For the Love of Significance

Today is the Launch Day for Jen Hatmaker's book, For the Love.

And as part of the Launch Team, I have been asked to blog about this book/experience today.  Like August 18th, 2015.  It is 10pm Mountain Time, which means I missed the deadline on the East Coast, but whatever.  It's the day before school starts.  This is the best I can do.  And as Jen says:

I have had 5 months to figure out how to say what this book and experience has meant to me, and tonight, I still can't wrap the words around the awesome things that God has done through Jen's words.  5 months ago I was groggy and bloated and recovering from an appendectomy.  I was in a non-writing stage, wondering if anyone was ever going to read my blog and wondering if anything I ever wrote mattered to anyone.  Wondering if it ever would.

Yesterday I got an email from Jen. This is a best-selling author.  Her face is plastered all over stuff.  She's on TV.  She's queen of the hashtag.  She's legitimately famous.

And she sends out an email to her "Email Friends" the day before her new book launch day saying, "My biggest fear is that whatever I said or wrote won't matter.  I think about it all the time."

And I thought, you too?  Even you?  Successful writer? Even you who wrote these words that inspired me?

Well, good, Jen, you're human.  You struggle.  You struggle openly and beautifully.  And after writing the words that made me laugh and cry and grow in grace, I can reassure you that you matter.  What you do matters.  What you write matters.  How you mother and lead and grow and serve and struggle matters.

And you too, readers.  You matter.  What you do matters.  You are the only you there will ever be, and what you read and write and say and teach matters.  How you mother and serve matters.  You cleaning the toilets matters.  You wiping bottoms matters.  You apologizing after you scream your head off at your children matters.  You making 25 PB&Js matters.  You getting clothes and backpacks and lunches and notebooks and crayons and folders with or without prongs matters.  It seems fruitless and futile, but it matters.

And the honesty of it all matters most because

And maybe that's all I need to tell you about this book.  It is honesty and hilarity and truth and grace.  It brought together a group of 500 people who now consider themselves friends.  The Launch Team is a community of people sharing prayer and laughter and grace.  It is a place where I matter.  My voice, my thoughts, my needs, my prayers matter.  And when you read For the Love, I hope it reminds you that you matter.  I hope it reminds you that you, truth, and grace matter. 

On Being an Actual Human...

Prior to motherhood, I belonged to a group of really cool women who accepted me as is.  Human. Quirky.  Hot-tempered.  Sleepy.  Messy.  Flakey. But also interesting.  Smart.  Funny. Trust-worthy. Sensitive. Kind.

And because I belonged in this group.  Because they said, "you're messed up and we love you anyway," I realized, I'm okay as I am.  I like who I am.  I don't have to try to be perfect.  And I accepted being human in all of it's glorious messiness.

When I gave birth to my first tiny human, it was as though I gave up my ability to be an actual human. Ironic.

When motherhood happened, I sacrificed things that made me feel human to give life and safety and food to this most precious tiny human.  I gave up sleep.  I gave up showering daily.  I gave up my job.  My hobbies.  My relationships.  My right to pee and bathe alone. My right to do anything uninterrupted.  My right to eat things without sharing.  My right to leave the house without 3 bags full of necessities.  My right to time alone.  My right to quiet.  My right to pursue my dreams...

Some of these things the tiny human demanded I give up.  Some I chose to give up because they didn't make sense to financially continue.  Others just gently, quietly faded out of my life without fanfare.  On some level I expected this sacrifice.

What I didn't expect was that as that the tiny humans grew, they would see me as inhuman.  They would see me as the fixer of things, the supergluer, the magic band-aid giver, one who knows all of the answers, one who can draw the things, make the things, invent the games, clean the things... one who can magically provide food and drink at any time in any place from nothing...

Their expectations of my knowledge, will-power, and abilities are so astronomical that they do not believe me when I tell them that I cannot do something.  They do not believe me when I don't have food or they are hungry and we need to go to the grocery store before I can give them food.  They are completely unreasonable.  Strangely enough, I didn't fully expect my  children to be unreasonable.  I didn't expect to have to teach them everything.  Every. Single. Thing.  Like that Mommy is a human.  And she makes mistakes.

Thing is, I expect my children to be inhuman too.  I expect them to never have bad days.  I get frustrated when it takes them forever to learn something and change their behavior.  I expect them to behave appropriately at all times...  And this is a me problem, not a them problem.  The expectations, that is.

And the glorious thing is that we get ample opportunities to show each other just how human we are.  Every day, I screw something up.  And every day they do too.

And I suppose it would be best if I followed the advice of the Bible that says, "But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Because when I show them my weakness of being human, they can offer me grace.  And I get to practice receiving grace... Grace that says, "I love you even though you yelled at us."  And if they don't give grace, I get to practice giving grace... grace that says, "I love you even though you won't forgive me right now." 

The only way to accept being an actual human is grace.  And grace is just realizing that we are all a bunch of messed up kids who screwed something up and need their dad to come make it right.  

TBT Trying Again... (Originally published 6/2/14 mytreesugly.blogspot.com)

I am 34 years old, and I am finally beginning to realize that, "If at first you don't succeed, try try again" is actually pretty good advice.

I bring it up because here I am, attempting to start blogging consistently again.  Why did I stop?  I don't know.  Why did I stop working out?  Why did I go back to screaming at my kids to "get their crap and get out the door now!!"? Why did I gain 15 pounds after I lost 55?  Because life happened.

And life is going to continue to happen.  I'm going to miss a workout.  I'm going to get mad at my kids and eat my feelings (cookies) and get mad about eating my feelings, so I'll eat my feelings (fruit snacks) about eating my feelings.

But when I stop working out because I missed a workout, or stop writing because I missed one week of blogging, or "cheat" on my "food lifestyle," and say, "Well, I might as well eat everything I stopped eating because I can't stick with it anyway," then I am just sabotaging the hard work it took to accomplish all that I have already accomplished.

The advice in the Paleo World goes like this, "Don't let perfect be the enemy of good."

But it applies to so much more than just food.

If at first I don't blog, blog, blog again.

If at first I don't work out, wod, wod again.

If at first I yell at kids, be calm again.

If at first I eat cookies, eat broccoli again.

Funny how trying to be perfect makes me overweight, sad, angry with my kids, lazy, and a non-writer.

"Trying Again" may mean I am a failure, but it also makes me persistent, dedicated, disciplined, thinner, self-controlled, motivated, and more patient.

You can learn to be a failure too.  It's better than being perfect.

BRF and Other Calamities of Motherhood

Houston, we have a problem.  I have developed Bitch Resting Face.  I didn't used to suffer from this affliction.  But I can feel my face just falling right into a scowl for no reason other than it just rests there.  What is this?  How did this happen to me?!

People once described me as "bubbly."  BUBBLY for goodness sake!  But ah, that was many moons ago, dear friends, many moons ago indeed.

I now go to parks with my kids, and as my face begins to rest, I count, Kid 1, Kid 2, Kid-- Where on earth is Kid 3?  I just saw him.  He was right there.  Ugh.  This park is too crowded and I can't see past that rock climbing thing.  Come on, buddy, pop your head out some where.  Shit.  There was a super shady-looking guy over there earlier and now he's gone... Seriously, what is this place, like a pedophile's dream?  Oh.  There he is.  Where did Kid 1 and 2 go?

Then I follow the 2 year-old around, you know the one who thinks he can climb the same things the 7 year-old can and somehow get sprayed by an errant squirt from a squirt gun war happening amongst the tweens at the park.  In my "bubbly" days, I would've smiled and given the rascally kids my I'm-a-cool-teacher-but-don't-push-it face.  Nowadays, no.  Now, I say, "Excuuuse me" with a tone.  Because, ladies and gentlemen, I've developed a "tone."  A do-that-again-and-I-will-drag-you-to-your-mother-by-your-ear-tone.

When?  When did this happen?  When did I forget how to play?  When did I trade bubbly for bitchy?  I liked bubbly.  Maybe not champagne-bubbly, but at least semi-flat soda?!

I know it happened somewhere in the middle of being up all night providing for every need of all of these tiny humans 24 hours a day, but does being responsible for tiny humans automatically mean I can't be fun anymore?  Because it seems that the two have become mutually exclusive in my life.

I am no longer fun, but I am responsible for everyone and everything that they need.  If I shirk this responsibility of providing snacks and diapers and wipes, small children are starving and whiny and the toddler is covered in poo.  That, my friends, is not fun.

I wanted motherhood so badly, but I didn't think it would mean that fun would be so sacrificed.  It feels like becoming a mom means forfeiting the luxury of being a human.  It FEELS like it means that I'm not allowed to do or be anything I've dreamt of doing or being besides being a mom--because I did dream of that-- boy did I dream of that.  I wanted that so much.  I wanted a family more than anything in the world.  More than travel.  More than adventure.   More than being a best-selling author...

Now I have kids who create American Ninja Warrior Courses on every. single. playground.  I have kids who play ball with Daddy in the backyard.  I have kids who climb on chairs to help me bake and beg to snuggle with me to read stories.

My dream has come true.

But it came at a price; fun Emily is difficult to find, and I now have BRF and a "tone."  I do not pay this price willingly.

I still want to be a mom more than anything in the world.  But I also still want fun, travel, adventure, and best-selling-authordom.

My wise and wonderful husband once said to me, "Love is about sacrifice."
"What does that mean?" I said.
"It means I would've listened to country music if I had to do to be with you."

Maybe if I viewed love and life this way, my BRF would turn into a smile.  What if I viewed the bag of diapers, wipes, and snacks as gifts I get to give my children instead of the ugh-why-do-I-always-have-to-lug-this-crap way that I usually see it?

What if I forced myself to be still when I look out the window and see my boys playing in the backyard?

What if instead of seeing joyful playing as a time to sneak away and get something done or do something I enjoy by myself I force myself to join in their already-happening-fun?

What if instead of forcing MY fun on my family, I just join in their fun instead?

Fun IS fun whether it's on my terms or theirs, and they are good at fun.  They're kids for crying out loud.  Maybe I could shirk the responsibility of BEING fun and just JOIN the fun instead.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Storytime

I've always had a tremendous amount of respect for people who can tell great stories.  It is no easy feat, this story-telling thing.  There are the elements of timing, suspense, wording, tone of voice, the mixing humor with meaning.  The story-teller must paint a picture without giving so many details that he loses his audience.  He must move the plot along, but pause at the important parts so that we know to focus on them later.  He must let the story speak for itself, having the patience to allow it to unfold without getting ahead of himself, or rushing through, skipping out on things we need to hear, but might be tough to say.  Though he tells the story, he must get out of the its way so that the meaning and nuances and experiences can resonate with the listener and take on new life.  Story-telling is truly an art to be respected.

I got to listen to Scott Nickell tell me a story today, and it reminded me of the way my Papa used to tell stories.  Certainly, Papa didn't say "bro" in the midst of his stories, and rarely did Papa's stories contain Biblical matter, but Scott told the story of Elijah today the way Papa used to tell me about hunting.  He let the story unfold through his own colorful perspective without getting in its way.  And you got the sense he has told his son, Elijah the same story a hundred times but you're sure Eli can never hear it enough from his dad.  Much in the way that I would give anything to hear Papa tell another story... any story... especially the ones I heard a hundred times.

I wonder, when I get those special opportunities to hear great stories told by masterful storytellers, how much more amazing would it have been to sit and listen to Jesus with His parables.  I wonder how incredible it will be in Heaven to sit at His feet and soak in His impeccable timing, His choice of words, His tone of voice.

I can't wait.

Squee!!!

Yes, that is a very girlie "Squeee!!!"  And it could possibly be followed by a "toot toot toot," because in a minute I'll be tooting my own horn, along with someone else's so, ya know, still keepin it real.

Back in March, I blogged about being chosen to be on Jen Hatmaker's Launch team for her new book, For the Love, well, good news, kids.  It is NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!!!  And she's giving away a bunch of freebies!!!  Order here now: http://forthelovebook.com

Now here's the tooting part... In that book, in real ink, is something I wrote about the book, followed by my name.  WHAT?!  My endorsement in a best-selling author's book?!  WHAT?!

It was so cool.  You guys.  Jen Hatmaker sent me an email.  Like a real email.  Okay, so there were like 24 other people she sent it to too, but for reals.  She said my words made her laugh and cry.  MY words.  So funny since my endorsement just told her that HER WORDS had me laughing and crying throughout her book.  Anyway, if you want to read my endorsement, followed by my name in her book, you're going to have to buy one.  But... that's not the reason you should buy it.  The reason you should pre-order now is because it is a great big "me too" for people like us.  It is a great big cowboy-booted sweaty stroll through Austin, TX with Jen Hatmaker chatting about life and love and kids and Jesus and being a woman with big feelings while sipping on a great big-ole Texas sweet tea.

It is good.  It is fun.  It is soulful.  It is wise.

All of this for a mere $12.04 on Amazon.

Anyway, just wanted you to know.  I'll tell you more about my experience with the launch team soon.  Such a great experience!

TTFN!

TBT My Friends are Not Similes or Metaphors. I Should Stop Comparing. (Originally Published on mytreesugly.blogspot.com on 6/4/11)

What is wrong with us?

Everyone I know does this to each other intentionally or unintentionally, and we know we do it, we hate it about ourselves, every time we do it we tell ourselves to stop, and yet we continue to do it over and over and over again.  Maybe it’s mostly women, but men do it too (mostly with technology, cars, and home projects).

I’m talking about looking at other people’s lives and thinking that they have it better than we do or that they are so much better at it than we are; looking at others and thinking, she has the perfect hair, butt, body, house, kid… Why can’t my hair, butt, body….look like that, act like that, be like that?

The best answer?  Because Emily, you don’t want to spend more than 3 ½ minutes a day on your hair.  Because, Emily, you don’t want to count calories and give up chocolate.  Because, Emily, if you spent the amount of time cleaning your house every day that she does, you would be a very angry and annoyed person, and you’d yell at your kids every time they threw something on the floor (which means you’d be yelling all day every day!). 

It’s amazing to me that we only see other people’s gifts as our own failures, our own faults, our own deficiencies. And then we give out those jealous compliments, “You always look so pretty.” As we snarl under our breath.  Because it’s infuriating that someone can seemingly so effortlessly look so freaking beautiful.  All. The. Time. And have a tight stomach after kids.  And buy clothes that are really cute….. and…

Why can’t I just be happy that I have trained my children to give me some quiet time every day and even if one precious three year old I know doesn’t actually go to sleep during that time, he won’t even fight me if I tell him he needs to play quietly in his room for an hour?  That is an amazing freaking thing!  And instead of celebrating that I have that, I have to beat myself up with my mother’s voice echoing in my head, “Well, Emily, you have all of this free time right now, why are you putsing around on the computer when I would’ve had the laundry started and a load of dishes in the dishwasher and all of these other clothes put away in the time it took you to just think about what you were going to write about in that silly blog.”

Wouldn’t it be better if I let myself do something I enjoy in the quiet time I have?  Wouldn’t it be better if I enjoyed working on my book while the boys were taking a nap instead of stressing that I’m not doing all that other stuff that I’m “supposed” to do in order to measure “success” on the pretend “being a good stay at home mom” scale? 

Wouldn’t that be easier if I looked at my beautiful friend and enjoyed looking at her?  It sounds weird, but isn’t that why we want to be beautiful?  So that others will enjoy looking at us?

Don’t I hope that my friends enjoy my writing?  Don’t I hope that my friends enjoy the dinner I made or the way my kids behave or the words that come out of my mouth?  Don’t I hope that my participants appreciate that I can learn all 32 of their names in the first 10 minutes I’ve met them?  I do!  I want everyone to like the best parts of me.  I want them to value what I have to say and how I say it.  I want people to like me just the way that I am.

And I’m guessing that those friends that I have with the flat tummies and perfect hair hate the way their hair does this or noses do that, and they look at me and think, I wish I had Emily’s cute squishy nose.  I wish I could pull off that muffin top like Em does. Ha.  Just kidding.  No one thinks that.  Besides I don’t have a muffin top.  My broken scale told me that I lost 16 pounds this week.  I am a hot mama.

This week, I will enjoy my own gifts.  I will write.  I will think.  I will make good coffee.  And I will have a great time with my friends… even the beautiful ones with clean homes.