing was, I wasn’t sure how she’d act if I aired her out and let her run a-muck in my marriage so I stuffed her down, hushed her up, and tried to move forward. Part of me was too afraid to fall back into injuring this boy who I love with the thoughts and the fears and the feelings building up inside. And then there’s that whole holding it together thing I’m way to proud to let go of. Silly girl, always trying to look strong, to seem capable- lingering leftovers from the “men are stupid; you’re better off with a bunch of cats if you’re lonely” talks my tired working mama would dish out over that tacky green table in the kitchen of our trailer.

I was moving forward alright, But this mess of fears and lies and ick, before I even knew it, it was wedging itself between us, growing larger and wider until I felt too far away.  Playing it back now it’s so obvious where it was headed: first the bitterness, then the critical judging of his motives and thoughts toward me, next the hypersensitive responses to every little thing that he did or said, and suddenly I’m planning my life without him and daydreaming of a way out.

And then all at once it was like Someone said loudly, “HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DEALING WITH. HOW CAN HE BE WITH YOU IN IT IF HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW?!”

Good point, Voice. You have me there.

And so I reached this sort of wall, the I-can’t-take-it-anymore kind, followed by an inevitable (and terrifying) emotional pukage of all the funk in my system I’d been holding in. Something you need to know about me to get the full affect here: my absolute least favorite feeling in the entire world is right before you’re about to throw up, but there’s no way you can stop it so you’re just waiting for your body to do something you don’t want it to do. It makes me cry to this day. (Clearly I have a bit of a control problem to sort out. And yes, me being an adult is really only a technicality.)

Oh, the honesty. It was like a horrific flood.

But this time, the truth was healing me. It was healing us. It was so very different.

These words weren’t flowing from a place of pride and retribution, they weren’t bitter or biting- they weren’t totally perfect either. But what they were was REAL. I was being really messy, really scared, really vulnerable, and really honest about all of it. I was asking for help, asking to be seen. And I’m standing in my kitchen clutching the edge of the sink begging this Man I’d loved and wounded with my words as a boy to find me beneath my words. I’m trusting him to sort out the scared girl he loves from all the muck, to choose to keep me close.

And here’s the beautiful part. When the purging had subsided, and I had thrown all the terrible awful weak shaking messy pieces of myself at my Love? He was still standing. In the kitchen. By my side. Resolute and clinging to our covenant in all the places that I couldn’t.

Did I scare him with the “no really, you have no idea how badly I want to run away right now and never come back” confessions? Absolutely. Was it messy and brutal to bare all that ugly? Oh yeah. But you know what? When it was over, I was free. I mean really free.

Because that’s what Covenant Love does. It busts open wide with messy honesty, tears down the walls of image and self-protection and pride. Two people wading in their messes, raw with imperfection- naked, but miraculously unashamed.

I’m struck by just how other-wordly the whole idea is. That we could cling to each other, ugliness and all, lean in and let lose, let all the nastiness rise to the surface, never having to let fear have a say in the matter.

What a reflection of the Holy One and how He loves his wandering Bride through the thickness and the thinness of her reciprocal love.

When I am selfish and absent, raging and fearful- He loves me. When I am devoted and kind, filled to overflowing with sacred joy and peace- He loves me.

He loves me because I am His, and because I am His, He knows me. The God of the universe has decided to come to this stinky broken planet, to “be with” me, and wonder of all wonders? He’s declared me (mess that I am) His beloved one. Even crazier? This sparkling new identity it’s fixed and immovable, positioned as permanently as that moment in history when Love’s arms reached all the way across a vicious tree, all the way into death itself so that I could know Him and be known by Him.

“And in that day, declares the LORD, you will call me ‘My Husband,’ and no longer ‘My Master…’ And I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love and in mercy. I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord.” (Hosea 2:16,19-20)

First be weak.

So you want to be healthy and whole? First, be weak.

That, beloved, I can work with. You want life abundantly, more than you can hold? Hand over all you’ve got. “Those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” You want joy, dear one? “This is my commandment, that you love one another that your joy may be full.” That’s right, get your love on girl, and your joy will fill right up to the tippy top. Bend down- all the way down- and pick up that love. Did I mention it’s cross-shaped and hurts like hell? But I have walked this walk before you. And I promise you, on the other side of this death dance there is life worth tasting. I am FOR you little one. Now the real question is do you trust Me?

Not exactly where I was expecting to start off on this journey.

Here I was feeling all jubilant and giddy after the last post, full of hope and expectation, and then it’s like BAM! Oh hello air-stealing, mind-numbing, movement-halting fears! Who let you in?

The biggest one: what if I can’t actually pull this off? What if there’s not enough love left in my day to do the things I love- no time to write, no energy to play or to chase down this vision?! Oh no there won’t be enough love left! Ahhhh. Quick, hoard all the love and freak out!!

But you see love and fear, they’re not exactly pals. They literally cannot inhabit the same space. Even our bodies know it. Here’s my “birthy” bit for the day: A woman in labor who’s feeling loved and safe actually, factually, statistically (I’m not making this up) has a faster and smoother delivery, why? because love always brings life. Fear? Fear bears down on life and makes it hurt.

So it’s no wonder that when that big scary fear was screaming at me it was as if someone had sucked all the grace right out of my atmosphere. It buried me. This mommy of two, wife of one, endless caretaker, meal maker, laundry sorter suddenly held a load that felt too heavy- I’m talking soul crushing.

Weak, weak, weak. The weakest I’ve felt since I can remember. And in this trembling empty place- there’s always His voice. Clear and quick to pluck me out the second I’ve thrown up my arms.

Do I trust Him? Do I remember?

“He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him.” (Matt 27:42)

It wasn’t that He couldn’t. It’s that He didn’t, because He wouldn’t. He loved us too much to hoard all the life for Himself. He wanted us too much to keep living without us.

Love’s invited me to join him- in the dying, in the trusting, in the pouring out of all I’ve got for the sake of those around me, those He’s given me to love. Brand new life on the other side baby. Just past where you can see.

And He is as good as He is wise, because with death in the rearview comes freedom- the truest kind of freedom- and all that you can drink.

What 27 Looks Like

Birthdays are my very favorite.

I have a countdown. I daydream, I scheme, I wonder… what super special deliciousness will we eat, where will I go, who will be thoughtful and surprising and wonderful. I just really love birthdays. Probably a teeny bit more than is reasonable for a (now) 27 year old.

So at noon today when I’m laugh-crying LOUDLY and rapid firing super lame replacement cuss words for the sake of the accompanying two year old because a thorn-like dagger of death and doom has wedged itself between the fragile skin of my index finger and the nail, what do I do?

I call an adult.

“Hi daddy, I know I’m 27 now and all, but I have the worst splinter ever and it’s…”

“No sweat babe. Be right there.”

Hello, my name is JoLynn, and I’m a twenty seven year old child.

(sidenote: I probably have the coolest daddy in the history of the world.)

This was not my first clue that this particular birthday was going to be less than glamorous. In fact, by 8 am this morning I was sure we were on the fast track to disaster. After a ROUGH five (that’s right FIVE) night wakings from my four month old, she woke up with a raspy cry and her very first cold. Prior to which my sweet angel baby toddler decided to finally push her father to the bedtime routine brink. All you need to know about that situation is that at 10 pm she was playing in her room alone, lights on, all smiles while he and I pep-talked, tough-talked, and somewhat pathetically tried to outline a battle plan for regaining control of our evenings, downstairs on the couch, totally dreading the coming hours.

Good morning birthday world!

By 11am today I was praying the “Oh Jesus, please keep my head on straight today.” prayer. “Please help me not to get all pouty and disappointed if this is just a good old-fashioned really rough mommy of two Littles sort of day, a nothing special sort of day.”

Now the thing you need to know about my Abba is that He listens to me.

He also knows me, and how I feel about my birthdays.

And there’s also this new thing that’s been happening. I don’t know what it is about this past year, but all at once the passing birthdays, anniversaries, new years are sacred spaces- 24 hour windows into what my life is, what it’s been, where it’s headed.

On these days, I catch these girls of mine growing wild and haphazard, slipping through my fingers like weeds chasing the sun. I find myself biting down on the truth that THIS, all of this, is not forever. The chubby baby kisses, the spit up down my back, the blessedness of taking a shower on my birthday (because I smell now), the half-had speaker phone conversations over toddler ramblings and requests, the toy treacherous living spaces, the one bedroom living situation, the scripture debunking and dissecting with my daddy- this time next year? a few months from now? Memories.

Time is tricky business.

Far from ringing morbid or hollow, the sacredness of today moved me… further on in my lifespan? Well yeah. But more than that I felt it nudging me onward, upward…

I think it happened this afternoon when we were outside poking around in the empty wooded lot next door- me and my daddy, each of us holding one of Big Sister’s hands, all three huddled in our sweatshirts that were just thin enough to let the spring cold in and make us adult types wish we’d stayed inside. The rain had started just moments after I’d promised Big Sister we’d go out to play. So here we were, mussing about in the dead leaves, kicking earth aside with our feet on a bottle hunt, listening to my dad talk about how he loved to hunt for history in bottles and broken things as a boy. And I’m hearing the wonder, watching him share it, feeling the hope for adventure in my own small soul. I want it. I want to be thirsty for something like that.

I want to explore and to play- to create something beautiful and to stand back and enjoy it.

I know that it’s because it’s my birthday that everything in me- all these hushed places- they want to live. They’re claiming life, almost without my permission. And it’s crazy how this happens, but I start writing in my head. I need to write. I start putting words together as if on a page and my fingers feel itchy like they can’t wait til I’ve had a moment without a baby in my arms.

This is what twenty-seven looks like.

It looks like choosing to be childish.

It looks like choosing to play- not because it makes me a good mom.

I’m talking about playing because it’s FUN.

It looks like becoming a mama who honors the gifts and the passions and the pent-up creator deep inside by making space to be a maker, a player, a lover of the things I was made to love. It looks like blessing these women in training with a mom that is healthy and whole- a woman who serves them with her whole heart because she’s nourished it and tended to it’s joy first.

It’s time to dust off the JoLynn at the center of this tired, haggard, serving, weary, mama self and to bless her with some fresh air.

Twenty seven is my Mary of Bethany year. My year to choose the better part, the part that delights me deep deep down to where it can’t help but well back up. May it place me at Jesus’s feet, soaking up his face and his voice and his presence, for no other reason than for the Love.