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Mother’s Day is a funny day of motions for me. Not funny, “Ha Ha” but funny “Weird.” The first Mother’s Day I spent without my mom was in 1997. She’d been dead less than a month and Charlie and I headed to Talladega for the race. Guess where the furthest place is from any Mother’s Day I had ever known. Go ahead. A NASCAR race. It was loud and hot and dirty and nothing like the corsage wearing, church attending, going out to lunch days I knew but was exactly what I needed.

I don’t remember what I did the next year but I do remember 1999. We were newly married, new in town, and new to our church. Chuck had to travel and I don’t remember why. I assume work but who knows, really? Anyway, I was fresh off surgery for an ectopic pregnancy. My hormones were still very unstable but I woke up and felt brave. I got dressed and went to church on my own. The whole “motherless daughter” thing was just settling into my identity and now I was wearing “childless mother” right next to it. In hindsight I should have stayed home in my pj’s and drank coffee and watched old movies. Hindsight lets you see all kinds of sense though.

I drove myself to church, walked in the front door and sat down on an aisle seat near the back. It wasn’t long before an usher leaned into my ear and asked, “Are you alone?” In the 2 seconds in took me to process the question I was touched, thinking he was offering some sort of consolation. As soon as I answered him with a gentle smile he said,”I’m going to need you to move then. This family wants to sit together.” He waved his hand in a Price Is Right showcase style, revealing a mom, her husband, and six kids. Of course they needed the entire row so I moved.

A little unnerved, I settled in a few rows up, scooting in towards the wall. I swear to you I’m not lying when an usher, a different one who I’m certain had no idea that I’d already been asked to move, suggested I move a row back so that a “full family” could sit in my row. I picked up my purse and left. I didn’t go back for several months.

I know that neither of those men meant any harm. I feel certain of that. But it hurt and was not what I needed that day.

I have two gorgeous kids now who are complete and total miracles but Mother’s Day still rubs places in my heart that need a bit of a sanding. The day sucks without my mom, even after all these years, and celebrating myself seems awkward. If it’s not my birthday. Celebrating myself if it’s not my birthday feels awkward. I totally celebrate me on my birthday. And the whole of my birth month. But Mother’s Day? I struggle with the party on that day.

There are so many women who have influenced and blessed my life and not been my mom. I could list teacher’s and coworkers and friends who are all women and all amazing blessings in my life. I want to celebrate all of them on Mother’s Day. I want to make the day a celebration of life and helpful people. A celebration of a mother’s love that comes from anyone who’s ever been mothered and wants to pass along the love. I encourage you to do the same.

And be sensitive. There will probably be someone like me in your church this Sunday. Someone who thinks the day, as a whole, sucks. Someone who woke up and decided to be brave though. Someone who decided to walk in the doors. They may hold their head high or they may try to slink in unnoticed. Notice them. Hug them. Tell them you care. Saying nothing is never good so say something. And don’t ask them to give up their seat.

Call the woman, the one who isn’t your mom but helped you in some motherly way, and tell her you appreciate her. Tell her you are grateful for the influence she has on your life.

And hug your kids tight. There is someone who is longing for what you have and they think it may never happen. They can’t imagine how it’s ever going to work out for them. Appreciate the miracles you have already been given and pray for that woman who is aching for the same.

 

And if it’s you who, like I was that day, that thinks maybe staying in your pj’s and drinking coffee sounds like a better idea than facing a church full of corsage wearing, going out to lunch after women….do it. Celebrate not just being alive but thriving and healing. I am proof.

I was searching for a photo today on the photo saving site I use. I couldn’t remember the month or year for the photo so I was doing a quick scan through numerous folders in hopes of finding the one I needed. I didn’t. But mostly because I became side tracked by this one. I don’t know the exact date – it was in an un-labeled folder. I have quite a few of those from when my kids were small. Either I thought I’d always remember or I was too harried to enter a time stamp. My bets are on the second option.

I’m guessing it’s late 2006 or early 2007, based on the size and hair cut of each child. It had to be a cold time of year because, well, Houston. We don’t wear sweaters and fleece for very long. I can also guess by the flooring and counter tops. They weren’t redone yet. And looking back at all I’ve just typed I realize I am officially old. I never understood why my mom couldn’t just remember things but had to tell a whole story about the wind and the rain and the song on the radio just to remember a particular event. But I digress.

I can tell by my forced grin and the half-eaten s’more that I was a little bit frazzled. I spent a lot of time frazzled in those days. I think it’s how most moms feel when their kids are little. They are takers at that age. They take and take and take and you give and give and give. It’s what they need. Oh, they give love and snuggles and sleepy morning hugs and kisses and all of that is glorious. But they take every ounce of energy a mom has when they are small. They can’t even help it. It’s the nature of being 2 or 4 or 6. Your needs are high and your energy is high and your inquisitiveness is high which means your mom is low.

I dared not speak of the “low” in those days lest someone remind me that they had prayed for my little miracles to even exist. Charlie and I struggled for years with infertility suffering miscarriage after miscarriage. We lost five pregnancies in those days. They were trying times and I had an army of prayer warriors storming the gates of heaven demanding babies for me.

And then we had the girl. She was independent and high energy and rambunctious and bossy…Dear God, was she ever bossy. From day one. Fresh from the womb. She was bossy. It never occurred to us to try to prevent another pregnancy because it literally took a miracle to get her, that crazy, bossy little girl.

But.

Shelby was nine months old when it happened. We were shocked and elated and confused. Another baby? So soon? Why? What? (Nervous giggle.)

I remember calling Chuck at work when I was very, very pregnant with Seth. Shelby was not quite a year and a half and had decided that napping wasn’t her jam. I sat at the top of our staircase and cried, telling him over the phone that I couldn’t do this. He was very sympathetic but spoke reality to me saying, “Yes. Yes, you can.”

They are eighteen months apart and so close in size that we frequently get asked if they are twins. And now she’s getting ready to go to middle school. And he’s in 3rd grade. And I’m still frazzled but in a much different way.

I don’t worry about potty training anymore. I was pretty sure it would never happen  but it did – for both of them – in their own sweet time. I don’t worry about naps – at least not for them- anymore. They both learned to read and write and they know their colors and shapes and can count higher than me.

No, my worries look very different now than that night I sat on the kitchen rug and ate s’mores. (I really wish I could remember why we sat there.) Now I worry that they are being kind and pure and true. Now I worry that someone will break their hearts. Now I worry that they will practice appropriate amounts of self-control and have respect for others.

Worrying gets me no where though. Worrying gives me wrinkles. Worrying stresses me out and makes me cuckoo. So I keep turning all of this over to God.  I pray for things like:

• Kindness (1 Thess. 5:15)
• Courage (Dt. 31:6)
• Justice (Ps.11:7)
• Mercy (Lk 6:36)
• Faithfulness (Prov. 3:3)

And I pray for more mommy moments like the one in this picture. Moments when they want  to snuggle in with me – wherever we are – and love on each other. And s’mores.

 

In recent days I’ve watched the news report incessantly about the riots in Baltimore. With the craziness of the fighting and the looting there was a bright spot yesterday when someone caught, on camera, a woman beating the back of the head of what appears to be her son. She is chasing him down, yelling, pulling his face mask off, and knocking him silly. I love that woman. I heard a reporter this morning say that he was uncomfortable with the head slapping. You know what I’m uncomfortable with? A teenager breaking into a car with a baseball bat and stealing the contents of the car. I’m also not big on teens (or grown ups, for that matter) busting windows out of stores and setting buildings on fire. I saw her actions as the equivalent of grabbing a toddler hand that is reaching for a candle flame. When you see your child running toward danger you do what it takes to stop them. Especially if the danger they are running towards is going to cause danger for others.

This parenting thing is hard. Just when you think you have the hang of it someone throws a monkey wrench into the game and you have to figure out new methods and new strategies. It’s not for the weak of heart and at the risk of sounding like cliche, it really does take a team. I’m so thankful that Chuck and I are on the same page most days when it comes to what’s allowed and what’s not. We mostly agree on discipline. It would be a million times harder doing this on my own or if we weren’t on the same page. You mama’s that are working that one out – doing it by yourself or with a husband who isn’t supportive – I commend you and you are in my prayers.

I am also very blessed to have a team. I have our Oikos (our not-by-human-blood-but-by-Christ’s-blood-family), countless church friends, and some very important women from school. I’m a part of a group text that has been ongoing since our babies were in kindergarten. We met all met in Mrs. Clift’s class and were bonded by a sense of needing to connect with other moms. We share joys and sorrows and math problems. We compare spelling lists and lunch box decisions and sassy meltdowns.

When one of our kids gets invited somewhere we are comparing notes on whether or not it’s safe or expensive or appropriate. We stick together. And the best part is that our kids know it. My kids know which mom’s car they could jump into if ever an emergency happened. They know that if a fight breaks out on the playground or if there is a 1st grade kissing scandal I’m going to hear about it before they even get in my car. They know that there are more eyes than mine watching them and that my ears will hear what’s going on.

Will we catch everything? Probably not. Will we always agree on all aspects of parenting? Most certainly not. But my team is tough and we’ve committed to raising kids who love Jesus and don’t act like fools in public. We don’t all go to the same church. Our kids don‘t play the same sports. We don’t barbecue together on weekends but we are connected. Every. Single. Day. We communicate with each other in order to stay on the same page…or at least in the same book. We would throw down with anyone who tried to hurt our kids and we’d be the first ones chasing them all down if, like that woman on the news, it was required.

Do we always dress like Colonials? Only when duty requires. We do what it takes to keep each other sane and keep our kids safe, smart, and happy. Okay, safe and smart. Happy is negotiable.

I’m blessed to have a team. I think parenting would be so much harder without one. I love these ladies and I’m grateful to have them on this path with me.

Who’s on your team?

I have watched Grey’s Anatomy since the beginning. Day 1, Episode 1, I’ve seen them all. When I think back to the hours that have gone into me keeping up with Derek and Meredith is makes sense that I’m sobbing this morning. I just finished watching last night’s episode and-SPOILER ALERT-Derek died. Although I doubt my alert spoils much for anyone because it was all over Twitter and Facebook last night and Good Morning America ran a whole story on it this morning. Whole story.

Why do we do this? Why do we care? It’s a show on television. It’s a story written by a woman who writes stories about relationships. It’s actors who are paid so much that they sometimes become a little too high on themselves and cause themselves to get written out of shows. It’s pretend. We all know it’s pretend. So why then? Why do we care so much that we rant on Facebook and Twitter and cry on the banana we are eating while we watch? (I hear some people did that. Maybe people in my house. Okay, me.)

It’s escapism. Sometimes our lives become tragic and tangled and confusing and we want to see that someone else has it worse. We also want to see that it works out for someone. We want to see people struggle and fight and get hurt and overcome…because we want to overcome. I want to overcome.

I want to know that my life will work out. I want to know that if I work hard my dreams will come true. I want to know that making a smart choice, helping a stranger on the road, and putting my fellow man before me will result in all the good things. But the truth is it doesn’t always. The truth is sometimes Derek dies and things don’t work out. That’s why we sob. It’s a harsh reminder that endings aren’t always happy.

I probably escape into Grey’s for a lot of reasons. Reasons that are too numerous to mention here. And too silly. In fact, admitting that I sobbed – SOBBED – over my banana this morning is a bit embarrassing. But far too often I buy into the dream that this world is my home. I start believing that I am supposed to have all the good things – the happiness, the wealth, the health, the dreamy hair – and that life is supposed to show up in technicolor. So I escape to places where it looks like that happens.

Jesus never promised technicolor. He didn’t say I might have trouble, he said I will. But he also said I could take heart because this world – and all that’s in it – was overcome  by his death and resurrection. There will be a happy ending. There will come a day when there are no more tears, no more pain, and no more high drama character kill offs. There will come a day when we will all see Jesus face to face and the things of this world won’t matter any more.

So this morning I’m turning off the television and tuning into the relationships around me. The real ones with real people. The ones with real problems and real joys. The ones where people really die but also really  live. The ones I can pray for with people. And people who will pray with me. The ones with people who share coffee and lunches and thoughts about our favorite TV shows. Today I will invest in relationships that matter. That’s how I will overcome. That’s how my happy ending will come. I will share the love of my Savior with the people he’s given me today. And those people will share with me. It’s a give and take that I don’t get from the TV and it’s good.

Who will you tune into today?

If you read about me on this blog or talk to me in person, I tell you that my whole purpose in writing here is to share my faith, my family, and my food. I want to talk about the celebration and the struggle with any and all of those. I’ve been talking a lot lately about faith and family but have been greatly neglecting the food. At least the fun part of food. It took me a long time to find the balance between the blessing and the curse of food and to be able to eat with no shame. Sometimes I fall off the wagon and eat shamefully, but really on most days, I revel in the celebration of God’s bounty and love how food is fuel for my daily routine.

Yesterday afternoon Chuck and I were in a race to get our yard mowed before the next round of thunderstorms rolled in. We’ve had waves of storms and downpours all week and it seems it’s going to keep rolling for a few days. We had a window, however, that stayed open for several hour, and we decided to take advantage and cut through the jungle that was quickly growing. When we finished we were famished and I knew exactly what we needed. Burgers. Good, old fashioned burgers on the grill. Real beef, raised in Texas, put on a bun with a slice of real cheese…it makes my mouth water even now.

We don’t eat a lot of burgers anymore. Last year, when Chuck and I were both diagnosed with lots of health issues between us, we made a choice to change our diet. Okay, I made a choice. But I’m the cook in the house and he, along with the kids, are the consumers. They were all mostly on board though so it wasn’t a huge fight. We eat more chicken and fish and a lot more vegetables and fruit. I use Wildtree for all my cooking. All. My.Cooking. Not just because I sell it. Well, maybe because I sell it. But I sell it because it’s good and I believe in it. 

Anyway, I made great burgers last night and I wanted to share the yumminess today. I wish I had taken a picture because they were as gorgeous as they were tasty but alas, hunger is more powerful than thoughtful blog planning. So here’s what I did…

I had a tray of 6 hamburger patties in the fridge. You are certainly welcome to make and form your own patties out of 2 1/2 pounds of ground sirloin (that was the weight of what I used last night). Sometimes I do that. Mostly I don’t.

I drizzled Wildtree Jalapeno Pepper Grapeseed Oil over the burgers. I do this by placing my thumb over the opening of the bottle so the oil flows sparingly instead of like a river over the meat. I then rubbed it in on both sides of the burgers.

PSA – People, I need you to season both sides of your meat. I want all of my bites flavorful and you should, too. You deserve flavor in your whole mouth. Don’t let anyone tell you you don’t. Those people aren’t your friends.

After I rubbed in the Grapeseed Oil I sprinkled Wildtree Rancher Steak Rub liberally over the meat. Both sides. And rubbed it in. I then let the burgers rest about twenty minutes to make sure they were closer to room temperature and also so I could take a shower. My cooking is a science, friends.

Now here’s where I made my mistake. I’m only sharing because I want you to be warned and to never make this mistake yourself. Thankfully my family is full of grace and also were hungry but I will never, ever do this again. Never. Ever.

I grilled the burgers in my kitchen on a grill pan.

Folks, it was raining and I was desperate. But I kid you not, my kitchen stinks to high heaven this morning. Stinks with a great big S. I used my hood vent but still. It’s gross. And it was messy. It almost tainted my burger experience as a whole. Not quite, but almost.

I like my burgers cooked to medium, with pink in the middle, but my family likes them a little more done. I do not have the indoor cooking finesse to differentiate between burgers so they were all medium-well. We put them on buns with a slice of Colby-Jack cheese and…yum. The boy and I like ketchup and mustard but Chuck and the girl eat them plain. If I was fancy, and had planned ahead better, I would’ve had a thick slice of tomato, a piece of butter lettuce, and a few slices of avocado, but alas, I was hungry.

So there you have it…Friday Night Burgers. So basic. So yummy. And so good shared with my family.

 

Rainy Monday mornings are good for pondering your identity with a hot cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate pound cake. I slept terribly last night, I have for several nights, and woke up this morning with a screw diabetes attitude and cut a thick slice of cake. This is how a food addict falls of the wagon. So with tears and crumbs I will now attempt to work it out through words.

Have you heard this song? It’s old so you probably have. Unless you aren’t a fan of Christian music or the band Mercy Me. In that case you should listen. It’s good stuff. Anyway, I heard it on the way home this morning. I’d dropped the kids at school and was in the middle of a fairly intense beat up session on myself. Floundering somewhere between shame and self-loathing, asking myself who the hell I think I am, and then this song came on. I’m beautiful? That’s how God sees me? Hmmph. Probably not. I should go inside and eat cake.

I’ve been having a crisis of identity lately so maybe this is the head. Maybe this explosion of feelings and tears and cake this morning will be the end and I can move on. I wish I could pinpoint how or when or why it started. All the self doubt. I could say that it came on hot and heavy a couple months ago, when I signed up for an online blogging course. It was so full of information and encouragement and support that I really started to believe that I could do this. I could be a writer. That’s what great teachers do – they make you believe in yourself. And Micah is really good. But believing in myself is a new thing so for every good thought I had about myself I had a thousand bad ones. Ones that tore down my talent, gifts, and passions.

But really, if I’m going to be honest, this crisis of identity isn’t that new. It’s a whole lifetime of battles. It’s me, a daughter of The King, doubting that I could really be loved. It’s me, trying desperately to identify myself with something tangible, something the whole world could see. Yes, I know I’m God’s child but also I want everyone to see that…

I’m the perfect only child in a very churchy family – except my dad left and my mom killed herself. I’ve done the work and I work of forgiveness daily but truthfully, this one comes up daily.

I’m a great wife – except I let Chuck down almost daily. How could I not? I’m human. He is too. Although he’s a little more super-human. And hot. Have you seen his chin lately?

I’m a super mom – except for when I yell and forget daily devotions and forget to order Sharkfest t-shirts and use the wrong jelly on peanut butter sandwiches.

I’m so good at children’s ministry- except when I forget kids names and someone reminds me, yet again, that so-and-so did it better.

I’m a superb baker- except when a friend spit my cake out like it was poison.

Folks, I could go on and on. There are all sorts of things I want to master. There are areas of life I desire to be good and loved and worthy and celebrated. I think God sent that song, the Mercy Me one, for me to hear in that moment.

“Praying that you’d have the heart to fight
‘Cause you are more than what is hurting you tonight
For all the lies you’ve held inside so long -They are nothing in the shadow of the cross”

He doesn’t want me wallowing in what I’m not. He doesn’t want me worrying about what I am. The world wants me to find my identity in so many things; in so many places.

“Of all the earth and skies above
You’re the one He madly loves
Enough to die

You’re beautiful
You’re beautiful
In His eyes”

So I’m putting down the fork, getting up from the desk, and heading to work off this cake because diabetes. And also because…

“You are treasured, You are sacred, You are His
You’re beautiful.”

Easter is one of my favorite days of the year. I love the celebration of life and grace. I love the music. I love the flowers. I love all about Easter. This year we spent the afternoon with a group of friends who are like family. Most of us either work for the church or are involved heavily in various ways so we were all ready to kick our shoes off and relax after a long morning of celebratory worship. We went to my friend Kim’s house for food, games, laughter, and more laughter. The ham was warm, the wine and beer were cold, and the love was rich and over-flowing.

After lunch we sent the kids on scavenger hunts around the neighborhood and played silly games. It was fun. We videoed the shaving cream game you see Seth playing here. The idea was that you cover a head with a shower cap and shaving cream and then throw cheesy poofs at said head. In the video, as my husband is cheering loudly at my son’s amazing moves, swerving to and fro, catching poofs like a mad-man, you hear my daughter say, “Dad, what does this have to do with Easter?”

I posted the video to Facebook without hearing her words. Several people commented on it. Hmmm. What do shaving cream and cheesy poofs have to do with Easter?

Nothing.

And Everything.

Easter is the day we celebrate life. Life that we don’t deserve but have been graciously given. It’s the day we cheer for our Savior, who loved us so much that he faced down sin, darkness, and death to rescue us. It’s the day we acknowledge that, yes, we do believe. Not because we’ve seen His scars but because we have scars of our own that he’s lovingly healed. It’s the day when we shout from the rooftops that death has no power over us because of Jesus Christ.

I’m so blessed to be a part of a group of people that does celebration well. We love each other and love what Jesus has done for us and sometimes that calls for throwing cheesy poofs at someone’s head.  These are the people that I love to celebrate all of life’s moments with. First communions (which happened for Shelby on  Easter), confirmations (which we will celebrate for Margo next week), and Tuesdays. We’ve been known to celebrate a Tuesday here and there.

Maybe I love Easter so much because it’s a day when everyone gets to celebrate like we celebrate Tuesdays. We relish in our time together because we feel so blessed to be loved by our God and also by each other. If I could have one prayer for the world it would be that every single person could be a part of a celebratory group like ours. That people could be surrounded by love and acceptance and a big bowl of chips and queso that doesn’t empty until it’s time to go home.That they could know the Father’s love and grace because of the people in the kitchen sharing it. And that their Tuesdays would all be like Easter.

 

 

 

 

When we talked, as a family, this year about what we would do for Lent my son became incredibly quiet. He has never wanted to participate in giving something up for Lent or adding something to his daily routine. Doing so isn’t mandated by scripture so I’ve never pushed it. Lent is a new concept for me…at least as an adult, so not really that new. I like to participate in the thoughtfulness of the season. My heart has always been blessed by sacrificing something in remembrance of the sacrifice my heavenly father made for me. But all that being said, it’s a choice and I have never pushed it on the kids, even though we still talk about it.

So as we sat around the dinner table a few weeks back I was concerned about Seth’s sudden turn inward. I didn’t want him to take on any shame of any sort if he didn’t want to participate. Then he surprised me with a quiet interjection.

“I want to read my Bible every night before bed.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to give up anything for Lent but I want to read a story from my Bible every night to you.”

So that is exactly what we’ve been doing. We started with the New Testament and each night he has been ready me a story. I love it. I love how excited he gets about each story, telling me about what he knew in advance from Sunday School or from reading it somewhere else. Last night we opened to “Walking on Water” and he said, “Mom! This is my favorite!” and read the pages to me. As we closed the Bible and held hands for prayer he said,”Mom, it’s hard to keep my eyes on Jesus because the waves can be really big and dark.”

Yes they can. I often pride myself in being connected to Jesus. He’s my guy. I know him. We talk. But just like Peter, it’s that pride that comes before the fall. I take my eyes off of Jesus and look around at the waves and wonder how I’m ever going to get through them. I get scared that I won’t be able to see what’s underneath. I worry about the people watching and what they’ll think of me. I. I. I. When it’s about me I sink. When it’s about Jesus I glide across the waves. When I try to handle the waves they take me under. When I trust in Jesus I rise above.

My Lent sacrifice this year has  been good. I am learning more and more about who Jesus though the process. But it’s Seth’s commitment this year that has been such a blessing to me. I’m so grateful for the nuggets of truth that are being revealed to us every night on the edge of his bed.

 

There’s an interesting balance between love and disdain in the relationship between moms and daughters. When I was small I wanted nothing more than for my mom to acknowledge me and be proud of me. Please don’t take that as an accusation that she didn’t. She did and she was. I just couldn’t get enough. I followed her. I imitated her. I played with her.

Something happened around age 11 or 12 though. I suddenly realized that she didn’t know as much as I had given her credit for and frankly, she was pretty stupid. Of course, nothing had really changed in her. Something had changed in me. I was filling up with hormones that led me to believe I was invincible. My brain started growing and molding from thoughts, ideas, and behaviors by multiple teachers and other pre-teens around me who were also settling into their own form of genius. We were 12 and we were ready to concur the world…and we didn’t need our parents. Parents were lame.

My words became quicker and sharper. I no longer knew how to simply close a door. My brute strength required me to slam all doors. My eyes would uncontrollably roll and any advice from someone over the age of 25. I was pretty cool. My mom wasn’t.

Fast forward a few years and somehow, by some miracle, my mom found her coolness again and I acquired a small amount of humbleness. And then she was gone.

Hindsight is priceless and showed me how selfish, silly, and mean I had been. Grace shows me that while I was wrong, I was no different than most every other girl going through teen years. Most of us were jerks.

Fast forward a few more years and I have one of my own. On most days she is polite and kind and gentle. On most days she isn’t. That’s the thing about these years. Most days are not most days and there seems to be no compass for me to figure out how to navigate my way  through all the drama.

She loves me. I have no doubt. But sometimes I’m stupid. Sometimes I make suggestions that might as well have come from the 1700’s because I’m clearly out of style. I may have worked in student or children’s ministry for the church for 14 years but I probably don’t know anything about kids or teens or the bible. Or maybe I know too much about the bible and not enough about life. And even though I maintain relationships with friends that I’ve had for many, many years, both men and women, I surely know nothing about friends. O boys. Or music. Or television. Or books. Or….

Some days it hurts my feelings. I shed tears. I cover my head with blankets and pray. And some days I just pray.

“Dear God, give me the grace to see her through your eyes. Help me to show her love as she needs. Help me to be firm but gentle. Help me to not poke her eyes the next time she rolls them.”

Or some version of that. I wish my mom was here so I could tell her how sorry I am for being such a monster. I wish she was here to stop me when I’m tempted to throw things. We could have a cup of coffee and swap stories of door slamming. And we’d make pie. And we’d invite over all the other stupid moms and we’d laugh.

 We celebrated his birthday together for the first time in 1997. My mom made a chocolate cake that I took to a party with 40-50 of our closest friends. We had been dating for a month, maybe a little more. I don’t think I, or anyone else would’ve thought we’d still be celebrating 18 years later. My mom knew. The last conversation I had with her included words expressing her knowledge that he was “the one” and that she knew he would take care of me.

He hasn’t disappointed. This guy, my heart. He does take care of me. And he takes care of our little family.  And he does it just like he does everything else…full on. He works long hours, he gives his all. He makes budgets and spreadsheets and saves receipts. He researches everything and reads, reads, reads before making a decision. Any decision. This is  why I don’t take him grocery shopping if I can help it.

He loves to laugh and reminds me daily that I should be doing it more. He sends inappropriate jokes to our friends and takes pleasure in making me blush. He will argue with you passionately, whether he believes in his fight or not, just to make you see another side and give a situation full consideration.

He plays Lego and Minecraft (although he’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t get it) and has, on occasion, had a tea party with Barbie. He still shoots hoops and rides bikes and swims like a kid and gets so excited about movie releases. He disciplines the kids with fairness and sneaks them candy too close to dinner.

He celebrates life like no one else I know. He dances with abandon. He loves Jesus and asks Him every day how to be a better man, husband, father, friend.

So a happy birthday I wish, today, to my husband. He’s my partner, my best friend, my life.