Four Types of Small Talk New Moms Endure

I love almost everything about being a mom: the tiny fingers that entangle themselves in the hairs at the nape of my neck and pull like we're playing tug-o-war. The sharp teeth that rake themselves on my skin when a nursing session is coming to an end. Spending 90 percent of my waking moments literally trying to prevent Katherine from falling off the bed, choking on cat food, playing with cell phone chargers...

But one thing I don't love?

The small talk.

I used to be able to go to Target and NOT TALK TO ANYONE. Thank you, self checkout! I could run in, grab mascara and granola bars and a new scarf (ha, as if I ever only grabbed three things), use the self-checkout lane, and LEAVE.

No awkward conversations. No forced smiles and courtesy laughs.

Not anymore, folks. Something about having a baby just attracts strangers
. Can they smell the sweet scent of an infant with their bloodhound noses? Can they spy Katherine from across the parking lot with their x-ray vision? I don't know... but I have spoken to more strangers in the past eight months than I ever thought possible or healthy.

It's not just that I am the worst small talker on earth. No. That's not the only reason I dread taking baby girl in public.

It's the NATURE of the small talk. I feel like the conversations fall into one of the following categories:

1) Increasingly Intrusive Interrogations. This strange old lady--let's just call her "Nancy"-- starts off with the innocuous but predictable, "How old is she?" Safe territory. But undoubtedly, Nancy gets bold and tiptoes dives right in to dangerous territory: "Is she sleeping through the night yet? Is she still nursing? Has she started solids yet? When are you having another one?"

No, Nancy. Those questions make me want to dodge, dip, dive, duck, and dodge. Not only are they not really of a stranger's business, but they also raise my hackles. Sleep is such a sensitive issue. We, for example, do not and will not cry it out or sleep train. And frankly, I don't want to get into a discussion with stranger Nancy about why that is.

Same for nursing. I'm going to nurse for at least a year. Thanks, American Academy of Pediatrics, for the recommendation: "What we do know is that as your child moves from babyhood toward toddlerhood, breastfeeding continues to act as a source of profound comfort and security, laying the groundwork for a confident, happy, and healthy future. For this reason, as well as the continued nutritional and immunologic benefits of breastfeeding, the AAP advises mothers to continue nursing beyond the first year for as long as mutually desired by mother and child." <-- emphasis mine (https://www.healthychildren.org/English/ages-stages/baby/breastfeeding/Pages/Continuing-Breastfeeding-Beyond-the-First-Year.aspx)

But this is SO looked down upon and judged in our society (I totally plan to blog about that later, by the way) and I don't feel like defending my choice to a stranger.

2)  Uber-awkward Oversharing. I'm relatively comfortable discussing topics that might make others squirm. But when Nosey Nancy starts sharing about her baby grandson's poopy diapers and her own birth experience? Well, that's when I have to call it quits. I don't know you like that.

3) Touching and Tickling. I guess this isn't technically "small talk," but it's a behavior everyone engages in with the little munchkin.

Honestly, I am generally okay with others holding and interacting with Katherine. At every school event I've attended, I've basically passed her around to my current high school students like a hot potato (if you've never seen a football player bounce a little baby, it's THE cutest thing EVER, y'all). I am totally fine leaving her with sitters and in church nursery. She does GREAT with other people. I don't think I'm overprotective (but even if it was, it's my kid, so *shrug*).

But during flu season when strangers would come up and grab her hands (and she was teething)? I found myself exhausted trying to contain her hands and come up with scripts to keep them from touching her.

Whyyyyyy are you touching her?

But here's the other thing: we want to teach Katherine healthy body boundaries and body autonomy (hence why I just bought Gavin de Becker's The Gift of Fear, which will be here Tuesday. So you'd better believe that if my toddler doesn't want you to touch her or hug her or high five her, I will be supporting that 100%-- I don't care if you're a stranger or her family member or my friend.

4) All the Advice. I try to extend grace and understand that others are offering advice because they want to help. However, it gets exhausting when I'm just trying to pick up some groceries at Kroger and I'm getting advice that doesn't even jive with my parenting philosophies.

It goes in one ear and out the other, but it does eat up time and we all know babies are basically ticking time bombs.


I guess the positive aspect of taking Katherine in public, which I should probably focus on more, is that she allows me to connect with others. Babies draw people together. They make people smile and remind them of the joys of the simple things of life.

People are nicer to me with Katherine is with me-- they let me cut them in line. They hold doors for me. They let me cross the street or park in the closest parking space. And for that, I am very grateful.

And I'll try to get better at the small talk, y'all. Because I guess it just comes with the territory.

When Mama Bear Sees Red

What do you get when you cross a crowded parking garage, a screaming infant, and cars who won't let the car with said screaming infant out?

A mama bear who sees red. 

Y'all, I have been processing a certain incident that happened last week. I alluded to it on Facebook. I've thought about it in the shower, muttering as I slammed my shampoo bottle on the ground. I've seethed about it as I've creamed eggs and sugar together to make cookies.

I've tried to see it from the perspective of the three women who were in the car. I've failed.

Here's a brief summary of the incident:
Hubby and I (with our four-month-old) attended a basketball game last week. This basketball game was a BIG deal and had tons of attendees, so we had to park in a parking garage on the second level. After the game, of course, said garage was basically at a standstill as people tried to leave.

Our four-month-old was doing okay, but after sitting in the car not moving at all for fifteen minutes, still stuck in our spot, she started SCREAMING. Like, choking on her saliva, sounding like she was going to spit up screaming. Not just crying. I can deal with her crying, people. It was a scream I had never heard before, and it shook me to my core.

I sat there, thinking that SURELY we are going to escape our parking spot and be on our way home. "Should I just get out and stand in front of a car so they have to let us out of our spot?" I asked my husband multiple times. He didn't really reply.  I was unsure of my other options, unsure of how long we were going to be stuck there, unsure of how to handle this situation. Meanwhile, the screaming continues and escalates until I.cannot.take.it.anymore. We have to get this baby home.

So, I get out of my parked car and approach the car that could, if they so desired, let us out in front of them.

In the front passenger seat is a former coworker. In the back is a current coworker. I don't know the driver. The passenger side window is cracked a couple of inches, so I smile: "Hey, I have a screaming infant in my back seat, so I was wondering if there's any chance y'all would let us out in front of you?"

Eye contact with front seat passenger is made. She says not one word and looks back down at her phone. Back seat passenger and driver do not make eye contact with me.

Me: *awkward pause* "Um okay thank you!"

I get back in my car.

And not only do they not let us out...they immediately pull up, making it very clear they're going to ensure we cannot get out. I was LIVID. Not because they wouldn't let us out. But because I felt betrayed. I KNEW these people and thought I had a positive relationship with one of them. I mean, I knew they weren't driving, but to not even be acknowledged? That STUNG, y'all.

But...I'm not here to talk about them. Because I can't control them.

I'm here to talk about me.

I have examined my motivation for asking them--was I trying to take advantage of them? Was I rude?  Was I unreasonable? I didn't think so. Maybe from their perspective I was, though.

I have examined my reaction to them which, admittedly, was NOT a positive one at first.

But perhaps most importantly, I have tried to consider what I would do in a similar situation. Because I can be spiteful. I can hold grudges. I can refuse to do things just to show people they don't have power over me or just to prove that I do what I want. And maybe that's what this car did to us, I don't really know.

What I DO know is that I want to model BETTER for my daughter. I want to go out of my way to be strong but not spiteful. To be kind but not be a doormat. To strike that balance. To teach her that YES, we can be kind to strangers (the Good Samaritan story comes to mind) and also have boundaries.

So Katherine, someday if a desperate first-time mother asks you to stop your car and let her out in front of you because she has a screaming infant in the back seat, I hope you'll let her out. Not because you have to--you don't. It's not the law. But because you WANT to because you are compassionate and loving. And I pray that you learn those traits from me and your dad. I pray we do not fail to model those for you.

In this world of tension and strife and defensiveness, I pray that I can examine my own heart and actions and model for you kindness, goodness, courage, and love. And when I fail, I pray I can apologize and do better next time. 

Mama Bear saw red last week, it's true. But Mama Bear also knows that she is to love her enemies, pray for those who persecute her, and forgive seventy times seven.

She's still working on all of that... :)

One in Four: Remembering Our Babies

I'm not sure where to start.

I could start by sharing all the things that have made me cry:
*Diving after a volleyball because, "I shouldn't be able to dive; I'm supposed to be pregnant right now."
*Brushing my teeth without gagging or throwing up because, again, it's a reminder that I have no more morning sickness, no more heartburn, no more nausea...because I'm not pregnant anymore.
*Seeing a young mom play with her baby at Target, tickling tiny toes to keep the sweet little one from fussing too much
*The phone call from a former player, who was sobbing so hard I truly could barely understand her. When she told me I would've been a "kick ass mom," I lost my composure and started sobbing along with her.

"We brought you Olaf. Because he makes everyone smile." - Former volleyball players

I could start by sharing all the things that have brought peace and comfort:
*Every Facebook message or text or conversation where some of YOU reached out to me and said, "You're not alone. I've been there too. I am so, so sorry."
*Every hug, even from those of you I don't know well, or those who are not huggers. Thank you.
* Every card, Edible Arrangement, bouquet of flowers, gift card, or other gift.
*Sponsoring a Compassion child whose birthday is March 10th, Lila's due date.
*Teaching. Being with my students all day gives me a sense of purpose and makes me feel like I am doing something good in the world.
* Attending a memorial service for all the babies who were lost within the past couple of months.

Thank you, Bliley Funeral Home, for honoring our babies with a beautiful ceremony.

I could start by sharing facts and statistics about miscarriage, ones I didn't know until I went through it.
*Approximately one in FOUR pregnancies end in loss. One in four, y'all. I am not alone, and that makes me so sad. I hate that this is so common.
*About half of early miscarriages are genetic. Something was wrong with the baby, and he/she would not have survived, so our bodies know this and miscarry.
* Some miscarriages are hormonal. Others are due to infection/illness. Still others are anatomical.
*Most women with one or two losses will go on to have a normal, healthy pregnancy and carry a baby full term.
* Being tested to find out WHY we miscarry usually isn't done until after the third miscarriage.

I don't really know where to start, though. My thoughts are too jumbled to sort into a cohesive and organized post. So I'll just copy and paste something I wrote for myself last week:

Sometimes you think you're fine and then you burst into tears because you can dive after a volleyball...and you shouldn't be able to because you SHOULD be 18 weeks pregnant but you're not... and you have to remind yourself that it is ok to cry, that crying isn't weak, and that it's ok to still feel sad for the baby you lost over a month ago,

Sometimes you see a pregnant woman and you smile because you're happy that there is new life in the world. But sometimes you're angry because it's unfair that it's not you. But sometimes you're also sad because you think, "That should be me." And other times, you don't know what to think or feel because you're a little numb.


Sometimes you go to your baby's grave without telling anyone. You just go alone, your black flats crunching disrespectfully on the gravel road edged by flowers upon flowers upon flowers--some fake and some real but all blossoming with love--, all adorning unmarked graves that hold tiny babies. You know that inside those graves are little white caskets, some with three or four babies in them because the babies were small.


Your baby's grave is still piled high with angry red dirt, but sometimes, if you feel up to it, you examine other graves, ones flat as a pancake and covered with scraggly crab grass. A giraffe lies on its side, pink and dusty. An orange toy car is parked next to a blue pinwheel that isn't moving because the air is so still it feels like time is frozen.
 
Sometimes you think you're ready to try again. And sometimes you know you're not because you're terrified. What if you miscarry again? What if people think you're trying to replace the first baby you lost? What if you have trouble getting pregnant this time?

Today, October 15, 2015, my heart goes out to all of you mamas and daddies who have lost a baby. We will remember them wishing we could hold them and watch them grow up and longing for the day we will meet them in heaven. To all the sweet babies we have lost, to my own Lila Grace- we love you.

My Forever Child

Please stop reading

1) if you think this post is for attention or sympathy; it is not,

2) if discussions of miscarriages are triggering for you, or

3) if you think discussions of miscarriages should be private and not public.

If you continue reading, please

1) keep and open mind and heart,

2) say a quick prayer for grieving mothers and fathers everywhere,

3) hug and kiss your own kids extra hard today,

4) know that if you are pregnant, know that I am not jealous...I smile when I see you and am truly happy for you and your unborn child,

5) know that if you see me in person, there is no need to tiptoe around me...just treat me normally...I need normalcy in my life; so if you say you're sorry for my loss and then move on quickly in the conversation, I am ok with that; if you have questions, I am ok answering those, too :) Even better would be a good knock knock joke ;) Seriously, though. I am in a place where I can talk about this.

and finally... 

4) please...take a minute to count your blessings and express thankfulness for them. Go hug your baby or kiss your spouse or text your parents or post a funny link on your sibling's Facebook wall. Let them know you love them and are thankful for them. 

________________________________________________________

I have prayed and thought about whether to write this. As I type this, in the wee hours of the morning on August 29th, 2015, with a purring cat on my lap, alternating between typing and curling up in a ball on the floor sobbing, I am truly not sure when or if I will share this with the world or if I will just write to process my own feelings. I like to grieve in private, and I like to be "tough."

However, I assure you...my sincere and earnest prayer is that maybe my story will bring some semblance of healing or comfort to someone somewhere. I also pray that God would be glorified and His love, faithfulness, and provision would be evident throughout this story.

Dear, sweet, Lila Grace,

July 16, 2015, was one of the happiest, most confusing, most overwhelming days of my life. There had been a few months of "not avoiding" pregnancy and a few months of no success (and tears and worry on my part that something was "wrong" with us, even though I knew the statistics were in our favor). Every period I had was met with dismay, and I told your dad, "I'm not sure if I can do this, emotionally, anymore." However, I decided to stop worrying and really turn it over to the Lord. I started praying 1 Samuel 1:27: "For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him."

The month I started making that my prayer and not worrying, I didn't even realize when I was late. It was July 16th when I got not one, not two, but THREE strong positive pregnancy tests. Maybe overkill, but I was shocked it was finally positive- I've taken so many tests over the years, and they were all negative :) Your dad was surprised, too, but we were elated and immediately began planning your future. You were supposed to arrive on March 10, 2016, a date that will forever be so bittersweet for us. Your dad obviously wanted to name you either Luke or Leia, and he wouldn't have complained about putting light sabers in your nursery, either. On the other hand, I often daydreamed about which classic books I could use as inspiration for your name or nursery. The important thing for you to know, sweet Lila, is that you are and were loved, and you were SO very wanted. You were not an accident, and we were thrilled for the challenge and blessing of being your parents. It is important to me that you know that you were wanted and welcome and anticipated with much joy.

If you'd been able to stay on earth with us, you'd know that your mom likes to do everything by the rules and is a planner and, just maybe sometimes, can be a bit of a control freak. I'd already read so many journal articles, blog posts, and even books about pregnancy and childbirth, and my bookshelf quickly filled with even more books (thank you, Amazon Prime) to read in preparation for your arrival. I knew I couldn't be a perfect mom, but I did want to be informed and make every decision I could to ensure you were healthy and well cared for. I created multiple Google Docs with research about everything from birth plans to cloth diapers to breastfeeding. I went on a birth center tour and took a class on birth choices, and I began visiting my chiropractor regularly again. I started researching prenatal yoga and La Leche League. I wanted to do as much right for you as I could.

I chose, personally, to forgo any first trimester ultrasounds. Transvaginal ultrasounds have a very slight risk of increasing miscarriage (according to some research I did). I am so glad I made this choice, because even though I never got to hear your heartbeat, I have peace that your dad and I did everything we believe was right for your well-being.

So you can imagine my excitement when your 12-week appointment FINALLY arrived! I was going to meet with a midwife. I was going to hear your heartbeat. I was going to share our beautiful pregnancy announcement pictures with the world and let EVERYONE know how excited we were to welcome you!

The joy we felt about being your parents, captured by Lindsey Martin Photography. 



I went to my appointment alone, by choice. I knew I wasn't having an ultrasound yet, so it wasn't a super big deal that your dad wasn't with me. After a great check-up with the midwife, she pulled out the doppler and said, "Now, I might not be able to hear the heartbeat if the baby is turned in a strange position. So no panicking if you don't hear it, ok?" I assured her I'm not a freaker-outer and that I'd be calm. After about ten minutes of searching, the doppler gliding all over my slick-with-ultrasound-gel stomach, we heard no heartbeat.

So my midwife said, "I'm not going to let you leave today without hearing the heartbeat because I know you must be a little nervous right now. I don't do ultrasounds, but there's another midwife here who does. Let me see if she'd be willing to take a peek for you."

That other midwife, Melanie, is an angel. She was a gift from God on this tragic Thursday. She couldn't find a heartbeat either, but she said, "I'm kind of new working with this machine, so let me call the perinatal office next door and see if they have someone available who can check for you."

I'll be completely honest- by this point, I was mentally preparing myself for the worst. I was praying fervently to see a strong flicker on the screen, but I was also praying for the ability to stay calm and rational, if necessary. I saw you on the screen, small and still, not swimming around like I knew you should've been doing, not moving at all- so tiny, so human, so perfect.

Needless to say, the perinatal doctor couldn't find anything. I kept glancing over at Melanie the midwife, who accompanied me to the perinatal doctor, and I could tell my her stoic face that things weren't looking good. And even more worrisome was the measurement I saw on the screen: 9 weeks, 2 days. You were supposed to be at least 11 weeks, 5 days. Based on what I'd read about, I pretty much knew then it was what they call a "missed miscarriage."

Finally, the perinatal doctor delivered those devestating words, kindly and honestly, "I'm afraid I have some bad news: the baby is dead. There is no heartbeat, and it is measuring about two weeks too small. There is no way to know if the heart stopped beating two weeks ago or two days ago. I am sorry for your loss."

I thanked him, numbly and quietly, head spinning, reality not sinking in yet, and Melanie walked me back to her office. From there, I called your dad. That was the straw that broke my back. Having to tell your daddy, my high school sweetheart, that we'd lost you...hearing his voice...the tears I'd been so resolutely holding back were stronger than I was, and I cried. After talking to your dad, I made a plan with Melanie. We chose to have a D&C procedure (basically, it was described to me as all the "pregnancy" things being removed from my body and my uterine lining being scraped out). As much as I like to avoid procedures and let my body do what it does naturally, I knew the emotional turmoil of having you inside of me for one or possibly two more weeks would be too great and wouldn't allow me to start the grieving process.

I won't go into details about that procedure, but I have to take a moment to emphasize how utterly WONDERFUL the medical staff at St. Francis is. All my nurses and doctors (Chanda, Margaret, Lori, Cathy, Dr. M, and Dr. W) were just so kind and genuine. They all said they were sorry for my loss and hugged me or patted my arm. A couple of the nurses shared their own miscarriage stories, which helped me feel not as alone and brought me comfort. I have always had the utmost respect for nurses, but I want to give special thanks for them - I know they are overworked, underappreciated, underpaid, and yet they were the epitome of patient and kind. Truly angels walking on earth.

One nurse even said to me, "Someday I'm going to see you walking through the mall with a stroller and your own little bundle, and you won't remember me but I'll see you and be happy." I made a point of remembering her first and last name so that I can say hi to her when I DO see her in the mall someday ;)

The procedure went fine. I won't bore you with the details of the procedure and recovery. Family and a few close friends were lifting me and your dad up in prayer. Prayer is a powerful thing, my sweet child.

I feel so empty, like there is a giant black hole in my stomach, like something has been ripped from my gut, like part of me is truly missing. I have grieved before because I have lost people I love. But this grief is so... different. With others, I had fond memories to lean on and smile about. With you, I had hopes and dreams, and those will never come to fruition.



Your dad and I were so thrilled for this next step in our relationship.
Thanks again, Lindsey Martin Photography.

Your dad and I both thought (and I firmly believe) you are a girl, so I found myself wondering if you'd play volleyball (and sometimes even what position you'd play, obviously hoping you'd be a setter but trying to tell myself maybe you'd get lucky and be tall and be able to play middle). If you'd like playing in the mud and fishing like I did or if you'd like playing with Barbies (I would've been ok with either!). If you'd be feisty and opinionated like me or calm and gentle like your dad. If you'd love the Encyclopedia Brown books, like I did. If we'd argue about your skirts being too short and you wanting to get your nose pierced someday. If you would sing or play piano or be drawn to some other creative outlet I'm not, like dancing or drawing.

I had so many questions- would you get the sushi-loving gene from my dad's Japanese side of the family? Would you let me braid your hair before bedtime so it wouldn't be tangled in the morning? How wrapped around your little finger would your sweet daddy be? Would you stand on top of his feet and dance with him around the kitchen? Would he succeed in getting you to love Star Wars? Would you be able to convince him to get a dog?

My heart is utterly broken, and I am aching knowing I will never, ever  know the answers to those questions. 

But...I cannot emphasize this enough... I am so thankful for you. Being your mom, even if only for a few weeks, changed me. I prayed more frequently and fervently than I ever have in my life. I tried to take good care of my body. I found myself praying for every pregnant woman I saw. I found myself looking at difficult people and saying, "They are someone's baby, too," and thinking about how I'd want someone to treat you. I am so thankful God gave you to us. We were so honored to be your parents. 

As I am sure you can tell from this letter to you, your dad and I firmly and unapologetically believe you were a human life, a baby. And perhaps that is part of what makes grieving so hard. In our society, many would disagree with us. After all, how can someone say, "I'm sorry for your loss" on one hand but think it's ok to abort a baby your age on the other hand? The two are incongruent to me. I have always been staunchly pro-life, but this experience has solidified that belief even more. It pains me to think that some people don't view you as a baby. You are, and always will be, our baby and our first child, and the love I feel for you is truly indescribable. How can I love someone I've never met SO much, so deeply, to the core of my being?

Perhaps the most important thing to note, sweet baby, is that I am not angry at God. There have been a couple times I've wanted to be. But I feel His peace and His comfort around me, so real and so palpable, like a weighted blanket covering me and shielding me. I am not sure what God's plan is, but I trust Him. He is faithful, and He is good, and He is gracious, and I praise Him and thank Him for the blessing you were to your dad and I (and to our family and friends who shared in our joy).

I know you are with Him now, and I cannot wait to see you someday and hold you in my arms, my arms that are aching to hold you. I just want to snuggle you and kiss the top of your downy head and breathe in your sweet baby scent and count your fingers and toes and tickle you and sing to you. I want to hear you call me "Mom" and crawl up into my lap for a bedtime story. I want to check on you when you sleep, see your tiny chest rising and falling. I want to change your smelly diapers and try to comfort you when you're crying and struggle through the hardest job on earth: being a mom. I want that more than I have every wanted anything. You are so loved, and so missed, and we will always remember you.

Some people have said some rude and insensitive things to me. I try to remind myself their intentions are good. I know that sometimes people don't know what to say.  But really, people just saying they are sorry and praying is the absolute best thing. Not, "Your baby is better off with God right now." Not, "You're young! You still have time to have another." I know they are trying to be helpful, and I know that in the past before this experience, I might have been tempted to offer platitudes or Christian-ese phrases, but honestly, they are just not helpful in this situation. The most helpful thing is when they just say, "I'm so sorry. I'm praying for/thinking of you guys." Or when they listen to me talk about you-- that helps a lot, too, because it me feel like more people will remember or know about you, thus solidifying that you were a tiny person and not a blob of cells.

Maybe I will have kids sometime in the future, but none of our future children will ever replace you. Maybe this is what God wanted, but it is still utterly devastating. Maybe it is the result of living in a sinful world, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept. Maybe I wasn't further along in my pregnancy, but you were and are still our child.

We love you, sweetheart. Thank you for blessing us and being God's instrument to bring us more joy than you can imagine. You are the best thing that has happened to us. We can't wait to meet you in heaven someday. 

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

With all a mother's love,

Your mama

Not afraid

Today I'm blogging from one of my favorite places ever: Starbucks. I know the drinks are overpriced (I have a gift card today). I know coffee isn't all that great for you (everything in moderation). And I know that the barista messed up my drink (I saw her pour nonfat milk instead of soy), but she looks like she is having a stressful day and they are understaffed, so I just smiled and thanked her. Everyone makes mistakes.

When I was in high school, I remember thinking that I was old, wise, knowledgeable, and mature. I remember looking at my friends and going, "What the heck are you thinking? You idiot!" when really, I was jealous of them for taking risks and being goofy. I was afraid of what people thought of me, afraid of not being perfect. I was afraid to make mistakes. To try something and fail. To not be good at something, like dancing or water skiing or playing guitar. I was afraid to raise my hand in class in case I said the wrong answer (this is something I should probably address in another post, now that I'm a teacher).

I am still awful at a lot of things. I am a slightly better dancer now, and I will speak up in class. But the difference between 16-year-old me and 23-year-old me is this: I am not as afraid to mess up.

Notice I didn't say I'm not afraid at all. I am. But I don't feel the need to punish myself over mistakes or to pretend I'm someone I'm not, most of the time. There is freedom and grace in Christ, not condemnation and shame. My self worth doesn't come from my abilities or talents or looks or any of that other stuff that used to matter so much, and sometimes still does. What's important isn't what I do, necessarily, but who I am. How I treat others. How I love others. How I serve and accept.

Someone who's taught me a lot about this is my sweet husband. He knows allnabout me, and he loves me unconditionally, really and truly. He is one of the kindest, most caring souls I have ever met, and I have become a more selfless person because of the way he has treated me. He reminds me that no matter what I do, he will support me.

And that, friends, is one of the greatest gifts of all. When we feel safe-both emotionally and physically- we are not so afraid to take risks and be ourselves. Knowing this makes me want to be a safe person to be around, too.

And now I'm out of coffee, so I bring this post to an abrupt and awkward end. But I'm not afraid because I know you will all love me anyway.