Just Be

Maxwell challenged me to pick an emotion and an event and just write. I did. This is also something many mommas ask me about - raising children from the confines of a wheelchair. I have the honor to do a bit of mentoring to new injuries in the Twin Cities area, mostly to moms. Moms that find themselves in a strange position going back to a busy life wondering "how". How will this look? How is it possible? I find such blessing in encouraging them in the real, meaningful, albeit extremely foreign contrast to their former lives. Here is my story... Grace Filled Gaps Discovering we were going to have a baby was an unreal joy. Shocked, with a side of smile, is a better description. We were thrilled but had whispered thoughts and hard stares at each other, "What did we do?" My nine months with Cori growing inside of me were fairly uneventful. I was sick the first three months. The second three months, I had nesting energy, nervous anticipation, and water retenti...

Note to Self Considering. I spend way too much time considering. Considering the unfairness of life. Considering the influence I could have if I just did. Considering the vulnerability of letting my fears go. Considering all of the crazy things that can go wrong with my body. Considering my life is more than half over. Considering whether or not I completely messed up my innocent kids. These are my big "considerings". I'm not including what I'm making for dinner, or what I should add to my winter wardrobe, or how the furniture should be arranged. I still consider but these things are trivial to me. I don't have space in my brain to even hesitate over these things. I drive myself crazy thinking, thinking, thinking. Stinking thinking. Where can considering get me? A careful, thought out plan of execution? Maybe. Crazy town? More likely. I can only control so much. My considering morphs into worry - almost every single time. What then? Anxiousness. Anxio...

A lecture from a momma.... I just gotta say it. Again. What breaks my heart the most in watching teens become young adults are their suspicions that they aren't quite fitting in or their life's trajectory might be a bit off, and then this suspicion turns into an acceptable paranoia always weighing in on worthiness. Loneliness and anxiety in the "where am I going" trap them.  They are frantic for signs of validity yet these are fleeting. Some tend to apply logic but in a teen world, logic is seldom used or accepted.  Their value seems to be based on others' perception of who they are. They just want to belong, fit in, feel important, have purpose so when they achieve any of these things, life is a mountaintop.  But perched on the mountain, the focus remains in the valley that could be. The valley waiting to welcome and encompass them. I see them frantic to stay atop that mountain, fear and hesitation clouding their vision. If I may speak to you, I would sa...

Wasted Time Keith Urban drives me crazy with all of his wasted time. I want to buy it back.  I know I had wasted time too but I at least regret it. At sixteen, time was tangible, staring, anticipated yet ticking unexpectedly by.  I didn’t feel time like I feel it now. It just was. I spent it. I almost always had purpose only because I had big goals. I experienced as much as I could in every day as I knew these experiences created parameters around my goals and gave me perspective for the next steps. I wanted to go somewhere, do something, be someone. There was a world to be discovered and I wanted to see it. Explore it. I wanted adventure! Then I was robbed. Robbed of all that expectant time. Wheelchair life is the killer of so much time. My day to day living exhausts me. It’s my morning goal to make “getting ready” happen as fast as it can so living can begin. But sometimes getting ready and a load of laundry is pretty much all I can accomplish. It is my daily frustr...

I hate being told I cannot.  As a toddler and right on through my young twenties, "you can't" immediately transformed into "watch me".  I'd set my jaw, get creative, and prove someone wrong, with tunnel vision as my best friend. But the hard truth is, there are things I cannot do and my will cannot make it happen, no matter the effort.  I hate it, and I've had three year old adult fits because I simply cannot do.  It makes me so angry.  We grow up believing we can do whatever we want to do.  We grow up with possibility and dreams.  With hard discipline, these birth into beautiful realities, relished because of the sweat broke and the dedication instituted to bring them about.  But what happens when your goals cannot, no matter the grunt and the time and the planning, cannot be realized?  What do we do with that?  How do we reconcile the unfairness?  How do we drench the fire of anger and dream again?  Who do we become?  ...

I have been longing to write this all day.  My blessed grandmother, at the beautiful age of 96, went to be with Jesus last night.  My mind floods with her memories... her and Grandpa's as they were in love, inseparable, and full of life.  My childhood is a weave of their giving and laughing and rebuking and spurring.  I vividly remember going to the nursing home that they owned and having big wheel races, doing gymnastics, singing Christmas carols, and being forced to kiss Great Grandma's cheek and it didn't matter that I was queasy at the thin, wrinkly skin or the odd smell in the room.  We were to honor and cherish and love, beyond appearances and comfort.  At the age of ten, eleven, and twelve, I got to have slumber parties  in her basement.  They had a full basement with a kitchen and a shuffle board in the tile floor.  We were never allowed in the World Relief room, which was also in the basement, where Grandpa and Grandma were forever ...

Ah. Another birthday.  Another reflection. Another spurring for something more, something greater, something deeper that registers who I am and where I'm going. Oh, that we might grow, might change, might become something different for humans' sake.  Stagnancy begets apathy, generating unproductive contentedness. Being stagnant is death.  Moments still tick, but days fly with no accounting of life.  Make moments count. Count your moments . They establish days, numbers in time that stand firm, solidifying existence and personality and character.  I don't want to be sixty and still struggle with insecurities.  I want my securities to be met, head on, with grace.  Challenged and combated.  Let them die with humbleness when I'm still 40.  I don't want my judgments clouding my hope of people.  Let judgments fall away, leaving only wonder and intrigue.  I especially don't want my scaredy cat self dictating my movement, now or in 20 y...