OCGoodmama

This month marks a year of me leaving church. This Month of May. You will always hold a spot in my heart for a season that I thought would crush me, that I thought would dry me out, and drag me back home with nothing to show from these Sunday scars. Last year, in May, I knew it was over.

We were over in a way that I could no longer reconcile, and that I could no longer reframe. And here I am, a year later, and it’s May again, and goodness gracious, I am still standing. True characteristics of those who have walked through some fire, and maybe drank a ton of wine.

I remember the last sermon I heard preached from the pulpit. It was on hell, and I didn’t like it. Maybe a better bang of a message to go out on would have been on heaven, but hell seemed more appropriate for the time to walk out, and to actually walk away.

This year marked one of lots and lots of loss, not like the hell that was preached if I didn’t accept a certain theology or way of being, but more of a spiritual hell. Its really, really hard to go from being invited to no longer feeling included.

To feel like the doors that have always been opened now feel shut. That the walls that have always welcomed you with open arms are now feeling like arms that have an agenda, an opinion, and an absolute answer.

What do you do? Where do you go?

I never envisioned myself just walking away. And if I am being really honest, for those who have walked very near and dear to us in this past season, also know that there were a lot of attempts to not let it all unravel and fall apart.

There were a lot of sleepless nights, good counsel, and scriptural ways I abided by to make it “work”. To save what I always believed could be saved. Life groups. Best friends. Church Community. They had to be saved right? If we ALL couldn’t save these fragmented friendships, how could we ever save anyone else? When salvation is the goal, and saving relationships is not, we all start to unravel at some level. We kinda all lose the point. When its more important to be “right” than to be in “right relationship” with one another, where does that land us, how does that launch us and encourage us, and where do we actually go from here?

I wasn’t just going to walk away. Until, I knew I just had to walk away. It wasn’t that simple, and yet it also was too. I was falling apart, and it all was at the same time too. These things all seem to be connected I realize. My relationship with the church, and my theology was starting to tear at the seams a bit, and honestly, I wasn’t the same girl who walked into church all those years ago too. I was starting to form my own opinions, and see things through the lens of a different light, and I wasn’t about to let myself surrender.

I had to walk away to deconstruct, I had to walk away to survive.

There were way too many sit downs, and too many words to count. It was like a game of beer pong that I could never win, {minus the beer of course}. There were so many opinions, and correct communication channels, that I knew by the end, I just couldn’t show up to play on the same playground any longer.

Our time had come, my time as a thirty-something always “in church” girl now became a girl “without a church” to call home. Me, the girl who served coffee in front of the church for so many years, who led bible studies, and breakout groups; our expiration date was now past due.

Our love affair was severed. The balloon had popped; the air deflated, my heart broken in ten thousand pieces. The way in which we had done was done. We had gone stale. The plays had changed. The playground looked different now, and it was time to get off the slide. My keeping up to keep up, and my showing up to show up, it was not serving either of us any longer. It was time to get off the court, and into the community, it was time to go back to the basics where I feel like I was called to the entire time. It was time to leave.

Leaving church for a church girl like me after all these years seems like leaving your homeland. It might sound extreme to those not in the system, but to those who have always served and stood by, it felt like saying goodbye, it felt like loss, and suffering, and sadness and remorse. For me at the end it called one million questions to mind, but ultimately these three stood out: “Should we stay?” “Should we save this”, or “Should we just go”.

The honest truth is there is no answer outside your Heart and the Holy Spirit. The opinions around you will feel like “college credentials”, and the scriptures used to try to keep you to stay will feel like “source”, but the nudging’s of the Holy Spirit for me have always felt like wind, and parking lots, and leaning into the listening that I hear in those spots.

It feels like the beach grass in my backyard, and the shoes I take off at the shore. It feels so much more than what I actually thought I wanted, and what I thought I needed, and what I was hoping to explore.

It feels like Holy Ground. The Holy Spirit has His way of leading us, and it involves His ways, and also the ways He has created us to hear. When I lean in and listen, and when I hear Him the most has zero to do with what’s happening behind the walls of a church building, and in the weather patterns of the church.

The end will feel like the end. Hear me this loud and clear: The end felt like hell.

But what I discovered after almost a year later is that it’s more like the beginning. The start of walking away feels like a stop. It feels like a giant red light. But once you give yourself the green light to go, once you give yourself the permission to leave, there in lies the real adventure. There in begins going back to the basics: the really coming to terms with what you believe, what you want to listen to and how you want to live your life. The Holy Spirit, Jesus, God-They don’t abandon, this trinity of togetherness, they actually seem to draw in more close. They comfort, and they mourn with you, they see you, and remind you that they know you best.

You will be led into the wilderness, and you will be called beloved. You will see things in ways that you never have before. You will be wooed and won over, pursued, and delighted in. You will not be forsaken and left. The wild dance into the wilderness will be excruciatingly painful, but it’s just the beginning, and it’s just the start.

Good Friday.

You created me to care more about Sunday than I do about Friday.

It’s actually how YOU made ME.

Your journey led to Friday, but I see Sunday.

Your shame, scorn, and scars are now my victory. You are my victory.

You remind me of this every time I break bread, pass the wine, share the seat, open my table & love. You taught me this. You led me here. Thank you, just thank you. Thank you for seeing me this Friday, in all my joy and jubilee, because we both see YOU & what’s coming this Sunday…& it’s you my Savior in all Your Splendor. I adore you. ✨

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On Monday, I gave myself the permission to go to the sea. I bought a coffee and a sandwich and I sat long enough to sip and bite. I responded to emails overlooking the shore, took my shoes off and walked the sand instead of run the road. I forget sometimes that I have been pushing so hard at this stay at home mom gig that I have forgotten the simplicity of being a student of the sea, and a human with such a love and connection to the water. Mothering and myself. The two of us are so tangled and gloriously connected I cannot separate the two.

This past year has also been the biggest unravelling of my faith as I have stepped away from a community and church that for so long loved me and carried me. I have had to face the dark nights, moments & memories of not being welcomed, not being listened too, and not being accepted for my own opinion and my voice.

This side of the tracks is ZERO for the faint of heart. And yet freedom is closely becoming more and more my own, and a new belief that deconstruction actually leads to maturity as we grow, question, and we most of all…continue to hope.
I put so much faith in a tribe when all along I’m realizing my hope needs to be in only Jesus. And that it’s okay to wrestle with “where are you” when your stranded at sea. He too has been stranded on the sea and if I remember correctly, when great fear was rampant…He was the only one who was able to calm the storm.

The one that stands by and never steps away. The one that takes the old shoes away, and shares with my heart it’s time to let go, and be barefoot baby girl, and keep walking on. Walk on, walk on.

There is something that can only be felt when we have to walk the road of the dirt and dust barefoot and broken footed {and hearted}. There is a time to mourn, and there is a time to move on. I feel like I have permission completely to move on.

There is a renewed sense of adventures awaiting, and a fresh sense of gratitude for the ending, and the permission to grab some fresh shoes.

Sometimes he has to literally strip us of all we have left, completely take the shoes away from us so we have to walk the dirt, and the ground of grit to a new season of glory.

Gary. It’s been not even 12 hours since you have passed. And the thought of you leaves me sad, and leaves me crying, and leaves me where you always left me, laughing and wishing, and hoping, and praying.

Gary. I remember meeting you in front of a Starbucks, my local Ladera Starbucks, years ago. Has it been years? Where has the time flown? You and I met, I am not sure how, or why, but of course, because we loved to talk, and laugh, and share, and be to one another how I feel like were supposed to be on this earth.

You held court on that front porch of that coffee shop steps. You were, and will always be to me the mayor of my Starbucks.

Gary. You were such a man. You would open all the doors, you would watch Samantha so I could go to the bathroom, you would buy my coffee, and order her cookies, and you would make my day. Gary. I already miss you so much.

Gary, you were a friend to me in a season where my friends were all far away. I was a new mom, and my days were long, and I was looking for friendship, and company, chatter, and companionship. You were all those things to me, and so much more, and gosh, I just want to say thank you.

I think for a year we probably saw each other almost daily. I was running outside like a wild woman in that season, and I would eat breakfast and catch a coffee after my run. I would always hope I didn’t miss you. You were on a schedule, and so was I.

If our days met, and they mostly did, I would love to see your smile, and your face, and hear one of your stories for the day. You would love to tell me about the weather, and it was such a welcomed relief, it was so neutral and safe for both of us. You loved this gal on channel nine, and she was always wrong about the weather. We would laugh, and joke, because wasn’t it always warm and sunny in Ladera Ranch? Of course it was.

You would greet my daughter Sam with the biggest grin, and she came to love you. She is a hard sell, so it meant a lot. I would sit with you sometimes out front, or I would meet friends out by the fountain in the back. Either way, you or I would always make a point to say hi, and bye, we were a stopping point in each other’s days.

You were encouraging, and loving, and gosh, we disagreed on pretty much everything when it came to religion and politics, but I didn’t really care, I loved you that much. See, here is the thing; we all loved you that much. We will always love you that much.

Today, I told Samantha you died. I mean, it doesn’t get more real than that. And all she kept saying, and all she kept wishing is that you didn’t die. She kept asking why you had to, and why you wanted too, and I reminded her, I didn’t think that you did.

Who ever does? Death is so brutal, and so terminal, and so final in the eyes of this world. It’s scary, and unsure, and daunting. I remember seeing that sense of it all in your eyes in December. Who the hell wants to die?

And yet, this morning, your precious Taylor, the one I have always heard about, and loved to hear about texted me. It caught me so off guard. She said you passed last night. Gosh darn-it Gary, this wasn’t the way I wanted it to end. And maybe you didn’t too. I didn’t want cancer to attack your body, and your bones, and take you out.

Dammit. You were the healthiest man I knew at your age. You walked up hill back and forth every darn day to claim your office spot on the front porch of that coffee shop. And yet, it’s a brutal and bad disease, and some how, you caught it. I am so sorry for that. This world is just so unpredictable like that.

All I could do when she texted me was catch my breath. In, and out, and in and out I went. And yet, there was this little caveat, the hope of so many prayers. You came to know my Jesus at the end. Gosh darn-it Gary, at the very end, you accepted my best friend.

Can I tell you I believe in the base of my heart, and the center of my foundation there is no better place than you to be tonight than with my best friend? Jesus. Gosh, it’s so good. He is so good. I can just imagine the place you are, the hope that you have, the feelings of friendship and a permanent sense of family you now have. Gary, it doesn’t get better than where you are, and whom you are with. You’re in good hands. I know this.

And I can envision, and hope and pray that in my humanness, in my imagination of what heaven is like, you’re at some Starbucks, or the heaven equivalent, and you have the front table. That it’s all feeling new, because you’re a new man. That you’re worshipping, because He is worthy, and you now know that for sure. And all I can think about is the joy you must feel now.

So today, on this gorgeous, glorious Saturday, on February 6, 2016, a day I know that you would have loved to have stopped out front and gave us a wave, and given my girls a hug, and said hello, I had to face that table, your table. I had to walk through those doors, your doors, they will always be yours, and stand in line, and order my drinks, and sit with tears flowing down my face. And today, I sat and I sipped that coffee inside, and thought about your presence outside.

I thought about your front table, and your front space, and those front chairs, and how they will never ever be replaced. You will never be replaced.

Gary, you have big shoes to fill. And I hope some days when I stop in to get a coffee, that I, and my little tribe can take your place. I hope as the years go on, and I get older and my girls get bigger, I can sit at your front table and do justice to how you held court in front of that coffee shop. I hope to live into your legacy of love, and laughter, story telling and ridiculous joke sharing, and be to others what you were to me, a gosh darn, good friend.

We will miss you Gary, each and every day that we grab that cup of coffee, and forever on. Thank you for loving each and every one of us so darn well.

I have been thinking about turning thirty all year. But if I am really being honest, I think I have been realistically thoughtful about turning thirty for about ten years now.

It all goes back to my early twenties, and the part of me that longed to be older, and more established, and married. For some reason, to me, those went hand in hand. And then, marriage hit, and as I focused more on my career, I thought about who I could be, what role I would play, what my job title would be at thirty.

For a while I wanted the big job, the career that I could brag about, the respect I thought I would ultimately get if I were “this” or “that” in the marketing and advertising world. I looked up to ladies I saw who had those jobs, those titles, those careers that seemed to somehow marvel others, and interest friends, and family.

I knew I also wanted kids, and wondered how I would balance work with motherhood if at all. I watched gals at work who tried to balance it all, and I knew back then even that it was a dance, one that seemed delicate, daring, and honestly, down right hard. I wondered if I would dance that dance or if I would stay at home.

That also seemed hard. For lots of reasons, but the one I kept toying in my mid-twenties was the sense that if I stayed at home, I was letting myself, my degree, and the woman inside who knew she could if she worked hard enough hang her hat on any title she wanted.

And then I became a mom, and when that became my full time job, I decided that I wanted all my babies before I turned thirty. I think I kind of wanted it like a newly found attainable badge of honor, that if I wasn’t going to continue my career, then at least I could have a bundle of babies that would show success to others, and to that singular part of myself who still wanted to succeed at something grand and great. Yes, a bundle of babies, now that would do it!

Now, don’t get me wrong, what I thought of motherhood and what it has turned out to be has been radically different than I could have ever imagined. Motherhood is incredible, and downright exhausting, rewarding, and challenging too.

But, as I turned twenty-nine, it became clearer and clearer that this “twenties” goal of having all my babies before I turned thirty was now a wild card, as my second turned out to be a girl too. I thought you got what you grew up with, and having another girl threw me for a loop.

When I found out that Addie was a girl, God began graciously showing me that the kid-card, the possibility of a third was still up in the air regardless of gender. And I began to think, that this goal of being done with pregnancy and nursing, and rearing one more was for sure still up for grabs.

These “twenty-something” goals and dreams, thoughts and ideas were all starting to fade in light of my thirties. They were starting to disappear in the brightness of what I ended up learning in my twenties and discovering about marriage, motherhood, and life in general. I was growing up, in the most basic sense, seeing that some of what I use to think I didn’t any longer, and that was okay too.

I spent a lot of time last year letting go, laying down, and ultimately seeing that change was really good too. Our family changed as we added a second, we changed churches, we changed some things in our marriage, we changed up the business, and we both changed habits about ourselves. We gave more, fought less, dreamed more, laughed more, and worried less. 2014 will go down in the books as one of the best years yet.

It will always be the year before I turned thirty that I look back on with giddy and glee, wonder and whimsy. My twenty-ninth year, the end of my “twenties”, the end of that era, is one to remember.

The twenties for me marked so many milestones. Finishing college, getting married, travel, advertising, marketing, house ownership, and motherhood times two. It was an incredible decade, one to hold on to tenderly, despite some goals and dreams not coming true too.

I learned this past year, and looking back, I think slowly over the past ten years that dreaming, and goal setting are stellar. What would we be without dreams, goals and to-dos? I know I need them in my life as a framework for my days and my year. But, change, that is harder, and better, and what I have started striving more for as I look into my thirties.

As one chapter has ended, a beautiful, chapter for sure, I look onto the next with excitement, and anticipation. And Hope. As all new chapters begin, I think hope is the best way to start.

I am setting goals, and dreams, both individually, within our family, and for our marriage too for the next decade ahead. The best part about having a birthday right around the New Year is that your birthday and the New Year both start at the same time. Lots of new. Lots of great new.

December was full of a lot of reflection. Honest to goodness introspection. And January is full of goal setting, meal planning, family scheduling, travel booking, house remodeling, and as I am learning, letting myself dare to dream a bit more.

One thing I am sure about, I am confident in, is that the closer I got to turning thirty, the more excited I get about life ahead. Regardless of the title, the bundle of babies, the laundry and dishes that still need to get done, I have more confidence the older I get, the better it gets. Looking forward, looking up, linking arms, and running ahead, thirty, cheers to you.

Here we are Christmas. Here we are trimmed trees and cookie exchanges, stocking stuffers, and {soon-to-be} presents under the tree. And here we are expectations, long lines and long list’s too. Here we are Christmas. Over-spend, over-commit and over-do. Here we are Christmas. A baby in a manager, hope and joy, simplicity, and Good News. Choose the chaos, or choose the calm.

This season, I have been fighting hard to maintain the peace. The peace in our home, the peace in our schedule, the peace in our family, and the peace most of all in me. Something about this season, and the wild expectations we put on others, and ourselves can leave us drained and depleted. You know that, and I know that too.

Life has been rolling in fast motion for us since Thanksgiving. And for us, it seemed it started even earlier this year, around Halloween. A dishwasher leak in our house left us without a working kitchen for weeks in November, the wood floor around the island has been pulled up, and the dishwasher removed. All, that’s left in the kitchen around the island is wood, nails and concrete too. Jordan even staple-gunned blankets to the exposed area, so we can somehow still move, and cook, clean, and let Addie crawl.

Were in the process of battling insurance companies, and waiting, doing a lot of waiting, for next steps. The battle for peace has definitely been in my home, and most of all, here in my heart. Some days I have lost the battle, all frustrated and angry by my circumstances around. I have sighed in loud aggravation at the lack of a quick fix, and cried in tiredness at this project I didn’t want to take on.

Being a stay at home mama is lovely, and wonderful, but it’s still my day {and night} job, so taking care of two little’s, the feeding, napping, and playing, has been challenging to do on what feels like a live construction site. Managing people in and out, jack hammers, and tents; it’s not what I was planning on as the precursor to the Holidays.

And yet, here we are Christmas. Here I am whether I wanted it or not, in the midst of construction and chaos. I have had to wrap my mind around cancelling events I was supposed to host, and a home that does not whatsoever feel 100% settled. I am getting cozy waiting, and trying to not kick and scream while I do it.

Last year was one thing with a newborn, this year, is another with a house under wraps. And yet, as weird as it is, as funny as it sounds, I am back to the same place of having to lay down my schedule, lay down these plans, and surrender my program.

The more I push, the more I resist, the more I try to control the less peace I have. And as I’m trying to get one more thing crossed off the list, and to one more event on time, I am faced with the simple fact that in my own presence, in my own plans, I can’t cultivate the kind of peace that I am after.

And when I slow down enough, when I calm down enough, when I gather my thoughts, sit down instead of forge ahead He reminds me of this: I have all I need. That He lets us rest. He is the one who leads us into peace, He renews, anchors and guides. He doesn’t pour on guilt or more expectations, He doesn’t look at us with disappointment and frustration. He looks at us with tender eyes, with love and kindness.

For the longest time this past month I have sat down to write about peace and my path in the midst of construction to find it.  I have struggled for words, crossed out paragraphs, and deleted entry after entry. Today, I pushed through it all to try to discover what was holding me back. And funny thing is I was the one holding me back. I was holding myself back from real peace by trying to be my own peace.

You see, anytime I try to be my own peace, my friends peace, my husbands peace, I will come up not enough. I am not supposed to be my own peace. I am not supposed to be your peace, and your not supposed to be mine.

Our peace already came, that Christmas night, wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in the manager, in the middle of the night. The lowliest of places, in the midst of chaos, He brought Peace. He was peace, is peace, will always be the only peace. And He wants me to see that, and you to see that too.

His presence brings us peace. In the middle of the night when your fear wants to flare up, He wants to be your peace. During that doctor’s appointment where signs are all pointing red, He wants to be your peace. In the midst of a home that feels chaotic, with children running around, He wants to be my peace too.

I don’t do a good job of being my own peace. It always leaves me dry. And yet His peace on the other hand will always give me freedom, and brings me rest, because His burden is light. Lighter than anything I could ever feel, stronger than anything I could ever lift, His Presence is the best home for our hearts this Holiday. Maybe this Christmas its time to make some room in the midst of your own life that might feel under construction for a Savior who brings Good News, the best kind of News. He is joy, hope, and our peace.

You Have All You Need. He Wants You to Rest. He Guides You. He Anchors You. His Burden is Light. And His Presence is Your Peace. {Psalm 23}

Merry Christmas, may we return, or maybe for the first time finally really come home for the Holidays.