Self Talk: no one is more influential in your life more than yourself. Why? Because no one talks to you more than you talk to yourself. Let that sit there for a moment. I recently heard a statement like that and pondered the thought. Self talk. I talk to God, but do I talk to myself? Yes, I do. I may even talk to myself more than I talk to God, and then I try to say, well I was talking to God, not myself.

When I was young I had a person in my life start me on a journey of scripture memorization and as I grew it became more and more of a passion of mine to memorize God’s word. I was on a journey of reading and discovering God’s word. On this journey what I discovered at first was knowledge, but what I ultimately found was God. I found the God of the Bible. The memorized verses became my self talk. I had the verse in Jeremiah reminding me despite my current circumstances that often left me feeling like I was drowning, that the God of the universe had a plan and a purpose for my life. Plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me a hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11) I had my filter verse. The choices, or decisions I made needed to be filtered through is it true, is it admirable, is it noble, or is it excellent. (phillipians 4:8) I had God’s word reminding me not to be anxious. Don’t anticipate life, participate in life. Pray about everything. Allow God’s peace to fill every part of me. (phillipians 4:6-7) I had Romans 12:1-2 reminding me not to confirm to this broken world, but to be transformed. To be renewed. The book of Isaiah told me to put my hope in the Lord, who will renew my strength and I will sore on wings like eagles. God will not grow tired, but I in my humanness will grow tired and weak. The Psalms are filled with words that can uplift our spirits. The righteous call out to God, and wait for it- God hears them! God will deliver them. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (psalm 34:17-18) God delivers. Sometimes our deliverance isn’t instantaneous. Sometimes, we have to sift through the garbage around us, sometimes we have to wait, have patience. God meets us where we are in life. God meets us and loves us. Psalms 23 tells us surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life.

And then one day, the God self talk stopped. One day it suddenly stopped! No, it slowly, ever so slowly began to wither away from my mind, from my heart, and from my being. The words of Romans 12:1-2 rang clear, do not conform to the patterns of this world, yet somewhere along the way, the messages of the past, messages of the present, the messages from the church weren’t the messages of a God self talk. I had withered away. I had allowed the desolation of life to become just that – desolate. The brokenness of the past was slithering its way into me, taking root, and pushing to the surface. I had this little string like faith connection to God. The once strong strand that connected me to God, had deteriorated, to a little thin string.  My self talk was filled with unworthiness, the inability to be loved, to make people proud, to be accepted , to be anything but a failure or disappointment. This spiraling out of control self talk eventually became compiled with so many other facets of life’s spinning circles around me. Spinning so violently that I was left dizzy, nauseated, and migrained filled.

My days were roller coasters. One day, I would think these people could love me and then the next day, I would say they can’t possibly love me. I would go back and forth. And because I couldn’t compute what they truly were to me I withdrew myself. I withdrew because it was too hard for me to figure out who I was to them. What I learned is that I needed to discover who I was without them. I need them. I truly believe I do need them, but they can’t be what I need them to be- it’s impossible. I was in this valley. And my one true hope for digging my way out of this valley was God. The one constant I had, was God never let me go. He allowed me to fall into this valley of despair, but He didn’t leave me there alone. I withdrew. It’s all I know what to do. When I get locked into a place of not knowing where I belong I withdraw. These people had filled my mind with all the promises of God. God is Sovereign, God loves me, God is faithful, and He is the same God yesterday, today and tomorrow. They pointed out that I couldn’t pick and choose what I wanted to believe about God. And they were right in ways, I am not sure I will ever fully own up to… but my heart still hurt for what it couldn’t seem to grasp. The fact was I know the Bible. Those memorized words are deeply planted into my mind. The ones that I learned as a young, young believer. I had become afraid to believe them again. What would it mean for me to believe that God loves me despite the fact I am broken, parentless , unwanted by a family, and everyday wake up to the same face in the mirror that reminds me of the scars I carry with me. It’s not just the scars, it’s the part of me who can’t let go of my past. I can’t let go of my imperfections. It’s the part if me that struggles to win approval, to be accepted or to be just me. I assume everyone sees what I see in the mirror every morning and the visual of myself is not a woman who God can use. And in the mirror is a woman with a self talk that doesn’t honor God.

God has placed me in this moment. He has placed me on this journey of rediscovery. Rediscovery of the power of His words, which spoke to me as a young girl. A young girl, who wanted a dad to hug her and tell her that she could make it, a mom to affirm her that what she dreamed in life was possible. But instead I became the girl, who can’t hug, and needs way too much affirmation because so much negativity is filled into that head of hers. So, as I have sulked in these moments, God has revealed His great love for me. Lamentations 3:22 reminds me of the Lord’s great love for us, the darkness will not consume me. God’s compassion never fails, his mercies are new every morning. For great is thy faithfulness. God is Sovereign, He is never helpless, never frustrated, never at a loss. Security is found within His Sovereign presence.

Even though, God is never surprised by anything, I imagine. I imagine God has been saying to me “come home, come home” I may have been lost in the shuffle of finding my way home to Him. The seed planted in my heart, the words so firmly pressed down into the depths of my being is beginning to take another root. God not only meets my greatest need, He is committed to the long-term process. He will not be satisfied until I am fully restored. God is working, but not to give me a predictable, comfortable or pleasurable life. He is working to transform my heart through my circumstances. He is working to transform me and it doesn’t mean restoration, it doesn’t mean I will have the parents my heart wants, it doesn’t mean I will be instantly healed from the trauma, or the deficiencies I see everyday I look in the mirror. It means that God will fill those holes in my heart. It means that my self talk will become “the one Jesus loves” John 13:23. Or John 15: Remain in me and I will remain in you. And I will cling to Psalm 139:16 God’s eyes saw my unformed body, all my days were ordained and written in His book, nothing can happen to me outside the will of God. And so my self talk will press forward and find freedom in the word of God.

Somedays, I stand on the edge of the balcony of a parking garage, just looking out there. I can see the river flowing calmly into what will become Lake Michigan. I look out, I look down and I see the flashes. The mind can be a terrible place to stay locked into for too long. I can look down at what lies beneath my feet, but deep inside of the mind of the eyes that look down is a heavily burdened heart. I stand there for moments, collecting my fighting spirit, in order to find the courage to step back and walk to my car. A troubled mind, many think they can understand, but the normal person, as loving as they may be cannot step into the mind of a broken, trapped, or wounded mind. This mind fights itself, it gives up, gives in, it falls fast, and it gets lost in the thralls of everyday life. The mind needs to escape. The mind needs to find its safe place. Sometimes, it can’t find the safe place. Each place the mind finds becomes another fighting ground with flashes, memories, lost opportunities, or messages that penetrate deep into the heart afflicting it with agony. The mind cannot find rest. The madness of the  mind can strike with the slightest trigger. The trigger ignites a downward spiral. The anxiety of the moment gradually increases with each step. With each step all I can do is hold on, hang tight and be strong. The roller coaster of the emotions that are raging at war within me. A heavily burdened heart and mind, seek to be free from the weights that hold them down. Yet, the release of the pain is exposure. The light exposes our deepest parts. And for me those parts of my mind they are dark, agonizing, and when I enter those times, there is no rest.

So in the moments where I cannot find rest, I run. Each step of my foot is a release. A release of the tension, a release of the broken pain inside, or a release of what I am not.

What do I want… What do I need. I want a moment in time when I am more than I thought I could ever be. I want one moment in time where my dreams are reachable. I want one moment in time where the deepest parts of me didn’t infect my mind to the extent at which it does. A moment in time where I will be free. Free from the distractions, free from the judgement and free from the weight that holds me down so tightly. So that I will be free from it all. I want a moment where I can believe I am a survivor, believe I am of worth something, and a moment where I will not stutter with saying the words “I love you” as if saying them will cause me an inescapable harm. A moment where those words will roll off my tongue as natural as waking up every morning.

Instead I am left with the hesitation, stuttering, or lost moments because I can’t muster the strength to say what the heart feels and longs to embrace. Instead, my mind, heart and soul stay confined, trapped, and held captive staring out into the river that flows below me. A river that flows and appears to have the power to wash away the stricken mind. But the river doesn’t have the power to save me, it truly has no power. So I look down, and then I look up because sometimes we must look up. Look up, open my fisted palms, and walk away. One foot in front of the other and I hope for a moment. A moment when the mind can rest from the demons that can run wild inside of it. One day, I will be healed from my minds trauma, but until that day, it is the cross I must bare, the thorn I must wrestle with until that day comes.

Yesterday, I received a text message at the tail end of my boys soccer game and before my daughter’s last game that I was to coach, that opened up the mended part of my heart. It felt like the pulling apart of the shattered pieces of me. Those parts were pulling away from each other and it was shaking the core of me. The shattered parts that I had worked hard to try to glue back together. As I read the words in the text and tried to respond, the rushing sensation of demons that torment my mind, heart and soul far to often came rushing back to the forefront of my head. Most know me, most know parts of me… most would not realize the depth of the battles that rage within my mind. If I lose a soccer game, make a mistake, or don’t do something the way someone thinks I should. I question. I question myself, my worth, my existence, and my place. I immediately, internalize that I am to blame, I am at fault or something is just wrong with me. Rejection, shame, guilt consume me. I think I am a disappointment and the people, who I think love me I now doubt. As I sat in my car trying to comfort myself and pull myself together for the girls I still needed to coach it was discovered we were at the wrong spot for the game. So I sat in the car getting ready to go 5 minutes up the road, but I needed a minute. I needed to get myself together and then my door popped open and two of my players jumped into my car. “Our dad’s are at the gas station, can you take us?” Yes, yes I can. I can do this. I can pull myself together. A few short texts, so everyone knew where to go and whose kids were with me, we arrived at the fields. The car ride over was silent, they didn’t ask and I didn’t speak. When we arrived I mustered the strength to tell them where to go and that I would be out there shortly. They exited the car as I sat silently.  I sat in solitude of this moment. Could i just cry and release the pain inside of me? Could I comfort my broken being? I fought myself I wanted to let go, but I had to be something to 15 girls, who look at me to be a pillar of strength, to represent and be a role model, I couldn’t go out broken and shattered. I thought in that moment about my life and how some 15 years ago, I was broken and I had this moment in time, where a pastor/father figure embraced me in that brokenness and I could have let go, buried my head in his chest and cried, but I didn’t. I didn’t because thats not what strength looks like. And there in my car, I wanted a Dad, a Mom, someone to allow me to bury my head and cry and let out all the built up pain inside of me. To release the pain consuming me because now, now the messages are filling my head, that I am simply a failure, I am not enough, and I am a disappointment. I fought the urge to text my “Dad” like man in my life and tell him, how I don’t get how he loves me, or wants to invest in me, I am not yours and the ones I belong to reject me. I fought it because I didn’t want my words to hit his hears and then for him to be disappointed in me because I couldn’t just believe I won’t disappoint him. So in these short few moments of my car, I breathed deep and sucked up, and pushed down the brokenness of my body and exited my car to be what I needed to be for the girls waiting for me.

My somber being, slowly peeled away as the girls played soccer, the game that always served as an outlet for my childhood pain. We finished the game with a win, and now I had the trek back home with my daughter and her friend. After dropping her friend off at home and us arriving at our house, we exited the car and my daughter stopped at the doorway and asked a question. She said “mom are you okay, because at the game you seemed different and someone thought maybe you had been crying, but you don’t cry” I paused and just confirmed I am fine, or I will be fine. I walked into the house and talked to my husband, but even with him I can’t break down. Sometimes, I do wonder what he would even do if I actually cracked open and cried. He would probably be confused.

I waited a day, and then I texted the “mom” like woman in my life because, I had a migraine and I wasn’t thinking straight, but I also knew she would directly tell me what I needed to hear… and she did. Later, that evening, I was amongst friends and talking about this upcoming race that I am running with my “Dad”  and I stated how surprised I was that he said  yes, when I asked him if he would run half marathon with me. (he has never even run a 5k) One of the women with me said, “he said yes because he loves you” In that moment my mind stopped. I hadn’t ever thought of it that way. So being me and in the mindset I was I texted him and asked “you love me that much that you are willing to run 13.1 miles with me?” and He responded “Yup” I still don’t get him and his wife. I don’t get how they just love me, why. I am just this girl who entered their lives in an unusual fashion and they just accepted me and welcomed me into their circle, when I was just a teenager.

So what did I do in those silenced moments in my car, I cried and then I stuffed. And then I believed the voices in my head that told me I was of no importance to anyone…  that I belonged to no one. The battlefield of the mind is alive and active. I cried out and asked God why He has me here, why do I have to be tormented with such battles. When will enough be enough. When will you take this battle from me? When will I feel content as a woman of God? When will I never lose sight that I am enough, just the way I am?

So this is why a hug scares me. I am afraid in the vulnerability of a hug that the walls will come crashing down and I won’t have the strength to hold back the ugly cry that will emerge from me. I won’t be able to fight it any longer and I will crash. Monday night, as I left a group women, an older woman hugged me, asked if I was good and I could feel my eyes well up because I was at risk, my state of being was at risk of being jeopardized. I just said, yes, I am good. One day, the broken insides of me will be healed, but until then I will bravely believe that God’s purpose for my struggle, is just that purposeful. I will trust.

10.13.18, it marks year 17. 17 years with the same man. 17 years with this boy that I met at Cracker Barrel 19 years ago. I often think back to that moment when we met. I think of how drastically I wanted someone to rescue me from the life I was in. How much I wanted stability, to be loved, to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and even things I couldn’t quite articulate that I needed. I had no idea of what a marriage was to look like. I had fears that I didn’t even know I had. I had misguided ideas of what life would truly be like once I was married. But what I had and what I brought with me into marriage was a backpack of heart ache. I brought with me my past, my inability to love without cause, an empty heart, a protected heart, low self confidence, insecurity, and my list could keep going on and on. I brought with me a loaded backpack full of so many different issues only time would reveal the unveiling of my backpack. Each year we have been married has revealed another peeling back of me. Somedays, as I reflect back I do wonder how we ever got through the first 5 years.

October 2001, married. February 2002, Jonah Matthew arrived a month early. We are parents! Whoah! August 2002, we discovered we were pregnant again- WHAT?! May 2003, Cameron Charles born. June 2003 Cameron died. So now in the chapel where we walked down the isle and devoted ourselves to one another in sickness and health, we stood again in front of people, a much bigger crowd then our wedding day, might I add… But now we stood there, tears held deep inside as I stood next to the casket that bore our 2nd born son. December 2003, I discovered I was pregnant again. August 2004, Peighton Lynn entered our lives. A girl, our family was complete. 2005, offered me discontentment, I couldn’t make sense of my life. I still had this aching part of me because Cameron was gone and I felt incomplete… still do. We entered 2006, and I just became okay with these two kids, and what? I am pregnant, we really should figure out how this happens! I had to break the news to Matt , we were having another baby! October 2006, Ellery Joy entered the world. She mixed up her holidays. Due Thanksgiving day and arrived before Halloween. In 5 years, we had gotten married, had a baby, buried a child, and had 2 more kids! What outsiders looking in see, is we have very well spaced out kids. What I see is, I have a piece of me missing always and forever. Each year that pushed forward after Cameron died, I stuffed because I had to be something to so many and its still what I do today. I stuff because if I don’t I can’t be what I need to be for everyone around me.

But here we are 17 years into this marriage that started with massive chaos! We have a marriage, I am sure many were skeptical we could maintain. I think there are days I am not sure how we have made it this far. I can’t say  “I love you” to you everyday, like my Dad, like man in my life tells me I should. I can’t hug, I can’t break down the barriers that still keep me from being free from the chains that hold me back from freedom. Yet, you are still there despite my inability to be free. I am chained to the reality of my imperfections, inabilities, and my constant battle of my mind that fills me with discontentment and unworthiness.  I battle everyday, to be me because everyday I battle how I am I suppose to be for everyone around me. Yet, despite my internal battle that no one sees, but you… you have embraced it. You have stood by as each year I process a new battle that rages inside of me or I have to revisit a battle that I haven’t fully overcome. I know that my battle will never be free until, this earthly body is no longer walking on this ground. So this year marks the 17th year of our marriage, the 17th year of our adventure. An adventure that even though there are days, I don’t like you. There is no one I would rather have on this adventure with me than you.

I passed a stranger today…

She was going into the kitchen

As I was coming out…

I saw the stranger again…

She was leaving the table

Just as I was sitting down…

Tonight, I prayed as the stranger

Settled into sleep…

And standing in the hallway, I

Leaned my head against her closed door…

And bid sweet dreams to a stranger

By silently saying…

“Good Night Mother”

Dear mom:

I sometimes dream of what if would be like to sit and have a conversation with you that would clear the air. I don’t think a relationship is possible but more because too much damage has occurred to my heart and too many unmendable pieces of me are shattered. And a sit down just isn’t possible so I write because writing allows me a freedom to be me. It allows me to express myself. When I think of a meeting of resolution I think of an admission of guilt, admission of wrong doing, an admission of responsibility. But the one thing that comes to my mind when I think of a resolution is hearing your voice telling me I owe you an apology and that you expect one from me. For years I have heard you say that to me and for years those words would replay in my mind. And I truly can be the bigger person and apologize. But what apology do you want from me. I have agonized over what is truly so wrong with me. I have ventured into adult life and am nearing my 40th birthday with the idea that I am not enough, even my own mother doesn’t think I am enough.  So why would I think the God of this universe would think I am enough. It’s truly the battle of my mind. I have to take up the shield of faith to protect the shattered insides of me and trust that God will continue to sustain my brokenness and mend me. This lack of love, acceptance or being enough for you, is one of the many thorns of my existence. It digs deep inside and infects my body. It infects me because I question everything, every persons ability to love me, every hug, every gesture of support, and every word said to me. Is this the day the person I have allowed to enter my heart and love will reject me. Is this the day I will disappoint the man who has served as a dad figure in my life? Is this the day the woman who has come alongside me since I was young will walk away? Questions. Attacked by the enemy

So I want desperately to apologize to you, but I always feel so empty of what it needs to be. I am also confident in that I will do it wrong. So what do I need to apologize for: for not being what you wanted, for not being smart enough, successful enough, pretty enough. For looking like my dad, whom your angry at because he died. Have you ever thought about what it is like for me- to look like  a man, I don’t know. A man, whom I resemble. A man, who to so many was so perfect and good. It’s hard for me to reconcile that I am like something I can never be good enough to be loved by. Could we all stop and think of that battle. “If a daughter knows she has her dad’s love life makes sense” Meg Meeker. Life doesn’t make sense to me, it never has. I have felt rejected my entire life.

Do you want me to apologize for being the daughter who had the grandkids, or do I need to apologize for being a kid, a kid who in the darkest hour of her life said the words “you killed my dad” in a car ride, hurtful words I am sure, but words that came off my lips and touched the air and I was cursed from that moment on. Is it those words that defined me and defined that you would never again accept me. Do you not realize that those words crush my soul and have tormented me my entire life. Why? Well they are the words that rolled off the tongue and into existence and have been told to me, told to others, and repeated for 36 years. I have argued with you about the innocence of my being when I said those words, but that never seemed to matter to you. To you, they were my words and I will forever be tarnished, scarred, held accountable for, and tortured for my words. I can’t even seem to find the strength to forgive myself for the words. I am not sure if I know where to begin to forgive myself because it has defined me for so long, I believe the message.

I am defeated in a multitude of ways. Am I strong- willed- YES, am I stubborn- YES, am  I determined- YES, and am I direct- YES. Some of what I am is what I was forced to become. But am I confident sometimes, do I question my worth absolutely, do I question  if someone can love me for who I am- YES! I have battles inside me that I fight everyday because I grew up knowing that who I am wasn’t enough for you. I had to find my security, safety and love someplace else. I grew up feeling neglected, unloved, unworthy, imperfect, a failure, and unwanted. I tried hard to rise above it, but I felt like I was drowning in my inability to make you proud or for you to just love me. And one day in my adult life I just gave up. I made a decision that it wasn’t possible. In my heart I had to forgive you, even if you didn’t think you needed forgiveness. I had to forgive you and I still have to forgive you. I have to remind myself I have forgiven you. The day I gave up, I had freedom, freedom to choose to be in a relationship with you or to not. I was tired of being beat up emotionally by all I could never be in your eyes. I was tired of being uncomfortable in my own home because I was afraid of failing. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong things, not being who you wanted to me to be. I could never just be. The older I got, the more I realized how little you really knew about me. Most people, who know me, know that I am sarcastic, funny, laid back, athletic, strong-willed, stubborn, and determined. They know I don’t cry, I closed off myself to tears because I was taught it was a weakness. I sometimes think some of what you made in me was in order to teach me to be what you couldn’t be. You cried a lot, but told me I couldn’t. To you I am serious, stoic, with little sense of humor girl. But I believe its how you created me to be. Do I think some of it was deep inside of me, I sure do. Another part of it was created in me due to the environment. I struggled as a child: you would lose your temper and it could become violent and then the next moment you were normal. The waves of uncertainty was like waiting for a volcano to erupt. And I never knew when it would erupt, how it would erupt, or what would cause the eruption. I just knew making a slight movement could cause the eruption.

Your inability to accept responsibility for your actions and cast blame onto me, is the message I internalized. I grew up knowing I was definitely, less worthy of love, less valued and insignificant. And perhaps I gave off the sense I didn’t have a heart with my unemotional being, but I do have a heart, I do have feelings, and I am normal, but… But ask those “parental models” in my life, the ones that know the deep me and you will hear their words that I am scarred, I am broken, I am shattered, but that I have feelings, I fight back tears, I fight the need to be loved, to be hugged, or to be embraced. I fight it because I think its weakness, or because I don’t think its possible for someone to find me worthy enough to be called someone’s daughter. My parental models can tell me they love me, they can hug me, or they can tell me they are proud of me. A few days later, I can go back to them and question why do you love me, or ask them are you still proud of me. Sometimes I tell them, you don’t want to love me because I will disappoint you. It’s a battle, a battle I fight everyday. Am I blaming you- nope, its my battle, it’s the battle I am facing. Do I think some of my youth is the culprit of it all- absolutely, but I can stand behind that mistakes happen, and trudging through parenthood is rough. But do I want to rekindle mother/daughter relationship no. I can’t because it’s too risky. In my marriage who is the risk taker me or my husband I am! But even I have evaluated this situation and come to the conclusion the risk too great for me. My shattered insides cannot take this great risk.

So mom, forgive me for not being the daughter you wanted. Sorry, if my four words at the age of four broke what could have been a great mother/daughter relationship. I am sorry I couldn’t bring you happiness, or the ability to love me as I am. I am truly sorry that I have failed you and that I could not be the daughter you dreamed, or wished I had been. I am sorry. I have tried to prove to you that I am worthy of something, and carried the guilt that I am not enough. Please accept my apology and let the past rest where it is, in the past and move forward. I can’t keep looking back to what was. I have a life to live regardless of how you choose to see me. I am something to someone and I have to cling to that and remind myself that my soul is beautifully loved by another, who can fill the cracks of my shattered being.

Forgiveness doesn’t excuse the behavior. Forgiveness prevents their behavior from destroying your heart. I have to forgive even if you don’t think you need forgiveness, because I need this life to stop destroying my heart. I have to be able to fix my eyes on the One who loves me, the One who sustained me through my childhood, the same One who still sustains me when I focus my eyes on Him.

Daughter.

 

  Late this summer, I had the chance to meet up for dinner with my cousin Dave and his family. Dave, is more than a cousin to me, He is the man that when I was 13 years of age broke apart the wounded child inside. He is responsible for bringing to life something hidden deep inside of me during my childhood. I have often wondered what would have happened had he not inquired, persisted, pestered, inquired more and pressed for me to release the demons that controlled me back then. The same demons that I fight everyday in a multitude of ways. And after that chance encounter he called me what seemed like a weekly chat for many years. He was the distant man, but always just a phone call away for me. He was the voice of reason, the encourager, the constant and was always available to make me laugh. As the years grew and our lives started to take shape and take us to different places, the phone calls came less, and visits even fewer. It began to feel we only saw each other when their was a death in the family. I watched him marry his wife, and begin his new life with her. She is so good for him. A woman who loves God, loves him, but will keep Dave straight.

As I sat at the dinner table with him and his family this summer, it just reminded me of all he has ever meant to me. The demons of my past that nag at my inner core that he brought to the surface of my being still exist in ways I still don’t like to recognize. I still prefer to push them deep down because life feels so much safer for me when they are there. But 27 years ago, Dave pursued the broken parts of me and brought about a change within me, and as I approach another lost year I wonder where is the girl I used to be. The girl that fought hard to survive, the girl who pushed forward despite the cliff in front of her, the girl who got pushed down, but kept fighting back up to her feet. What happened to that girl? Did I grow tired of fighting? Did I get tired of being pushed down? Or did Satan in his attacks win over the brokenness within me.

What I have learned is we all have a thorn of some sort, some of us deny them, some of us embrace them so much that they become a hinderance, still others capitalize on their thorns as if it entitles them to sulk in the pity of their pain. I have this thorn. I have had it all my life. Its the thorn that keeps me from being the girl I used to be. Its the thorn that keeps me from living a life of freedom. Its the thorn that gets embedded inside so deep that it feels impossible to get out of me. I have to choose everyday, that I have been given this thorn to fight, to embrace, to persevere through, and to remind myself that I live in an imperfect world with imperfect people and my eyes can only look to the One who looks upon me and says “I am everything you will ever need, fix your eyes on me” Every moment away from the Father is another moment for Satan to seep into the grains of the thorn that wiggles around within me and distracts me from the girl I used to be.

Dave was and still is this hero of sorts to me. He reminded me back when I was 13 and again at 39 of the girl I used to be and the girl I need to be. Though the demons inside try and attack me from multiple angles still My God is greater.

Be still and know that I am God~ Psalm 46:10

When my hearts faint lead me to the rock that is higher than I ~Psalm 61:2

The Village. They say it takes a village to raise a family. Even if you come from a good home with good parents. And for me it took a village: a church, a community, a group of educators, and a group of coaches that unknowingly bonded together to produce what I would become. I am confident there were days deep in the trenches of my youth, that each of my village people would ponder if their efforts would pay off, or if I would truly survive.

Early on in my youth, lets say between 5-7 years old, my grandmother, my Dad’s mom being the direct woman she was, she would take every opportunity to remind me the importance of God and the church. My grandmother, the most Godly person I knew talked to God daily. I watched her talk to God. I watched her shake her finger at God, which I thought was a sin. I mean can you really shake your finger at God? She did. Maybe she was shaking her finger at him because she was sad with how fragile life was. Maybe she shook her finger at God because she wanted Him to step in, much like we want Him to step in and make Himself known in a BIG way, our way. I guess its the one question I never asked my grandmother. “Why did you shake your finger at God?” What I learned was that my grandmother talked daily, multiple times a day with God. And so began my journey to find God. I found God in the church. I remember one day my Grandmother telling me that finding God and going to church were the utmost of importance. In those moments never would I have imagined what the church would become for me. The church became my family, and not just my spiritual family. The church became a village of mom’s, and dad’s. Where most kids growing up have a mom and a dad. I soon realized I had way too many mom’s and dad’s. Like in this small town, I felt trapped. I couldn’t go anywhere without one of those “parents” seeing me. I wasn’t an angel, but I wasn’t unlike any normal child. I just had an added flare to my style of life. Granted these additional parents didn’t live inside my home, so they didn’t have complete authority over me, but they definitely had a great pull on me. And I made my fair of mistakes, and they forgave me, but what I learned from this group of people was love and family. I got to experience life with them. I watched a husband love his wife, and a wife love her husband, and a dad, a mom love their children. I watched a mom, a dad discipline their children. I watched a mom, a dad, hug their kids, kiss them on their cheeks, and say the words “I love you” I watched them say prayers before dinner, serve a family meal, and play/interact with their kids. I watched, I observed, and I wished and prayed that I could feel that same love and sense of family. I think I felt  enough of their love and belonging to secure me to wake up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. This church family also brought me to Jesus. They gave me the greatest gift of all. This church family showed me Jesus, represented the hands and feet of Jesus, loved me like Jesus loved me, and guided me into the greatest relationship I would ever experience. My faith was started here inside the walls of this church at the age of 7 and grew. And I failed many times in my faith journey, I disappointed people with the choices I made, but each time I failed I picked myself back up from the ground to which I had fallen to look back into the word of God, where I found grace. I still fail in my faith. I still disappoint. I am human. Each time I fail and fall to the ground, I do what I did as a kid, scrap the dirt from my knees, pick myself back up and turn my eyes back to the One who can mold my broken spirit back together. This is part of the faith journey. I was told my faith isn’t something we put on and take off; our faith is something that grows inside of us. It gets watered, fed nutrients, and sometimes weeds get pulled, its a process. And its not always an enjoyable process, but it is what strengthens me. My faith that started at 7, and it is what has sustained me throughout my life.

A community:

The community in which I lived was small. I like to refer to it as Mayberry.  Maybe its not quite that extreme but its close. I can reflect back and be thankful that I was fortunate enough to grow up in this affluent town given the constant feeling of being the poorest kid in the neighborhood. My memories of this community are filled with more of me having to prove I was enough to be accepted. I didn’t quite fit into the mold of my affluent community. It doesn’t mean that I am unappreciative of it, I am greatly appreciative of it. I just never felt like I belonged in it. I was so different then my classmates, but within this community I found a smile, a friendly neighbor, a best friend from the 7th grade, a church, a coach, a youth group, and so much more. My feeling that I didn’t belonged here in this town, would eventually fade over time, a long time. My Mayberry town, represents where I came from, it contains the highs and lows of my youth, but it also represents the faces of a community that despite my feeling of disconnection, I am connected. This community, is a body of people that have continued to represent well and have become the village of faces to my kids.

A group of educators:

Like my affluent community, my school was affluent as well. And I can’t say enough about the educators that I was fortunate enough to pass in front of. They inspired me. I am sure some of them had to think I would not make it, but they never led on that they thought I might fail. Each of them provided encouragement, and a sincere devotion to making sure I had a chance at surviving.

In my lower elementary years, it started out a little rough for me. I may have made a few trips into the principal’s office, I may have smarted off to the one principal, once. Remember that earlier statement about how I was normal but had an added flare. Well, that added flare would get me into trouble occasionally. I had learned the art of lying. My home life was a bit unpredictable, so I learned to lie so in turn hoped that I could offset a home explosion. Sometimes it worked, others times it didn’t. My educators never knew the unpredictability of my home life, it was top secret. I am not sure what made me not tell, I just didn’t. I think sometimes, I was embarrassed by my home life. After all, I had witnessed such healthy homes, that I was afraid that if I told anyone that my home wasn’t like that, maybe the families that showed me love, would stop loving me. And I needed them to love me. I needed them to believe in me. By the time I got to the upper elementary I was doing well. I had no more trips to the principals office, so I figure thats a good sign. I, of course paved my way through Jr. High with a gamete of teachers, who despite me not being a straight A student embraced me, taught me, invested in me, and pushed me. High school approached, and that was to be a bumpy road for me. I was a teenager. It’s hard enough being a teenager, but I had some added distractions. Again, I met what I would consider some of the best educators ever.  Some of them pushed me, a couple of them I didn’t like, at first… usually because they got me and knew I needed to be pushed. It’s some of these same educators that if I see them on the street, I immediately want to thank them for their investment in my life.

Being an educator, is more than teaching math, science, or english. Being an educator is helping to shape the lives of the students that flood their door everyday. These educators are the eyes I looked into every school day, I under appreciated what they taught me. As I reflect back, on their faces I am reminded of the extra time they spent with me, the smiles they gave, and their encouragement.

A group of Coaches:

I had several different coaches throughout my athletic years. Most of which I have remained in contact with over the years. From my Jr. High Volleyball and Basketball coach. Coach Woods. She was more than a coach, and more than an educator, she was invested in the lives of her athletes. She deeply cared.  She didn’t get mad when I fouled out of basketball games. Basketball was definitely not like a soccer game. She was firm, had standards, enforced her standards, but also had compassion. And to this day when I play volleyball and I do something not technically correct I can hear her voice in my head. Or when I randomly run into her in the store, I want to pick her brain about the lessons she taught me, or what she thinks kids need to know these days. She is a part of why I coach kids the way I coach them. She didn’t look at me like I was the poorest kid in the neighborhood. She looked at me as a kid who needed a coach, a coach who cared about who I was not just as an athlete but as a person.

I had few different soccer coaches as well. One, in particular I met when I was in Jr. High, he took me to my first Notre Dame Women’s Soccer game. It is one of the most vivid memories I have, was watching that college game, dreaming that one day I could do just that. I often wondered what compelled him to take me, but his small invitation has multiplied because when I became a coach I started taking groups of players that I coached to Notre Dame games as well. I wanted their eyes to be opened like mine were all those years ago.

I had another soccer coach, well he never got the fascinating opportunity to actually coach me. I was his team manager as an 7th & 8th grader, while he was the Head coach of the Varsity team, but we connected. He called me “hacker” It was back when he was young and his reflexes were quicker and he would move the ball ever so quickly and I would hack at him. He wasn’t a warm fuzzy coach, but when I got to my adult years and needed to work with him, I realized he like the many other Dad’s I had, he was there to put an arm around me, lift my chin and remind me he was proud of who I had become. Back in 8th grade he and his wife supported me, gave me a safe place to rest, took me fishing, and invested in me for a short period of time. I am forever grateful for the time they took to share their lives with me.

My village people. There are so so many of them. The represent ordinary people doing the extraordinary to a girl who needed someone to care. They shaped me, molded me, yet allowed me to be me. They embraced my added flare, my extra thorns, and sass that accompanied me. They knew if they told me to jump right , I would jump left. My village of people, were also the people that could be found next to me when I had to pick myself up off the ground to which I had fallen, broken and bruised. They were the ones’ who hugged me, told me they were proud of me, and loved me. I am thankful for my village people- all of them. Each village person, who has crossed my path has impacted my life, some more than others, but each left an impression on me that planted a seed inside of me. I am forever indebted to my village.

 

In the late night hours as the sun has gone to bed and in the stillness of the night I find myself in the darkness of my room. It now feels safe. Safe to let the tears flow freely from my body as my heart cries out to the God, who I cling to in desperation. I have this story, but a story that I have never been quite sure anyone would believe. So I kept my story deep inside of me. I would wait until dark settled in and then I would pray. I wouldn’t just pray, I cried out to God. I asked God if He would send someone to take me from these nightmares, from these messages, from the pain, from these moments, and from everything. Would He send someone here to this little girl who would be willing to love me for me. I can’t be loved for what I have done or what I will become because I am filled with despair. I am full of negativity. I am full of anger. I am full of loss. I am full of so many emotions I can’t always articulate them. My heart is so full of what I can’t be, I need someone to just love me for me. Love me for who I am and someone who will never give up on me. Someone who will show me what love really means.

I have never fully revealed the story inside my heart. I can’t its too hard for me to go to those parts of me. But as I remember sitting in my room crying out to God asking him to give me my hearts desire, a Father. I didn’t in those hard, long,  and stressful years stop and really look around me. God in so many ways gave me more than I realized. I started out with my own real Father. He was a man I look like, some say. Do I act like him? I doubt that… I am probably to outspoken, to stubborn, to strong willed for my real Dad. The way he has been described to me, leads me to believe that I didn’t gain his softer side, but his athletic ability. What I did gain from my Dad, was the realization that I needed a Dad. I needed a man to make my hero, a man, to look up to, a man, to help me feel safe, or a man, to be my Dad. My real Dad was my first, and he loved me even though I can’t remember him.

Each year I grew older, as we all do. My life was this roller coaster of sorts. I ran in and out of the lives of people around me. It was all dependent on where life was taking me. I had all sorts of fill-in Dad’s. One of my fill-ins, was a soccer coach. He wasn’t a warm fuzzy, as in he wasn’t going to greet me with a gigantic hug or something, but he filled in. He was the man on the sidelines of games, the coach, the disciplinarian, the stern voice, but he was also there looking out for me. I owe this man a lot. Why, well because I am not always sure I would have become the coach I am today without him. While his memory is filled with pulling me out of games because it appeared I punched someone, (ref didn’t see it), or pulled me from the game because my words back to the ref were not sweet or kind words. It wasn’t just the action of pulling me from the game it was what he said after I was on the bench and there were lots of words. Sometimes he had enough of me, so his wife would have to come and give me the low down on my attitude, behavior… like I can be aggressive, but punching someone crossed the line. I told her that day, i thought as long as the ref didn’t see me I was good. She didn’t see it the same way. I was told by her, if given the opportunity to go back in that I needed to get restitution goal. I did get to go back in and did just as she said. I think I did it a little to easily for her liking, pretty sure I saw her give me an eye roll. To say this coach was my first non real Dad, would probably be a true statement. After all , he has coached me since 1st grade. This coach taught me how to stay calm, how to keep my composure, and that even when I would lose it emotionally on the field, he never gave up on me. He kept pursuing me, pushing me, believing in me, and trusting that one day all his hard work would pay off. So this soccer Dad of mine, I think it did pay off. I haven’t  gotten carded as a coach yet, and he would probably say I have the highest cards received by any player he has ever coached… On another occasion, my real mother promised me she would finally come watch me play soccer. She hadn’t ever watched me, I was so consumed by watching for her I was unfocused on the game, again I got pulled out. I remember giving them both some attitude because I was out and I hadn’t done anything wrong. I got pulled for them to sit me down and gently break my heart. They both ever so gently told me that as much as I want my mom to be here, she isn’t coming and you just need to play for you. I sat at the end of that bench, took a couple deep breaths to gain my composure and stuff the wounded parts of my heart deep below where it couldn’t hurt me anymore, and I did just that. This soccer Dad of mine taught me soccer and he taught me life.

Another Dad, I had was the man who walked me down the aisle. Bill. Funny thing is he has my real Dad’s name. Bill, was an adorably sweet man. I probably could do no wrong in his eyes. I don’t know what he saw in me, but just looking at him, made me know he was proud of me. I lived with him and his wife in High School. They came to all my soccer games, and when I came off the field, I had someone there for me. They were always proud of how I played, even when I had a bad day. I know Bill was so excited to walk me down the aisle, and I was happy to give him that honor. He filled a huge role in my heart. Him and his wife took on more than just me when I entered their home. It caused division between them and my real mom and I have lived with the pain of sometimes wondering if I was worth it to them. Like, the turmoil my mother caused them, if they could do it again, would they still take me in knowing how she treated them. They were a safe haven, they loved me like their own and were a huge part of me surviving High School. I recently was coaching game for my High school and Bill and his wife came just briefly and I can’t tell you how excited I was just to see them. I probably have not told them enough how very blessed and thankful I am for them!

During some of the same time, I met another Dad- Frank! Frank was an AMAZING cook. I am not sure if I was more sad when they moved away because I was losing them or the food- ha! Its not very often I would leave an indoor soccer game to get to dinner on time at their house, but I did. I always got the impression if dinner was at 6, then I needed to be present at 6, not 6:30… Frank was this giant teddy bear. I would go to their house and sit on the couch next to Frank and just lay my head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. He would wrap his arms around me and I knew I was so loved. He filled the emotional tank of my heart, and because he didn’t have a daughter, I think he had a soft spot for me.

My circles of life took me many places. I always had this infatuation with men that could fill the Dad size hole in my heart. The soccer coach filled it but not that whole part of me. By the time I got to Jr. High, I met a family from church. I was instantly drawn in, I can’t quite remember the moment, but something clicked and something made me feel safe. Even though, I felt safe I never revealed my deep secrets because that was what they were secrets tucked away inside of me. This Dad came with a Mom as well as siblings, but again no daughters. And I did come in and out of their lives all the way through and into my adult life. I recently told them, I could never have imagined how that chance encounter as a Jr. High kid would be the start of the relationship I have with them today. They represent parents to me. Back then I had dinners with them, hung out with their kids, and as I got older listened, well maybe half listened to this Dad, on his advice to me about boys, dating and whatever other Fatherly words he would speak to me. What most people wouldn’t know or realize is that when it seems I am not listening to you I really am. What this Dad, did for me was he accepted me for me. He loved me in the ugly teen years, and was never afraid to be a Dad to me. I am sure he wouldn’t want to admit it, but I am sure I frustrate him. I would assume I frustrate him because I am stubborn, strong- willed, and independent, but its probably the same reasons he loves me. I am sure he wishes I could just accept that he loves me like one of his own kids, but I struggle because as much as I want to believe he is my Dad, I still feel like that unloveable kid. But this Dad, that I met in Jr. High has stood by, sometimes from a distance, but whenever I called/texted he answered me. I would wish him happy Father’s Day year after year because he was the one man that when I was a little Jr. High kid, I allowed him into that place in my heart. One day, when life was becoming to much for me to bear and I needed a Dad, I reached out to him. It was scary, I wasn’t sure I was ready, but what I found was the same man, who was willing and able to be a Dad to me in Jr. High, still waiting to fill that place for me. One day, I will never question it- One day, but for now walking out of their house, giving them a hug and telling them “I love you” is the first of many steps in the right direction.

My husband recently pointed out how I have had different couples filter in and out my life and a few similarities are revealed in these couples and they are a strong female woman and a soft hearted male. He pointed out to me how I knew what I needed and sought it out. I may not seem like a warm fuzzy, well I am not. But I do have this soft part of me that is fearful of being that way, so I have always fought my need to feel loved in such a way. These Dad’s for me have helped to form me, they have loved me, they have nurtured the wounds of my heart. There are really countless other men, they have filled roles of Dad’s to me. A blog post could never encompass all of the men who played a role in my life. One thing I have recognized is this: that little girl who cried in the stillness of her room, praying to be taken from that moment to have a Dad who would love her for her, got her answer to her prayer. It just wasn’t how I thought it would be. God gave me many Dad’s. Many Earthly Dad’s that have loved me near and far and still do. I am forever grateful for the men who have stood up and shown me the love of a father. A youth pastor whom, was like a Dad to me, but a tad young- revealed to me and showed me the way to Christ. I may have been a Christian when I met him, but this pastor invested himself and his family into my life. And because he did, he kindled a faith inside of me. And while I was seeking to feel loved and to be loved by a real Dad, he showed me how much my Father in Heaven has always loved me. And even when life drills daggers at my heart and I lose sight of God’s everlasting love for me, I always come back to God, the truest of a Father’s Love. Sometimes, its just nice to feel the real arms of an Earthly Father around me, who can verbally tell me he loves me and is proud of me. SO thanks to all the Dad’s who have invested in me, loved me, encouraged me, pushed me, and balanced me out. My heart is better because of each of you.

And to the man I call Dad, thanks for never giving up on me, thanks for being who you are and showing me what love really is. I love you.

Yesterday, May 30th, I picked Jonah up from school to take him to an appointment. As I watched him exit the High School building, I was overwhelmed with the thought of how old this little boy has become and also reminded of where we were together just 15 short years ago. In so many ways, time has stood still for me, all while time still passing day after day, month after month and now years have just gone by. Years have gone by while I have stood at the front gate waiting for time to go back so I can have those moments back. 15 years ago, I was 37 weeks pregnant and Jonah was with me while we attended an appointment for me. I had this rambunctious, curious, active, and talkative boy with me as I entered into a room that would soon lead me in the next 24 hours to such a drastic change in my life. I sat down, wrestled to get Jonah content with a toy in preparation for the midwife. In walked one of my favorite midwives. We made the usual small chat and then I reached out and grabbed her hand and told her this: ” I specifically made this appointment with you because I trust you. I have walked in these doors before and tried to explain the situation, but no one seems to get it. Something is wrong with this baby. I don’t know what, but something just isn’t right and I need you to figure it out.” I didn’t know how else to tell her that this growing concern, I had throughout this pregnancy was hitting a head with me. She did a test that revealed the baby only moved with a contraction and she told me I needed to head to the hospital for a BPP. I grabbed Jonah and off we went. I had the BPP test and was in a labor room for monitoring. I remember the exact nurse who came in… Beth. Beth, had been my nurse on numerous occasions when I had been up there for hyperemesis. I had gotten to know her and she had gotten to know me. She walked in and calmly told me I had nothing to worry about the baby had passed the BPP test, with the exception of his tone, but it was nothing to be alarmed by. I left that day replaying her message in my head, trying to find the confidence in her words.

Jonah, 14 months old, he was the boy, the child that made me a mom. He made me a mom before I knew I wanted to be one, before I knew if I could be one. Jonah was this unplanned being that just happened. And when Jonah entered our world, our lives changed forever. We had no clue what we were in for when he arrived 4 weeks early. Although, Matt still talks about how he came at just the right time because he was due in the middle of March Madness. Jonah, made me a mom. Jonah, taught me, that I had the ability to love another with my whole heart. He taught me patience, he taught me to love, he taught me that I could be a mom. And now on that day 15 years ago, we left the hospital and awaited for the new sibling that would make him a big brother.

The next day, I went into labor. I called my good friend, who was on-call to watch Jonah and she came and got him. The labor pains had been more painful than Jonah’s, but I replayed Beth’s message in my head and tried to just believe. With Jonah all set, we headed  to the hospital and prepared for the birth of this unknown child. We had no clue what we were having. Time passed and I progressed and at the moment when the doctor went to break  my water, Matt had stepped out for a moment. All I can remember in that moment was the face of the doctor. It was a face of shock, or maybe uncertainty. I had no water to break. And not long after that, our precious baby boy was born. A perfect 7 pound baby boy.

The next 48 hours and beyond was going to test what I believed about God, what I trusted, and where my faith truly rested. And I wish I could say my faith never faltered, but there were definitely days, I would sit and question it all. But first, in those instant moments, I looked at this boy, that I was confident was going to be a girl. Matt and I looked at each other because we had absolutely no boy names. Each minute that passed, we felt the tension and pressing issues before us. This little boy’s life was in danger. After, a little bit of time, we were told the Bronson staff was here to talk to us. When they walked in, we were told the care needed for him was to critical for them to care for and that they would be transporting him to DeVos Children’s hospital. Only Matt could accompany him. Matt and I went to the nursery before he was going to be transported. It was there in that nursery, we gave this nameless little boy a name. Cameron Charles Cox. No certain reason for the name Cameron, other than we could agree on it. His middle name Charles, holds a special place to me, with it being the name of my Uncle, my dad’s brother. Uncle Chuck, as we call him. He, is my favorite uncle mostly because he reminds me of my dad. I could just sit in a room and look at my Uncle Chuck because it felt like I was looking at my dad. And for me having so few memories of my dad, I knew it was the closest I was going to get to looking into the eyes of my father, So we gave Cameron his name. And there in that small nursery Cameron Charles Cox lay and I was helpless to save him.

Matt left the hospital to follow Cameron, while I stayed behind. I was left alone. Alone in a room by myself . Jonah cared for by a dear friend to me. A friend whom, my heart owes so much too. But I was left in a hospital room so unsure of anything. I am not sure if I could every truly articulate those moments into words of feeling the life sucking out of my body in the silent moments of that nights stay. What I do know is at Lakeland Hospital, where I had all of my kids, I was surrounded by the most precious group of nurses who so often didn’t have the words to speak to me, but protected my heart and loved me by their unsaid words more often than they would probably know.

The next morning, I asked to be released. Less than 24 hours after his delivery. I was met in my hospital room, by the smiling face of Jonah. Jonah gave me life in the deepest parts of my heart, where I wasn’t sure if I was to smile or cry. He gave me joy. We all made the venture up to Grand Rapids to see Cameron.

Matt met me and told me the doctor was wanting to meet with us. I made it to DeVos children’s hospital in time for this doctor to kneel down and make eye contact with me and break my heart. The compassion, empathy in his eyes will forever be pressed into my memory. His words sunk into my soul. Cameron has PKD, and he isn’t going to make it. Those aren’t his exact words, but they are the words that registered in my mind. He told us as time passes the most important moments will come and I , his mom need to hold him. He told me, its important. And the doctor was right holding him gave me peace. It gave me comfort.

The next 24 hours changed my life. In the 48 hours of Cameron’s life, he taught me how much my heart could hurt. I didn’t know I could love so much it hurt. He taught me that God is close to the brokenhearted. He taught me that no matter what I will carry him with me wherever life takes me. I held Cameron in my arms and prayed over his precious body, just wanting him to breathe. I wanted a miracle. I believed in miracles. But his body couldn’t fight and as his mother I was powerless to bring him life, I had to let him go. That moment when his life left Earth and entered Heaven is a moment that will forever be with me. I looked deeply at him in his final moments, trying to capture everything about him, in hopes to never forget. His soft skin, the color of his hair, the color of his eyes. The simplicity of this moment, his simple features.

The whirlwind of the last few days had come to an end. My fear of, mother’s intuition some like to call it reigned true. I truly believe God was preparing my heart. We brought Jonah in to see a brother his eyes will never remember. Jonah had two stuffed animals given to him at birth, one was a blue teddy bear and one a green frog. Jonah chose to place his blue teddy bear in Cameron’s casket. Jonah still has this green frog, that sits on his bed. I do wonder why somedays why he has kept it all this time. Maybe, just maybe it signifies something to him. What I do know is his the angel bear that DeVos gave Jonah sits on the headboard of his bed looking over him. Jonah is a great big brother to his two sisters, but I do wonder how much different Jonah would have been if he had Cameron has a little brother. He would have had a boy to bond with. That day wasn’t just my loss, but Jonah’s loss. Months and even the first couple of years Jonah would be reminded of Cameron’s loss. When Peighton came along, Jonah could be heard saying “this is my sister Peighton. I had a brother but he died” One thing Matt and I chose to do was never deny Jonah the freedom to talk about Cameron. His heart hurts just like ours.  June 2nd, 2003, Cameron died. A few days later we laid to rest our son. I was 23 years old. My life altered, shaped, torn, and broken in that moment. But it was also in those still and silent moments that I leaned in hard to find peace.

Every May 31st my body wakes at the same time, it woke that morning. Every May as the day etches closer I can feel the tension of  grief creeping inside of me. What I wouldn’t give to escape it. What I wouldn’t give to plant myself anywhere but where I am. But  Cameron taught me so much. His life short, but he taught me that God thought I was enough to be his mom. I was strong enough, and loved enough to bring him into this world and watch him change my life and grow my faith. Somedays, I just need to be  reminded of God’s unfailing love for me, and lean into God as my refuge and strength.

~Cameron Charles we will hold you in our hearts, until we can hold you in Heaven~

“But those who hope in the Lord, will renew strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not grow faint” Isaiah 40:31

 

This past weekend was Mother’s Day. It’s a day I should as a mother look forward to, but I don’t I dread it most of the time. I dread it much like I dread Father’s Day. Social media is flooded with pictures of Mom’s and daughters. And while I love seeing those pictures its also an instant reminder of the missing part of my life. Does it mean that people shouldn’t post them- heck no. Does it mean I should guilt them about how fortunate they are to have such great mom’s- NO!  It may be a missing piece, but God is teaching me a far greater lesson. Even the great Apostle Paul during his missionary work inherited a woman, who filled a role of a mom to him.

These special days can still become a stress of a day for me. Most would never know it because I embrace it.  Push forward despite my struggle. I try and create better memories for myself. I try and empower the young and influence them to recognize their mothers. This Mother’s Day, I was found in my safe haven- a soccer field. Coaching, doing what I love. Doing what brings my heart joy. Doing life with young players. Even if the opposing coach made me want to have ear plugs because he liked the sound of his own voice.

Still, when Mother’s Day comes up it stirs within me all of what I don’t have, what is missing, and what I have tried to replace in my life. Although, I have replaced that mother figure in my heart, but I still get filled with self doubt because I am just that girl, and I am not really her daughter. She once told me that it’s like being adopted when your old enough to know what’s going on… hmm I am sure it is. I wait for the day that my mind doesn’t fill with such thoughts of who I am in her eyes. At least not the negative ones… wait for the day when I won’t question my self worth of how she might view me.

As I sit in this coffee shop , thinking why do I get so filled with all the negative thoughts of my self-worth in her eyes. Why, does it matter so much to me? Because it matters. It deeply matters to me. And somedays, I could probably say that no amount of reassurance will ever cure that deep seeded need inside of me. Why? Why, am I in such need of it.

The need spurs from an unmet need. An unmet need for the bulk of growing up. The unmet need of love and security. What was met, wasn’t a need, but rather just something pushed upon me- labels. I am the a black sheep of the family, I am too outspoken, I ruin what ever comes from me, I am full of imperfections, I am not the one she wanted to have kids, I am not the daughter she wanted… I became unloveable at some point in my youth. And when I became that in my real mother’s eyes is when it began to take root inside of me. It was from that moment on that I knew I would never come out from the shadow of this image. I was now just this object in the way. I was an obstacle that couldn’t be moved fast enough.

Sometimes I think of the negative messages that fill me as little slivers inside my heart. Slivers, I am trying to dig out because they are deeply embedded in me. Sometimes, as I am digging those slivers out and it starts to get to the surface, where it could finally be free it gets pushed back down. We all know how annoying slivers can be, that is what these negative thoughts are like for me. They have found there way deep inside of me over time. So when I think of someone filling a mom role, I think “but I am the black sheep, I am full of imperfections, I will let you down” because these are the slivers that are embedded in me.

And so as Mother’s Day approached my stress level rose. This woman, who fills the role of a mom for me so perfectly… I began to question my place on that day to her. What is normal on Mother’s Day? What do people do for their mother’s? The closer the day got the higher the range of emotions that filled me. On Sunday, Mother’s Day, I coached a soccer game, ran errands and then ended the day stopping by her house really quite unsure of myself. I stopped by with a bottle of wine and a card. Still, not positive it was the best gift choice, but it’s what I had to offer. The night ended with what for me was perhaps the greatest moment. Instead of having recited in my head how something should go, which I would do nearly every time I know I am stopping by their house because, I don’t know, I guess I think if I practice things in my head I will be able to act upon them. This time gave me no time to practice anything out and all I could was flow with it. I gave her a hug goodbye, I paused because the moment was coming, it was almost like I could feel that this was the moment I needed to overcome a fear of rejection. She said “I love you” and I didn’t say “I know” I said “I love you too”. As I walked to the door to say goodbye to Dad, knowing I couldn’t really leave him out to dry…  I said ” I love you” which was followed by an “I love you too” from him. I had never verbally said it to either of them until this moment. As I write this, it can seem so insignificant of a moment to many, but for me it was a breakthrough moment. I broke through and wasn’t rejected, but felt a sense of security and love. It filled me, even if just for a temporary moment in time, but it created a memory. A positive memory that I can reflect back upon to help me fight the battle of self worth before me.

Love.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1Corinthians 13:7-8