Happy 13th Birthday, Jackson!

Dear Jackson,

This birthday is one for the history books. I sincerely doubt (and fervently hope!) that you'll ever have another birthday in your lifetime spent in lock down during a worldwide pandemic. Thanks to the COVID19/Coronavirus that's affecting our entire world, we've been isolating for about two weeks now.

About a week ago, I realized this birthday wouldn't be like any you've had before and I better come up with a plan to make it as special as possible given the circumstances. Since most businesses are closed (except for restaurant take out), we wouldn't be able to plan any sort of outing to an event or even just to take the family to the movies. So I messaged pretty much everyone I know, asking them to help by sending a card or a letter to celebrate your birthday. Your friends came through big time!

Mail started showing up a few days before your birthday, so I kept it hidden until the morning of your birthday. Your first delivery actually came when your friend Kyle dropped off a card and gift on the front porch. You opened it to find a pottery lizard. You were so excited that Kyle remembered! I told you about a bunch of other letters waiting for you to open, so we all gathered around the kitchen table to watch you read them all.

There were letters from your cousins and your aunts and uncles, your grandparents, your neighbors, church friends, your sister's friends, your school buddies, and even former teachers. The smile on your face was radiant, as if you couldn't believe how much people love you. The letters were full of funny drawings, jokes, stickers, quite a few batches of candy, cash (whoa!), and - best of all - lots and lots of words of love and good wishes for the year to come. Here are some of the things people said to you:

• "Keep smiling and keep your energy up. Don't ever lose that. As you grow and change, don't forget who you were as you change into who you are. That journey will teach you and remind you, forever."
• "Don't ever stop being kind, funny, artistic, loving, courageous, God-loving, smart, and hardworking."
• "You are a burst of light, love and joy to our family."
• "God made you special and He made you exactly the way you are on purpose, full of life and kindness."

I feel the same way, Jackson! You are an energetic, loving, deep-feeling, funny, and smart kid. (And handsome, too!)

I could never forget how energetic and loving you are, because it's always so apparent. But sometimes I forget how very deep your feelings can go because it might not always seem that way on the surface. And then you do something like this...

A few months ago, I worked an afternoon shift which means you get home from school when I'm n ot there. As I normally do, I left you a note with your list of chores and items you needed to do. Kind of as a last minute thing, I added "Write me a letter" on your list. I didn't think you'd do it - or if you did, it would be a one sentence note. I pretty much forgot about it until I came home to find you waiting to greet me in your suit blazer, with this letter in your hand.

I read it with tears in my eyes because I had forgotten how deeply your feelings can run, and how observant you are. I didn't even remember we had been having rough mornings recently because, honestly, that's pretty much the norm for you. That letter breathed such life and love into me, and I will cherish it forever.

So, today you are a teenager (as you keep reminding me). You've grown in height and depth and courage. You now have braces, which were an adjustment but you rolled with it. You're just about an eighth grader already, because it looks like you won't be going back to school to finish out seventh grade due to the pandemic. So much change in what feels like a short amount of time, but in reality it's life at the speed of life. Life keeps happening, and you keep Jackson-ing. I can always count on you to be you: the messy, passionate, alive son I love so much.

I hope your 13th birthday has been your best yet!

Love,

Mom

Sweet Sixteen

Dear Katie,

It's impossible for me to comprehend that I am the mother of a SIXTEEN YEAR OLD daughter. I think that's because my 16th year is still so imprinted in my mind. And if I can remember my 16th year, then it wasn't that long ago. Right? Sure...

If my parents were still alive, they would have greeted you on this day with a sly comment like, "Sweet 16 and never been kissed." And you would have rolled your eyes and I would have giggled with you, because we both know you have arrived at 16 with some experience and knowledge you didn't have a year ago. Mostly, it was knowledge you gained in some pretty painful ways.

You learned what it looks like to compromise your beliefs with someone you thought was trustworthy and made promises he never intended to keep.
You learned how to stand by a friend who endured harassment and shame.
You learned how to apologize and repair that friendship, and made vows to yourself about avoiding similar experiences in the future.
You learned what a broken heart feels like and how grief and loss don't happen all at once, but slowly over time.
You learned what it means to stand on your feet again, find your value and worth, and strengthen your faith and relationships.

Every moment you've endured has made you stronger in the long run. Life isn't a sprint for the fastest runner to win, it's an endurance run that sometimes sidelines you, detours you, stretches you, but finds you lean and strong at the finish line.

Katie, you have grown into such a loving, deep-feeling, beautiful soul. You are someone whom Dad and I truly enjoy spending our time with. You make us laugh. You ask the hard questions. And you like to sing in the car with me, too.

This year I realized that the longer I parent, the better I understand how deeply I was loved by my parents. That understanding wasn't something I could grasp when I was being parented; it comes with time. I know you can't grasp it now, but my hope is one day you'll look back on this year and see how wholly and fully loved you were through it.

Even on the hard days when you felt the world rejected you. Even on the dark days when there were more clouds than stars in the sky. Even on the silent days when you didn't want to talk to me, preferring to blame your parents for the unfairness of love and life and friendships.

You've made it so far, baby girl of mine. I'm so proud of you and the person you're growing up to be.

Next up: driving. A car. ALONE. Eeeeeek! (Insert "scary face" emoji here.)

I love you!
Mom

Happy 12th Birthday, Jackson!

Dear Jackson,

I'm dating this letter on your 12th birthday, but I'm not going to divulge the date I actually wrote this. (Hint: quite a few weeks months have passed!) I don't know why I've stalled in this letter writing tradition. It doesn't mean I don't celebrate you and the beginning of a new year together. I think time is simply not my friend these days. It goes too slow when I'm frustrated, and too fast when I'm elated.

For example, this first year of middle school has felt slower than molasses. You don't *quite* love 6th grade, and you make your opinion VERY clear to me in the mornings before school. It's why I stopped waking you and instead allow the Amazon Echo device to do it for me. My mornings are much more survivable when Alexa wakes you up and you yell at her instead of me!

At the same time, this first year of middle school has felt faster than a firework. The things you're learning feel accelerated and hyper-speed. Especially the advanced advanced math class that we pulled you out of after first semester because you don't need to get high school credit in the middle of middle school. (Slow it down, for Pete's sake!)

Over the last year or so, I've been diving into this thing called The Enneagram. It's a personality typology that... well, you can Google it if and when you read these letters one day and become curious. In my Enneagram education, I've had you and your sister take an online test to figure out what your number is. The caution, of course, is that you're too young to be fully one number but you can display certain qualities already that put you in that number's ballpark. So far, your type appears to be a 7, which means you are an enthusiast and an adventurer. Which means we have lots of fun and there are no two days that are the same with you. Which means you also have a hard time staying in the present moment and want to fast forward to next next NEXT!

And if that isn't a perfect description of my life as your mother this past year, I don't know what is. I have a hard time staying in the present moment with you, soaking in the realization of how far you've come in the last 12 years. Instead, I catch myself still doing the "I Can't Wait" dance of:

• I can't wait until Jackson is old enough to ride his bike alone to the next neighborhood over.
• I can't wait until Jackson is old enough to not get so crabby about mornings!
• I can't wait until Jackson is old enough to be in control of his emotions instead of erupting them all over me.
• I can't wait until Jackson is old enough to watch Stranger Things with us.
• I can't wait until Jackson finds his sweet spot in sports, school, reading for pleasure, and hobbies. (I don't think Nerf guns count!)

See what I mean? Molasses and fireworks, slower and faster, always the extremes. So here's hoping for a little more breath and simply being in this coming year: for both you and me!

Happy birthday, my sweet Sugar Boy. Thanks for keeping me on my toes, never letting me wonder whether you adore me or not, and always being ready for a snuggle and a nose boop.

I love you,
Mommy

Happy 14th Birthday, Katie! (Give or Take 48 Days)

Katie,

You've been 14 years old for 48 days now, and I'm just now getting around to writing your birthday letter. Yes, I am definitely in the running for 2017's Worst Mom of the Year Award. Yippee!

There are two reasons I haven't written your annual letter until now:

1. We have been BUSY this summer. (Lame excuse, I know.)

2. I've been staring at you for 48 days now, waiting for this current acceleration to slow down for one cotton-picking minute so I can recover from the whiplash and collect my thoughts. But that hasn't happened yet... and tomorrow is your first (gulp!) unofficial day of high school.* It's Transition Day for 9th graders, also known as The End of Denial for all the freshman mommies.

*Cue all the "oh-my-gosh-where-did-the-time-go" comments, except I know exactly where the time has gone. This link will tell you!

Yes, we are in a turbo growth period this summer. If you don't believe me, let's look at a side-by-side comparison of you on May 28 and July 27.

At first glance, the hair has obviously changed. But look again. Do you see the slight change in the shape of your face? And what's even more apparent to me is the confidence slowly solidifying in your character. Maybe you can't see that in this photo, but I can. And I've witnessed it for the last two months.

It started the first week in June when we were at youth camp together. I got to share an especially holy moment with you and Jesus, and I won't forget it as long as I live. (In fact, this moment will ring into eternity, so I'll be reliving it for a loooong time!)

Your June birthday was also a milestone moment. That night for the first time, we turned on the new patio lights that Daddy installed. We opened your gifts, then had private time with you when Jackson went to bed. We gave you a special ring, talked about your future, then Daddy invited you to dance with him to the song "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran. (I tried not to think of the foreshadowing of this moment, but it was hard to keep my mind from wandering and wondering what your wedding day will be like. That night was the first time I could actually picture it happening one day.)

We went fishing on Father's Day, and I watched you through my camera lens as you sat with your grandfather. The look of contentment on your face spoke to your new ability to sit quietly at peace without forcing yourself into a situation. Does that even make sense? What I mean is: just a few years ago, a fishing trip like this would have meant constant busy-ness and intensity as you moved around and about, wanting another worm or a hook or skipping to a new spot to catch fish. This time, you relaxed and waited for the world to come to you - instead of running out to chase it.

The rest of June involved your first high school class (online freshman health), some new babysitting gigs (what maturity!), your first visit to Six Flags with friends and without an adult (what growth!), and your very last softball game (what an athlete!).

Daddy left for a week-long fishing trip to Canada in July, so you and Jackson and I went on a few adventures and you had a "sleepover" in my bed every night. The second week of July, we drove to South Carolina with your friend Ashleigh so we could spend a few days with Aunt Mimi at the beach.

You earned new freedom at the beach: you and Ash walked the dog by yourselves, stayed up late, watched more "mature" movies we wouldn't have seen a few years ago, and you got yourself up early enough to watch the sunrise over the ocean. Heck, I even let you drink lots of Coke! Say what?! One morning, you made a special plan to watch the sunrise with me. Man, this moment was priceless!

Then you started marching band camp.

And all of a sudden, the accelerated changes went into hyper drive. I can hardly describe it! When you were a preschooler, I knew you were changing regularly but couldn't quite see it until hindsight gave me clarity. But the last two weeks of July, I saw growth every single day. It was as if your soul was thickening right in front of my eyes, like the concrete foundation of your childhood was now strong enough to support a substantial structure. I gasped the day you came home from band camp and spontaneously decided to get a hair cut. I about fell over at the hair salon when you decided to cut off 10 inches so you could donate it to Locks of Love. Flabbergasted.

You've been painting your nails. Sporting jewelry. Wearing your hair down! I mean, I can't even...

I don't want to gloss over the growth and changes that gradually appeared in the year before June - before you turned 14 - but I can hardly remember the person you were before this lovely, vibrant, 14-year-old young lady emerged. Now do you understand what I meant when I spoke of whiplash at the start of this letter?

I am having the time of my life, exploring you and watching your personality unfold. I know the relationship I have with you is special. You tell me often that your friends don't talk to their moms like we talk. (You know this because your friends tell you this!) I wonder if I should be waiting for the other shoe to drop when you'll become a surly, eye-rolling, harumph-ing teenager. Maybe that phase is on its way, and maybe it isn't. At this point, I'm enjoying myself too much in the present moment to be distracted by any possible angst on the way.

You delight me, Katie. I can't believe I get to be your mom! What a fun ride we're having.

I love you,
Mommy

Happy 10th Birthday, Jackson!

Jackson,

Ten years ago, I started worrying about you and I don't think I ever stopped.

Ten years ago tonight, my worry was whether to send you to the hospital nursery so I could get a good night's sleep or whether I should just bite the bullet and plunge into endless nights of sleeplessness. (For the record, I am NOT crazy and decided to hoard every bit of sleep I could; you went to the nursery until a nurse wheeled you back in the wee hours for a feeding.)

But these days, my worries have taken on more shape, weight, and baggage.

I worry whether you are happy, which makes me wonder if my parents ever worried about my happiness. Not that they didn't care, but I think my generation had a few less helicopter parents than yours does. There was more of the "you get what you get and you don't throw a fit" mentality than I see these days. Even though I know this, I still worry whether you are satisfied and will have good, happy memories of childhood when you are an adult.

I worry whether you're eating enough. You're skinny and smaller than your classmates, and I'm always playing the Italian-grandmother-role by trying to ply you with extra calories - but only the nutritional, substantial kind because you get enough junk already. I want you to grow big and strong, and not be the small kid who gets ridiculed. (Tonight, you saw Army helicopters fly by and we talked about you becoming a pilot one day. Maybe being compact would be an advantage?)

I worry about you being a good friend. When you have a friend over to play, I hear you poke at each other and whine during Nerf gun fights. Will your friend get annoyed at this and lose patience - and loyalty - in your friendship?

I worry about your character. I've told you so many times that I'm not as concerned about the grades on your report card as I am concerned about the citizenship, respectfulness, and cooperation marks you get. I already know you're smart; I want you to be known for your heart as much as - if not more so - than your brain. Are Daddy and I instilling good character?

I worry about so much more: are you brushing your teeth well? (Boo for cavities.) Are you spending too much time on a screen? (And what exactly is this Roblox thing anyway?) Are you reading too many graphic novels and shrinking your intelligence when you could be diving into a classic? Do you get away with too much because you're the baby of the family? Should we crack the whip more?

Aren't parents supposed to worry more about the first child? I thought the first one was supposed to be the "guinea pig" with the parenting mistakes, and parents are supposed to have it figured out by the time any siblings roll around. I don't think that's the case with you: Katie seems to roll right along, while I worry more about how I could be messing you up.

It's so easy for me to get caught up in hand-wringing and "what if." Yes, it's true there is concern even though there's not so much cause for concern. I own it: the concern is my own making and part of the problem is my desire to be a "good" parent (whatever that means).

The truth is what you and I discussed with your pediatrician today at your 10-year checkup: you are a good kid.

You excel academically.

You have a normal social life.

You eat pretty well.

You are very active.

You encounter emotional difficulties sometimes, like most 9- and 10-year-old boys do.

You love Minecraft, graphic novels, Nerf gun battles, library visits, cuddling, hiding (then jumping out to scare people), movies, screen time, Nutella, Katie, Pokemon, and the New York Yankees.

You are always on the move but you still let me hold you like a baby every now and then.

You can write and spell unlike any 4th grader I know.

You love intensely and to a fault, and friends are your fuel.

Your faith is matter-of-fact and you show me what it looks like to be secure in God's love: you simply don't question it.

You are passionate, loving, funny, smart, and - best of all - MINE. Life with you isn't *quite* worry free, but it is happy.

I'm glad you're my son and that I've been gifted ten years of life with you.

I love you!
Mommy

It Takes a Child to Raise a Parent

If the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child" is true, then I'd like to take it a step further and say it takes a child to raise a parent.

When Dan and I decided it was time to start building a family, I don't think we were quite aware of what we had in store. (Is anyone ever?)

I envisioned a cooing baby, cuddly blankets, and fuzzy ducks. That vision dissolved about four days in to motherhood, when I realized parenting looked a lot more like sleepless nights, a sore body, and more extreme highs and lows than a Six Flags roller coaster.

To say parenting is the hardest thing I've ever done is an understatement. I've never had to be more on my game with less resources (sleep, patience, or elbow grease) for this length of time with this much focus on end results. I've never wanted to quit anything else in my life as often as I've wanted to quit parenting, and I've never questioned my strengths and weaknesses to this extent.

Parenting is a butt kicker!

In the midst of a butt kicking, a moment of clarity often sneaks up on me and I remember parenting is the single most noble responsibility I've ever had in my short/long life. Nothing else has refined me or defined me like parenting has. It is a painful blessing that constantly brings me to the end of myself and drives me into the arms of my Savior.

If I could talk to the pre-pregnancy Elizabeth of 2002, I would tell her to let go of the baby-coo-cuddly-blankie-fuzzy-duck fantasies and cling tightly to her faith, her husband, and her seat belt because parenting is about to up-end her life. I would tell her parenting is:

Digging deep into your reserves and finding a measure of happiness in the morning when you are NOT a morning person and hate being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6am. Positive parenting means dying to your flesh and not biting your kids' heads off even when they are cackling and over their breakfast smoothies and driving you crazy.

Walking your youngest to the bus stop every morning, stealing a quick kiss as the bus arrives, and reminding him to wipe his mouth. Patient parenting means giving the reminder Every. Single. Day! if necessary, and doing it without the exasperation you so badly want to express.

Building a fabulous tree house the kids never use because they dreamed about camping in the backyard but decided bugs aren't worth the overnight. Gracious parenting means not holding it over their heads and being willing to play in the tree house with them anyway.

Standing on the driveway and hearing your oldest cough as she walks to the bus, wondering if she's ready to return to school after a sick day. Confident parenting means trusting the ibuprofen and antibiotics to do their jobs.

Having coffee with the parent of your kid's friend so you can wrestle through worries about your kids' growth and find the balance between faith and fear. Faithful parenting means remembering God loved our babies before we ever could, knowing He has a plan for their lives that we may never see come to fruition (at least not in our lifetimes), and trusting in His plan more than our own dreams.

Trying to stay one half step ahead of the changing landscape in your child's world that includes new technology and ancient math techniques and spelling words and Pokemon characters and sports teams and wavering loyalty to best friends. Strategic parenting means discerning which obstacles in the changing landscape are worth an intervention and which ones are simple distractions that don't ultimately affect the end game.

Moving forward with an appointment you know is crucial for developing your teen's confidence and character, even though she begs you to not make her do this one thing. Steadfast parenting means getting out of the car amidst your child's protest, ringing the doorbell, and standing beside her while an expert teaches techniques to enhance her natural beauty.

Planning donut dates and getting up early with your kid on a Saturday morning, when you'd rather sleep late. Energetic parenting means sharing your newspaper ritual because your child just wants to be close to you and do the things you do.

Cracking jokes and starting tickle fights because SOMEONE needs to lighten the mood in the house. Joyful parenting means seeking out moments of whimsy because memories are made when we're laughing together and finding adventure wherever the wind blows us.

Saying yes, finally, to that dog she's been asking for since her preschool days. Generous parenting means granting wishes every now and then, and making the desires of your child's heart become reality (and it also means loving that dog as much as she loves him, too).

Calling a counselor when you see signs of the very same struggle you had at that very same age, realizing you aren't an expert and there's no shame in asking for professional help. Hopeful parenting means letting go of the guilt you heap on your own shoulders (wondering if you're to blame for your child's struggle) and hopeful parenting sees the wisdom God had in giving that kid to THIS parent because THIS parent is one of the few who would understand the struggle and could share the experience like no one else.

Being needed for the routines of life in a busy household: making the meals, folding the laundry, morning wakings and bedtime snuggles, signing the school papers, going to PTO/Scout/fundraiser meetings, volunteering, and remembering which yogurt is the favorite when you're standing in the grocery aisle (the one without chunks). Sacrificial parenting means the kids won't be able to return the favor and you may never see the investment pay dividends, but you do it anyway simply because it was done for you.

Taking joy in your child's triumphs and successes, but not taking the credit because you know you're only a stone's throw away from failure and hard life lessons. Wise parenting means praying for protection from pain while simultaneously asking God for a tiny, manageable bit of loss because you know loss is what grows your kids' maturity.

Looking like a complete fool when you're the only one wearing a superhero costume to the school's family fun night, or you plan a family picnic beside a stream that ends up being full of runoff from a nearby sewage treatment plant. Resilient parenting means laughing at yourself, saying "Oops," and - literally - going with the flow.

Nagging them to empty the dishwasher or clean their bedroom until their conscience takes over the task. Responsible parenting means working myself out of my job as I teach my kids to take care of themselves so one day they actually can.

Modeling surrender to God's call on your life so your kids will see how faith's whispers are somehow louder than fear's shouts. Submissive parenting means you're a family leader only because you first learned to be a follower of Jesus, knowing you can't lead well unless you've learned how to follow first.

Putting your hand on your heart and singing the National Anthem when no one else is doing it because you know it's the right thing to do and you want your kids to learn what duty and honor look like. Honorable parenting means showing respect to the people who lead us, those who have sacrificed for us, and pursuing liberty for people who can't fight for themselves.

Modeling vulnerability, admitting your mistakes, and asking forgiveness when you've caused pain to someone else. Humble parenting means apologizing (especially to your kids) when you've been less than your best.

Parenting is being intentional about setting yourself aside for the growth and well-being of another human being. It's the hardest job I've ever had, but I'm grateful for my two trainers named Katie and Jackson.

They are making me better at it every single day.

Parents Standing Firmly

I'll be honest with you: today was a hard day of parenting. Second chances were taken for granted. Scoldings felt like standoffs. And a moment of rejoicing with one child was bookended by disobedience of the other. I felt like quitting my Mommy Job, and walked out of the house feeling defeated and tempted to escape to Jamaica. (Don't worry, I eventually came back!)

Then we went to church tonight. I sat in the dark, listening to a team of musicians sing praise to my Father and remembered a few of the times I've been a disobedient child.

I was watching one of the men on stage as he sang, and my heart filled with gratitude that I have a place to reset my despondent heart. That's when I realized the dad of the singer was sitting right in front of me. And from where I was sitting, it looked like the son was standing on his father's shoulders. I know the dad personally and know he is one of the most upstanding, steadfast, faithful, and humble men I know.

I felt this moment was God's way of reminding me no child learns to stand on his own unless he's had a parent to show the way. Parents stand firmly so their children can stand taller. The worship leader on stage is the Christ-follower he is because his mother and father gave him the example of a life submitted to Christ.

I needed this reminder to stand firmly even when I want to throw in the towel as a mother. I needed to see that my faith matters even when a disobedient child makes me want to "lose my religion." I needed my Father to pick me up, brush me off, and set me back on His path again.

When I took a broader look around, I saw another set of my friends on the right side of me and their daughter sitting in the front row to my left. She was raising her hands and having some deep worship with God. I looked on stage again and saw the children of other friends of mine, and realized what a blessing they are to me too - and one of the reasons why is because their parents have poured and refilled them for years and years. I am thankful for parents who show me how to parent. And for my own parents, too.

Thank You God, for putting these people in my life tonight and using them to remind me to keep my eyes on the long goal of parenting. You are a good, good Father!

Skin Color and Shame

Last Friday was the end of a week where the news was all about two black men killed by police in separate cities. It was also the day after five Dallas police officers were killed during a protest of those shootings.

I was skimming Facebook and saw the first seconds of a video about how to act when a police officer pulls you over. It was Coffey Anderson, a black man, giving the information in the video. The video has since gone viral; it's likely you already saw it.

When Jackson saw it, he made a joke and said, "Everyone knows how to do that!"

So I reminded Jackson that he has white skin and probably doesn't have to fear what might happen if he were to ever be pulled over, while some people with darker skin might.

The only thing I've ever feared is paying a fine or the chance of increased insurance rates.

I explained some neighborhoods aren't as safe as ours and sometimes people are told not to trust police. And sometimes police get so overwhelmed by their jobs they turn to violence and hurt people. I told him how two men were killed this week and someone else turned their gun on police.

I told Jackson we live in a neighborhood where we aren't afraid and feel safe, but not everyone feels safe in their towns. Some people with darker skin are afraid or dislike people with lighter skin because that's all they've ever known or been told to do. And some people with lighter skin are afraid or dislike people with darker skin because that's all they've ever known or been told to do.

That's when Jackson responded, "I wish I wasn't part of a skin color that does bad things to other skin colors."

My breath caught in my throat.

I explained he should never be ashamed about the way God made him. God gave him a specific eye color and hair color and skin color, and we won't be ashamed about that; no one should ever be ashamed about that!

I went on to tell him, "If you wish people with other skin colors didn't feel so afraid, then make them your friends. Be the reason they aren't scared of white skin!" We can help each other learn and help each other have courage.

And then I had to walk into a different room to cry.

We think our kids are oblivious to what's been happening in our country from Ferguson to Baton Rouge, and I've personally tried to shield mine from the harder horrors. This conversation with Jackson helped me realize we - collectively, WE as in all of us - can't change what's happening if we don't start talking about it. And we need to start talking about it early, even at my son's young age of nine.

I barely know how to parent on a good day, when we're facing sibling spats and chore accountability. Throw in the biggies like sexting, online bullying, addictions, porn, human trafficking, sexual ambiguity, the war on ISIS, Trump vs. Clinton, and race relations (just to name a few), and I feel downright overwhelmed.

How on earth do I parent through the things facing Katie and Jackson? I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm pretty sure I'm royally messing things up.

But when my son tells me he's ashamed of his skin color, I know it's time to dig in deep.

God, help me be a parent who can talk through the hard stuff and lean on You through all my inadequacies. Remind me that staying silent is worse than my bumbling attempts at honest and grace-filled conversations. Please put wise friends and family in my and my kids' lives - people who can help me navigate parenting and also give my children counsel when I don't know how. Give me courage to speak up, speak truth, and ask questions - even when I run the risk of asking stupid questions and looking like an ignorant bumpkin. Thank You for modeling humility and sacrificial love by sending Your Son, Jesus, to pardon all of our messes. Please take my messes, including the parenting ones, and make a masterpiece of them. Amen!

Charlie Brown Cycle

I'm currently in a Charlie Brown life cycle: two weeks in the valley of credit card fraud, virus (food poisoning?) vomiting, battling a mouse in the house, a deep clean and reorganization (thanks, ya darn mouse!) and the mid-summer throes of sibling spats.

Last Thursday I took the kids to see the Peanuts movie, and deeply related to Charlie Brown.

It isn't like things go monumentally wrong for him (no cancer or bankruptcy or abandonment or divorce), but he just never seems to get ahead. He keeps trying, but his kite crashes or he slips on a puddle or his little sister needs him so he helps instead of going his own way.

After the past two weeks, I wanted to pump my fist in the air to show solidarity with him.

I know my current Charlie Brown cycle will end, so I'm hanging on.

My favorite quote from the movie was when he said, "It's the courage to continue that counts." Amen, Charlie!

A Mother's Heart

My love for you is intense.

I will put myself in harm's way in order to save you from it.

I will fiercely protect you, standing firmly even when my fear screams I'm crazy for doing so.

I will offer myself as bait when evil comes knocking at the door, if it means protecting your innocence even one day longer.

I do all of this without financial reimbursement, monetary gain, accolades or expectation of advancement, knowing the possibility - and probability - that I won't be noticed or get a passing glance.

I have become the invisible guardian of your life.

I do this because I love you. I do this because it was done for me. I do this because it's a calling and I've been told it's the most important job on earth.

But on the days when I'm invisible, the calling feels like a curse.

It hurts to be the one acting as the Electronic Police or the catch-all for every entitled pout or the annoying mom who just wants to visit the classroom to see your robotic project along with the other parents. For the person whose life centers around yours, it hurts to get shoved out of the way.

I know it would be too much for me to expect to be included in every celebration you have, every moment you experience, every breath you take. It would be a lot for me to require manners and reverence of me at all times (even when you're low on sleep or failed a test or fell on the playground or lost the big game). I get it. So I'm not asking for monumental depths of grace and inclusion from my (new!) teenager and grade-schooler.

But here's the secret to a mother's heart: we don't need much. I don't need much!

Just throw me a bone.

Hold my hand on the way into Walmart. Turn to smile at me when you step on the bus. Tell me the funny joke that made you laugh. Thank me when you get into the car without your lunch and I remind you to go back and grab it. Invite me to sit with you on the couch.

My mama's heart is like a flower: simply shine a little light on it and I will unfold and blossom, exposing you to incredible beauty and heavenly scents.

It doesn't take much light, and the results will bless you tenfold. You'll have a mom energized and inspired to do more and feel more and be more - with you and for you!

Scaffolding

This blog post centers around an event that happened a few weeks ago. I’ve been letting this sift through my heart for a while before writing about it, because it happened in a dark period and there is pain surrounding it. Also, writing about it shows chinks in my armor, and vulnerable is never a comfortable place to be. But I’ve shared this with a few close friends and I think there is value in sharing it here, mostly because one day my children will read it and know they aren’t alone.

The dark side of motherhood is living with the feeling of being inconsequential. The world pays lip service to motherhood, saying it’s the “Most Important Job Ever.” It sounds like a holy calling – which it is – but it’s a calling that comes with tremendous strings attached. It’s a calling that requires the withering of the person you used to be.

I’ve bristled under the yoke of motherhood, because – frankly – I am self-centered and don’t want “Elizabeth” to wither so “Mom” can flourish. I watched my own mother be Mom exceptionally well; so well that when I (the last of 3 kids) went to college, Mom no longer had a daily need to mother and the “Mom” part of her withered. But by then, the individual she used to be (Brenda) had been smothered for so long there was nothing left for Mom to transition back into being. I swore this wouldn’t happen to me.

Twelve and a half years into mothering, I’m realizing it’s inevitable.

At the start of last month, I hit a brick wall personally. I looked at the writing and photography dreams I’d been pursuing and saw only a bunch of smoke and mirrors. I was spending energy trying to build the Elizabeth Empire while also trying to build the Katie Empire, the Jackson Empire, and be co-architect in building the Dan Empire. Suddenly, it became clear to me: my empire needed to wait.

I had no business trying to build ELIZABETH during this season of my life when I have an 8-year-old and 12-year-old at home, requiring so much of my patience and passion. I also have a husband who needs his own space and creative outlets, which he wasn’t getting because I was busy chasing my own passions. I told myself that ELIZABETH needed to wait. I needed to be – I HAD to be – satisfied with my existence as Laundry Washer, Grocery Shopper, and Toilet Paper Changer.

One morning in early December, I got the kids on the bus then spent hours in quiet time before God. I begged Him to please-please-oh-please take away my longings and desires to be something other than Toilet Paper Changer. I read scriptures that supported my begging: verses about dying to self and especially the verse Paul wrote asking God to take away the thorn in his side. I realized the more time I spent begging Him, the more I felt the tug to become the person God made me to be – which is more than just a Toilet Paper Changer. Being the ultra mature person I am, I decided stop talking to God. If being with Him meant feeling desire for “more,” then I’d simply stop being with Him.

I needed to become okay with feeling invisible. And when you're meeting with El Roi (the God Who Sees Me), it's kind of hard to be invisible.

Later that same day (of course, because God has to pound lessons into my head sometimes), I met the kids at the bus stop so we could rush to piano lessons. Katie got in the car and I asked what the best part of her day was. I really didn’t want to ask because I really didn’t want to feel. I wanted to be a numb robot Toilet Paper Changer but I know “good” moms ask about their kids’ days, so I did too. She responded there had not been anything good about her day. This broke into my pity party enough for me to ask what happened.

Katie told me about a girl at school we’ll call Ashley. Ashley draws so well that friends give her lots of attention. Katie prides herself on her drawing abilities, but doesn’t get the accolades Ashley gets. I replied to Katie, “So you want all the attention Ashley gets?”

Katie’s face looked like she sucked on a lemon as she said, “What? No! I don’t want attention!” (because she has always been a kid who shies away from the limelight). I responded with, “But you don’t want to be ignored?”

Sheepishly, she said, “No. I don’t want to be ignored.”

I summed it up for her by saying, “You want to be seen but not noticed.” And this phrase is what caused my throat to constrict and my eyes to sting with tears because this desire deeply resonated in my soul: I don’t want to be Invisible Mom (a.k.a. Toilet Paper Changer), but I don’t want to be Spotlight Elizabeth (a.k.a. Famous Author). I want to be lowercase elizabeth, who matters as a person and not just as a role.

With sobs threatening to escape my mouth, I told Katie I’d been feeling the same way all day long: invisible and inconsequential.

To help her understand her situation better, I described it like this: Ashley is the Taj Mahal. People come from all over the world to tour the Taj Mahal and wonder at its majesty. It sounded like Katie doesn’t want to be the Taj Mahal. She affirmed that, and also added that she doesn’t want to be a tourist going to visit someone else’s Taj Mahal. (“I’m not a groupie!”) However, she isn’t a shack that people should pass by and ignore.

I looked Katie in the eyes, as best as I could while driving, and told her this truth of my life: “Katie, you are the Taj Mahal to me.” Then I explained another truth of my life: as a mother, I feel like I am simply the scaffolding whose only purpose is to build the Taj Mahal. She didn’t know what scaffolding was and in one of God’s great moments of timing, we happened to be passing a construction site where scaffolding surrounded a building. I pointed out the window and showed her what scaffolding looks like.

I described scaffolding for her, saying it’s construction equipment made of common metal that isn’t very precious. Scaffolding can be dinged and lost and replaced, and it isn’t very useful after a building has reached a certain construction stage unless you’re restoring or cleaning.

With a trembling chin and cracking voice, I told her that’s what I feel like as a mother. I’m the support God uses to build the Taj Mahal of Katie’s life, knowing the focus is on the Taj Mahal and not the tools used to build it. I told her this so she would know that I know what it’s like to want to be seen but not noticed.

I told her this so she would know she isn’t alone. I told her this to minister to her heart. And wouldn’t you know it, but that girl ministered to mine.

Because in the next breath, she looked at me with all the compassion her body could hold and said, “But Mommy, you’re MY Taj Mahal. You’re everything I want to be!” When I scoffed, she pointed out the qualities I have that she’s striving for: creativity and faith and really good handwriting. (!)

I told her she shouldn’t try to be me; she should be Katie-The-Not-Taj-Mahal-But-Not-A-Shack-Either. With a wink, I told her I’m glad she’s not a shack because shacks are usually only one story and don’t require scaffolding. Right now, she is in a Taj Mahal stage of her life. One day, she’ll meet a man and fall in love and become a townhome with him. Then she’ll have kids and become scaffolding for their Taj Mahals.

And then, I couldn’t talk anymore because I was broken inside. I simply reached over and held her hand and told her how much I love her, and we sniffled together for a few miles.


As much as I would like to say it did, this conversation didn’t cause a full course correction in my heart. As I mentioned above, I can be immature and thick-skulled. I went about the next few weeks continuing to act like a numb robot Toilet Paper Changer because it seemed easier to turn from my desires/dreams/callings than to chase them. There were days God would lay a devotion topic on my heart (like He regularly did when I was actively writing my devotional book), and I intentionally turned away from His nudge. I was disobedient and refused to jot any notes down for future writing sessions. I specifically reminded Him that I. Am. Not. Writing. Anymore. and would even catch myself folding my arms across my chest in defiance.

Sheesh. It’s a wonder He didn’t just strike me dead right then and there!

Even today, as I write this post, I would say I’m not completely out of the woods yet. Yes, I’ve stopped crossing my arms in defiance. Yes, I’ve jotted down a few nudges God has given me for devotional topics. But this time, I’m not charging full throttle into the writing calling like I did last July. That whole staying up late to write and exhausting myself (not to mention neglecting my husband and kids) isn’t sustainable. Besides, who really needs an Elizabeth Empire anyway?

I guess you could say I’m in a middle ground, the stage after the beginning but not quite before the end. I’m Taj Mahal Scaffolding with scaffolding of my own, deep in a reconstruction stage:

I’m talking to God again. I’m back in the War Room, listening and learning and leaning into Him. I’m grateful He always welcomes me back.
I’ve started reading a book called Simply Tuesday that is already rocking my world, causing me to reassess my Spotlight Elizabeth tendencies and swap them out for a nice bench or, in my case, a comfy couch for inviting friends to sit a spell.
I’m trying to instill new habits of slowing down (daily yoga, reading real books instead of Facebooks).
Just yesterday, I took a big step and asked a friend to intentionally mentor me through a wound that’s been festering for two years.
I’m scared, looking for hope. I’m tentative, looking for tenacity. I’m a Taj Mahal with scaffolding.

What a way to start the new year!

Asset vs. Liability

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, the first thing I felt was excitement. I couldn’t wait to share the news with Dan.

The second thing I felt was an immense amount of responsibility because of the gravity of the situation: I was officially responsible for someone else’s wellbeing. Dude. That’s a lot of pressure!

But before I got lost in the enormity of that awareness, I was overcome with the most important of all human emotions:

HOPE.

Responsibility grounded me, but hope gave me wings. I felt lighter because I had hope that this child growing inside me would give me a chance to get things “right.” I wanted to parent in a way I myself hadn’t been parented. (Not that I was abused or badly mistreated, but I wanted to do things a little differently than my parents had.) I began dreaming of all the joys I would help my child experience in this world: roller coasters and sunshine and fireworks and ripe peaches. I would get to help her celebrate joys and navigate heartaches. I couldn’t wait for this baby to arrive so we could get started LIVING. I had so much for her to learn because, you know, I’m an expert. Yep, me! I’m an Expert on Living because I’ve done it too! This baby was gonna be so lucky to have me as a mom to show her the ropes because I am an ASSET, by golly! [Would you believe I even wrote her a letter called “Tips on Living Written for My Unborn Child” and sealed it up so we could read it together later? (Ha. Is that even a question? Of course you would believe something like that from me!)]

That pride stuck for many years. Eleven, to be exact. (And it still has a good hold on most days!) But somewhere along the way, the feeling that I am an asset to my child was replaced by the feeling that I’m a liability. The hope I began the journey with was tarnished by reality because, in some ways, I reverted to the type of parenting my parents used with me. I repeated phrases I swore I’d never say and said things I didn’t even know I knew, because that’s how parenting was modeled for me.

When my daughter’s personality started shining through, I discovered a basic truth in the Nature vs. Nurture debate: human beings are born with an inherent nature that is part of their DNA. Realizing that half of my daughter’s DNA came from me caused me to flinch. I knew that Katie would inherent some of my struggles and my personality quirks, plus the Nurture part of the debate meant she would pick up some of my less-pleasing qualities because she watched me model them to her. Oh, man! The pride I felt from being an Asset quickly morphed into guilt for being a Liability.

I soothed myself with the reminder that everyone is broken. Everyone has faults. Katie is human, and her flaws would be unavoidable. “Oh well,” I thought. “It’s just the price of living.”

And then one day a few weeks ago, I sat with a friend whose child is struggling with the same illness my friend had when she was younger. I watched my friend’s tears fall as she cried out, “Why does my child have to carry the same burden I did?” She wondered if maybe SHE is the reason her child inherited this illness. In her grief, she wondered whether she “gave” it to him and then said, “Why couldn’t he struggle with something else?!” And that’s when it hit me: her child is BLESSED BEYOND MEASURE to have a momma who has walked the same road before him. He got a mom who knows the triggers and the relapses and the potholes and detours he will face with this illness. What if he had a mother like me, who didn’t know how to handle it and couldn’t recognize the warning signs? I asked my friend to look at me and I told her this truth: she is a blessing, not a curse!

God, in His sovereign wisdom, knew this child needed a very specific mother to walk the path with him. Those very same things we consider liabilities in ourselves are the most important assets we can give our children. These “liabilities” bring experience, which is a priceless inheritance we can bestow on our kids. In God’s resourceful economy, nothing is wasted.

The longer I live, the more I see the truth that all of us humans have a brokenness inside our beings. My kids are no exception. I don’t yet know the full extent of the burdens they will shoulder throughout their lives. Maybe it will be lupus or insecurity or an addiction or an abusive situation or lack of confidence or depression or any number of aches. But I do know that if their burdens even remotely mirror the ones I’ve carried, God will make me an asset for His use!

Please God. This Girl.

Her heart… let it beat for You.

Her lungs… let them fill with You.

Her brain… let it think of You.

Her eyes… let them see You.

Her lips… let them speak Your truth.

Her shoulders… let them carry burdens with You.

Her arms… let them hold for You.

Her skin… let it feel for You.

Her hands… let them serve You.

Her fingers… let them point to You.

Her chest… let it expand in You.

Her hips… let them dance for You.

Her legs… let them run to You.

Her knees… let them kneel for You.

Her feet… let them stand on You.

Her toes… let them tap Your beat.

Her breath… let it capture You and release You.

May her whole body be Your dwelling place and may she sense your presence today and every day. May she be so connected to You that she feels You beside her, hears You in every conversation and song, smells Your warmth in each inhalation, tastes Your goodness in every bite of life, and sees Your glory in each new day that dawns. Amen!

Katie: Do you know I pray for you each morning when I lay beside you to wake you for school? This is what I prayed this morning. I thought of your whole body and the way it moves for God, and then each individual part and the way each part helps you know God better. I decided to pray for each of the separate parts, as a way to invite God deeper into your life.

Healing My Past

If you were looking for me this past Saturday, in the early afternoon, you would have found me on my knees on the floor of my bedroom. I was crying and mad and just plain upset at my father. You see, I had done one of the things that as a child, I swore I’d never do to my own kids: I made my child cry because of homework.

I remember being in middle school and trying so hard to figure out pre-Algebra. I was frustrated because the answers seemed so close to appearing in my head and onto my homework page, but I just couldn’t grasp how to manipulate the formulas to make them work. I would sit at the kitchen table and do my homework, and if my dad was home instead of working or on a business trip, he would sit down and try to explain math to me.

He was a civil engineer and comfortable with numbers. I loved words and language, and numbers didn’t quite jazz me up. So when he would sit with me, we would rapidly alienate each other because we couldn’t speak the other’s language. I’m pretty sure every time he tried to help me, I ended up in tears. The good news is this didn’t happen often, because I was a smart girl and had observed this same tear-filled exchange with my sister when she was doing math homework a few years earlier. I quickly realized that Dad plus homework always equals yelling and tears. THIS is the kind of math that made sense to me, so after a few times of practicing that type of formula, I decided to stop it altogether. I learned to wrestle with my homework alone, either at school or in my bedroom. I stopped asking for help, especially from my dad. To me, Mom was still approachable for other homework (English papers, theses, etc.), so I wasn’t totally flying solo.

I vowed that when I had kids one day, I would never yell at them or make them cry over something as stupid as homework. Well, one day has arrived and my vow has been broken, thanks to 6th grade math and a daughter who, like me, struggles with perfectionism. Before you start imagining me standing over my daughter and shouting, let me clarify by saying there wasn’t a fight and there was no yelling. So I’ve kept that childhood vow intact, thanks to God rewriting my story. But – as my husband pointed out to me later – the intensity level had ramped up, which is what caused Katie to get upset and start crying. I see it from her perspective: she was trying so hard to find the answer (the one I had all but written down for her), and was desperate to keep up with me and see the solution that seemed to be obvious (but not to her). I, on the other hand, was leaking patience after four interactions that increased the frustration in my voice and tone. The more intense I got, the less she could hear what I was saying. The less she could hear, the less she could say and the more frustrated she got in not being able to express herself – which made me frustrated that she couldn’t even talk to me.

And there we were, two fireballs of intensity aimed at each other. Her tears started falling and I held mine at bay, and then Dan happened into the room. He gave me the hairy eyeball, and I tempered my frustration enough to give Katie a little more direction before I tagged out. I asked Dan to meet me in our bedroom to discuss the interaction.

I told Dan how much Katie’s tears affected me, because they were like a time travel machine that flashed me back to my tears at the kitchen table with MY father. I told Dan I wasn’t nearly as intense as my own dad was, so why should Katie be crying?! He pointed out my homework time doesn’t involve my father any longer, and this is just too much for me and Katie right now. We both agreed that math homework should be off the table for a little bit, and he can help her with that. For some reason, “word” homework doesn’t affect me the way “number” homework does – probably because I personally hate math and fear looking like an idiot when I do it (which is what 6th grade math inherently does to me – makes me look like an idiot, I mean). So, for now, I’m taking a pass at math. Whew.

Dan left the bedroom, I cried (as I mentioned before), then joined the family a little bit later. Katie and I relaxed in the hammock after a while, and we were able to discuss what happened that day. I told her the story of my homework struggles growing up, and explained the term “baggage” to her. We brainstormed ways for both of us to communicate better, and both found peace about the situation.

I know, as we all do, that my baggage has made me who I am. I can’t get away from that truth. But I can turn the rough draft of my past into a final copy by examining what caused my heartache so I can avoid inflicting it on the child I’m raising now: my daughter – and the little girl still inside me – who wants so badly to be acknowledged for her efforts… even when they are less-than-perfect.

So, to my daughter, I hope you know that you aren’t alone in the struggles you are having. I’m struggling, too, and aching with the confusion and the questions I sometimes have about the world around me. The beauty is that while I get to help you through your struggles, you are helping ME through MINE. Parenting is hard. It is scary and mistake-laden, but every now and then I get a glimpse of redemption and restoration through it.

Eleven

Dear Katie,

Good morning, my girl, and happy 11th birthday! What a great day it will be, and how blessed I am to celebrate another year of your life.

I just spent the last few minutes reading through past letters I’ve written to you and posted on this blog (five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten), and seeing the years fly by through those letters makes my eyes teary and my heart achy for the girl you used to be. I look at the photos of you and see six years of immense change, and can honestly say you are a different person now. (So am I!) I had a hint of this last week, when you and I celebrated your birthday a bit early.

We had a day to ourselves while Jackson was at camp and Daddy was at work. I called up your best friend, Sylvia, and asked her mom if they could join us for the one thing you requested to celebrate your birthday: ZIPLINING!!! Surprisingly, they were available and met us at GoApe, a nearby adventure course. You’ve been talking about GoApe since (at least) last fall, and asked if that could be your birthday event for this year. So I knew you were excited, but figured you’d get a little nervous when you saw the course and realized how high in the trees it really was.

For the record, let me say: I WAS WRONG.

From the moment you stepped into your safety harness, you were ready to conquer the course. If I had to pick one word to describe the day, that word would be FEARLESS. You climbed the ropes like a monkey, jumped off platforms like it was second nature, and – when presented with a choice – begged to do the extreme course every time. I shrieked in fear quite a few times, but you pushed every limit you knew. I saw a side of you I have rarely seen and I was shocked at your courage and sense of adventure. It was one of the most gratifying experiences I’ve had as your mother.

The other best part of the day was seeing your spiritual gift of encouragement come shining through. When Sylvia was afraid, you stood on the other side of the obstacle and coached her through it. You told everyone around you, “You can do it! You got this!” and even did it for me a hundred couple of times. You are naturally optimistic. Combine that with fearlessness, and the world will be full of adventure for the rest of your life.

Oh, Katie. You are the kind of kid parents dream of having: considerate, helpful, responsible, enjoyable, generous, interesting, smart, obedient, beautiful, observant, and Christ-centered. I think God made a masterpiece when He created you, and you will be already are a tremendous tool He will use to build His kingdom on earth.

Thank you for bringing joy into our lives and love into our hearts. You bless me in ways you will never know, so I pray God gives me many years to be able to express that to you. I love and adore you, and I’m so glad you’re mine!

Love, Mommy