Finding Spiritual Whitespace: A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Middle School Me,

Right now you're confused and hurt and wondering where you fit in this world.  You feel things deeply but everyone tells you you're "too sensitive" and that you need to "lighten up".  You throw yourself into your school work to forget about the friends who push you away and the way you never seem to fit in anywhere.

Plus, you're so afraid of failure, so there is really no other way.  That one time you got a D on a history quiz and the disappointed look on your parents' faces haunts you.  You'll do everything possible to never feel that pain again...even if it means pushing those hurts and pains and the way you feel everything so deep and hard into the furthest corners of your heart.

You learn to hide and forget, but I want you to know that you don't have to.  It's okay to feel deeply every moment of your life, because it's the way God made you.  He made no mistake when He knit you together in your mother's womb.  I know it doesn't make sense now and you wish you really could just let things go, but God knows that your tender heart is needed in this world of pain and suffering and sorrow.

You pour your words secretly into your journals, letting the tears fall at night when no one is watching, hiding your words in the darkest corner of your closet.  You've always dreamed of being a writer, but that dream seems so far away now...and, besides, who would ever want to read your words anyways?  The only words you can find right now are a jumbled heap of hurts and fears that don't make any more sense on paper than they do in your heart. 

You long to be loved, but all you see when you look in the mirror is an overweight girl with crooked teeth and huge glasses. Clothes shopping is your worst nightmare, because the mirror only magnifies every flaw and insecurity.  You hate summer, because it means shorts and swim suits and exposing more imperfections that you work so hard to hide from the world.

Someday your body that you try so hard to hide will bring life into the world and you will smile at every stretch mark and the stories they have written in your life.  You will curl up next to your love, the man who promised in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health...and he will gently caress every stretch mark and flaw, whispering words of beauty and love that take your breath away.  He will marvel at the way your body is growing and changing as it carries life and he will look at you with a love so deep and strong it will change the way you see the skin you are in.

You will be broken even more and you will question so much...but the One who knew every piece of your story long before you were placed in your mother's womb will not let you go.  Just when you think you can't take anymore, He will whisper words of love and life and breathe grace and peace into all your hurts.  You will break, but you will heal and your healing will be part of the story and purpose He began writing into your life long ago.  

And someday you will share your words with the world and start writing your story as a memoir, embracing your long ago dreams and finding the confidence to love the beautiful mess your life has written.  People will read your words and tell you to keep on writing.  You'll write when nothing makes sense and somehow writing your story will help you understand who you are and why you're here.  The words will fall from your heart and hands like poetry and wash over you like healing waters.

So, though you want to hide and all you feel is hurt and brokenness, I want you to know that you are beautiful...just the way you are.  Not one of your tears is forgotten and God is not finished with you yet.  He really does work all things together for good and He will use your broken pieces to not only make you whole again, but to breathe life and encouragement into so many other lives.  Though there is weeping in the night, joy will come in the morning and you will be more than okay. 

Linking up my spiritual whitespace moment with Bonnie Gray and a community of women Finding Spiritual Whitespace.

 

Throwback Thursday: Hold Hands

I took a break from this the past few weeks, but today I'm sharing another old blog post from the archives.  Sometimes I need to be reminded of my own words and I hope they will be an encouragement to others too.
  

***

Hold Hands

(blog post from  September 2013 originally shared here)

 


It was one of those mornings.

I heard the alarm go off far too early and, as my brain tried to come out of the fog of another sleepless night, I hit snooze, not once, but three times.  

The little one stirred next to me and, before I could force my sleep-heavy eyes open, he was full on wailing. 

I nursed him back to sleep and let the steaming waters of the shower wash me over with fresh strength for the day, but all I wanted to do was sleep.

I grumbled and worried as I struggled to wake the rest of the weary bodies in our home.  They mumbled their own pleas for more rest and then whined and complained their ways through a hurried breakfast. 

We made it out the door, by some miracle, with only ten minutes to spare before school started...only to remember half way there that it was PICTURE DAY.

We turned back for home and, with the boys still buckled in their car seats, I quickly pulled out the messy ponytail in my daughter's hair and rushed to curl it enough to be presentable for pictures.

I started to breath again, until my daughter started screaming when the curling iron brushed against her neck.

Horrified, I grabbed an ice pack and held her close, telling her over and over how sorry I was, wishing right then and there I could rewind time.

After finally dropping her off at school late and feeling my heart break when she refused to hug me goodbye, I cried all the way home and sent my husband a distressed text message.

"Sorry babe. Pretty sure you're not a bad mom," he reminded me, but I still wasn't convinced, so I wrote a distressed facebook post, wondering if there were any other moms out there who had been in my shoes.

Because the hard days always feel lonely until you reach out for help.  

This time, help came in the form of comment after comment from other moms and friends who know me well.  Their comments were like virtual hands reaching out to hold mine and remind me to breathe in grace.  

Even on the days when I make a mess of mothering, grace and love really do cover a multitude of messes. 

My husband was right.  I may not be perfect, but the hard days don't make me a bad mom.

No, it's a good mom who picks up the broken pieces, holds out her hand to wipe away the tears on her child's face, and covers every mistake in an all consuming, never ending love that takes her breath away.

It's a good mom who doesn't give up, but stands firm even in the storms, holding onto the One whose grace and love is more than enough.

It's a good mom who knows that she isn't enough without Him whose strength is everything she needs.

And, most importantly, it's a good mom who remembers how His mercies are new moment by moment and, instead of looking back, she continues to move forward...

...one step at a time. 


 

Throwback Thursday: Through A Crack In The Door

Today and every Thursday, I am re-posting an old blog post from the archives and sometimes even an old writing piece I've never shared publicly before.  Sometimes I need to be reminded of my own words and I hope they will be an encouragement to others too.

***

Through A Crack In The Door

(blog post from February 2013 originally shared here)

I hear her breathing, softly in and out.  She is four going on fourteen and I just want time to slow down or stand still in the here and now.

In the quiet of the night, I imagine her story.  It unfolds in whispers of a girl become woman, dancing to her own beat, waltzing through life with a love heart that loves so deep and strong it hurts.

She is like me and yet she is not.  She is my heart beating outside my own body, invisible ties forever binding our lives together.

As I listen and wonder, I hear the creek and squeak of her bed.  She cracks the door open and peeks out, one eye still hidden behind the door, the other peering deep into my own.  It's as if she is searching my soul, trying to figure me out at the same time she wants to know and understand her own heart and soul.

"I so scared..." she whispers.  And with arms open wide and heart wider, I welcome her into the arms of a mother's love that knows no end.  I whisper to her fears the same way God whispers to my own.

"It's okay, sweetie.  You don't need to be afraid."

And as I speak to her heart, I speak even louder to my own.  I can feel fear knocking at the door of my soul, but I don't have to open that door.

I am not my fears and they are not me.

I have a choice to make: to be afraid or not.  And as I ponder this truth I remember:

She watches me closely and wants to be like mommy.  My entire life is on display for this one searching for a truth to hold onto and grow into.

What truth will she see in me to mirror and live?


 

Throwback Thursday: Holding Hands

To join in on the Throwback Thursday fun, I'm going to be starting a new "series".  Every Thursday, I will re-post an old blog post from the archives and sometimes even an old writing piece I've never shared publicly before.  Sometimes I need to be reminded of my own words and I hope they will be an encouragement to others too.

***

 Holding Hands

(blog post from September 2013 originally shared here)

It was one of those mornings.

I heard the alarm go off far too early and, as my brain tried to come out of the fog of another sleepless night, I hit snooze, not once, but three times.  

The little one stirred next to me and, before I could force my sleep-heavy eyes open, he was full on wailing. 

I nursed him back to sleep and let the steaming waters of the shower wash me over with fresh strength for the day, but all I wanted to do was sleep.

I grumbled and worried as I struggled to wake the rest of the weary bodies in our home.  They mumbled their own pleas for more rest and then whined and complained their ways through a hurried breakfast. 

We made it out the door, by some miracle, with only ten minutes to spare before school started...only to remember half way there that it was PICTURE DAY.

We turned back for home and, with the boys still buckled in their car seats, I quickly pulled out the messy ponytail in my daughter's hair and rushed to curl it enough to be presentable for pictures.

I started to breath again, until my daughter started screaming when the curling iron brushed against her neck.

Horrified, I grabbed an ice pack and held her close, telling her over and over how sorry I was, wishing right then and there I could rewind time.

After finally dropping her off at school late and feeling my heart break when she refused to hug me goodbye, I cried all the way home and sent my husband a distressed text message.

"Sorry babe. Pretty sure you're not a bad mom," he reminded me, but I still wasn't convinced, so I wrote a distressed facebook post, wondering if there were any other moms out there who had been in my shoes.

Because the hard days always feel lonely until you reach out for help.  

This time, help came in the form of comment after comment from other moms and friends who know me well.  Their comments were like virtual hands reaching out to hold mine and remind me to breathe in grace.  

Even on the days when I make a mess of mothering, grace and love really do cover a multitude of messes. 

My husband was right.  I may not be perfect, but the hard days don't make me a bad mom.

No, it's a good mom who picks up the broken pieces, holds out her hand to wipe away the tears on her child's face, and covers every mistake in an all consuming, never ending love that takes her breath away.

It's a good mom who doesn't give up, but stands firm even in the storms, holding onto the One whose grace and love is more than enough.

It's a good mom who knows that she isn't enough without Him whose strength is everything she needs.

And, most importantly, it's a good mom who remembers how His mercies are new moment by moment and, instead of looking back, she continues to move forward...

...one step at a time.