Tag: writer

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Be A Stephanie

I have a personal motto/affirmation I say to myself whenever I am tempted to give in to social anxieties. The motto is simple and to the point: Be a Stephanie.

What on God’s green earth does that mean, you might ask. Well, it’s simple. In a world full of timid interactions and second-guessed moments: Be a Stephanie.

Who on God’s green earth is Stephanie, you might ask. Well it’s an odd story. Stephanie is a girl/woman/lady I meet at a mutual friends bachelorette party. Stephanie was at this party solo.  She knew no one other than the bride and had flown into Chicago from New Jersey just for this party. The spectacular thing about Stephanie is that I had no idea she didn’t know anyone until hours into the party, when I had already decided I liked her.

Stephanie took initiative in starting conversations and was the first to offer help to the hosts at every turn. Conversation with Stephanie wasn’t simply pleasant and definitely wasn’t awkward. Talking to Stephanie was as easy as talking to any good friend.

Stephanie’s view of and appreciation for the company surrounding her was obvious. Even though she didn’t know them, she genuinely seemed to like where she was at that moment. Her heart for the guest of honor was obvious.  Repeatedly stating that she just wanted the bride-to-be to have the absolute best time of her life that night. Stephanie didn’t just say that but she took action to make it happen. Her decisions throughout the night were not based on her own comfort or enjoyment but on the comfort and enjoyment of the bachelorette.

I have never seen Stephanie again since that bachelorette party. I don’t even know her last name to find her on Facebook. But her spirit made an incredible impact on my life in a short 24 hours. Telling my husband about the party on the way home I spoke of Stephanie and I said: I want to be a Stephanie. I want to make other people feel as good and included as Stephanie made me feel.

So there you have it. When I’m in a situation where I’m uncertain of my surroundings. When I’m not sure how to act or who to talk to and find myself questioning each moment rather than enjoying them I remind myself: Be a Stephanie.

Rather than worry if others are seeing you, make others feel seen.

Rather than trying to be the life of the party, make sure others feel heard.

Rather than recoiling after an odd interaction with someone, move on. Let go. Love.

Be a Stephanie.

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Shut It Down and Shut It Up

We all say it.  Every woman I know says, “I hate drama” or “I’m too old for drama” or some other variation.  So then why do we do it?  Why do we get tangled up in gossip even when we have the best intentions at heart?  We all fall victims to ourselves, relishing in the spread of information that was never ours to receive.  Why don’t we stop it when it starts?  Instead we justify and say, “Well I know I’m not going to tell anyone” or “We should pray for this couple”.  Why do we rationalize gossip?

I could give you my opinions.  The same ones you probably share.  We want to feel better about ourselves or we want to feel included, we want to fit in or seem like we are “in the know”.  But when we all have seen and have fallen victims to gossip and the damage it does and the hurt it creates.  Why do we continue?

Let me ask you this tough question: Are you a mean girl?  Am I?  Yes.  Irrevocably, yes.  If we participate in the dirt on someone’s marriage or the elective surgeries of someone in a friend circle, we are mean girls.

Have you ever been caught gossiping?  There is so much shame.  So much shame in knowing I couldn’t stop myself.  So much shame knowing I cared more about hearing what was wrong in someone else’s life than about doing something to build them up.  So much shame knowing that feeling like I was being included was more important than reaching out to the person who was being left out and singled out.

It’s so ugly.  It’s so mean.  We are better than this.   We need to shut it down and shut ourselves up.

P.S. Any information or conversations I have with ANYONE I keep confidential.  Recently, I have experienced a situation where that same courtesy was not given to me.  And it hurt.  I got hurt.

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I Don’t Even Recognize Her

I don’t even recognize her.  She was so full of life and hope.  Nothing could stop her, nothing could slow her down or convince her to change course.  She’d never be defeated; her trust was in the Lord.

Today, her spirit isn’t jaded or weakened but thankful and stronger.  She hasn’t learned the hard way but has learned God’s way.  It’s work.  She’s been disciplined through love; for a greater purpose.  Her story isn’t the result of naivety but of hope.

I remember when she was asked to do the hard thing.  Her confidence.  So self-assured and focused on the goal set before her.

Now she’s living it.  It isn’t a goal or daydream full of whimsy but a reality.  She’s where God called her – the hard place.  Her confidence is not diminished but re-assigned, it’s no longer in her but in Him.  She’s no longer thinking that she is strong enough but that He is strong enough.  She’s seeing firsthand what He can do through a willing heart.  She is tired but wise.  She has been hurt but hasn’t lost.  She has failed and seen redemption.  Today, she is not less but more.  She has failed but hasn’t lost focus.

I don’t even recognize her.  Maybe I don’t want to.  Maybe I’m embarrassed of her.  The young woman I was 10 years ago.  I loved a God I didn’t really know.

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What To Do When The Shower Curtain Falls On Your Head

I didn’t do a great job today.  Everything seemed fine at first, normal Saturday morning at home.  First nice day outside.  In fact, we were playing outside when Jason left to go get a haircut.  During the hour he was gone, the dog got out because Maria was playing with the front door.  {She knows not to play with that door – I’ve told her 6,000 times.  In fact, I had JUST told her not to play with the door.}.  So I ran frazzled down the driveway after the dog wondering if I had a recent enough picture of him on my phone to make flyers with {Also I wondered, has running always been this hard?}.

Got the dog back and was, you know, a little annoyed.  Carmelo of course just HAD to fall off his bike and get an incredibly minor red mark on his knee that prompted him to scream as if I had personally assaulted him.  {Does he not understand that I just chased the dog down the street and have not recovered emotionally OR physically from that?}.

Brelynn was, wait.  What was Brelynn doing?  I didn’t have time to check because Maria walked up to me and said she had to poop.  The problem was that she had her hand holding her rear.  A clear indicator that by “needed to” she meant “I already started to….”.  We rushed inside with the barely caught dog slung under my arm.  I was mad.  Really mad.  This was the 3rd time this week she pooped herself.  She is almost 5 and has been potty-trained since I’ve known her and I know this wasn’t an accident because she looked me clear in the face to tell me she just didn’t want to stop playing.  She willingly decided to poop herself. {What is she, 4?!}  My ability to clearly think was breaking down.  Angrier by the second.  I told her she was putting a pull-up on.  She started to scream in my face {not crying scream – angry scream}.  “Go to your room Maria, just get away from me right now.” I stormed {yes, stormed} past my other 2 kids rolling my eyes and shaking my head walking into the office where I often go to quietly curse.

The remaining 40 minutes was a power struggle of wills between myself and an almost 5-year-old.  Fits of rage from such a tiny body.  40 minutes of trying to be firm about the pull-up but not angry.  Not mean.  40 minutes of having to leave her room because her yelling and hitting were out of control {and so was I}.  When Jason got home she was sleeping.  Wore herself out.  I gave what I could of an exhausted run down of events and excused myself to take a quick shower.

It was a short shower.  Just enough to wash my hair, soap my pits and recklessly swipe a razor across my legs.  I pulled the shower curtain back when it happened.  The tension rod slipped and fell hard on my head.  It was loud.  Jason came rushing in to see me standing in the shower, naked, hurt, flawed and teary eyed.

So what DO you do when the shower curtain falls on your head?  You ugly cry.  Silently.  Into your towel.  And when it stops being quite so ugly and you can finally see through your sadness, you seek the Lord…..and ask him: What the heck?

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Far From Beautiful

I’m not going to tell the story.  It’s not beautiful.

It’s actually been ugly.  Ugly pieces of my heart that I hadn’t even known existed have surfaced since becoming a parent.  And so, it’s hard for me to respond to people’s questions about “our story”.  I guess that’s mostly because I know what they are expecting to hear.  They are expecting for me to tell them a beautiful story. A story that shines a light on the good in the world that so often seems hidden.  A story that reminds them there’s hope and beauty and redemption.  A story that points to all the ways God has rained down glory on our family and the enormous ways we’ve seen God move.  But I don’t have that story.

In fact, when people ask us about our journey, my mind spins into chaotic memories of yelling, crying and anger.  The long season of feeling alone and angry and privately regretting the choice I had made.  The ugly feelings that I tried to reason with as I desperately tried to remember the feelings of certainty I had when God spoke adoption into our lives.  I questioned if I had got the calling wrong.  The experience was traumatic and I am a changed person because of it.  Those memories hurt.  They feel ugly.

The story is far from beautiful.  But it also isn’t over.

I’ve been hearing God whisper to me since the dust has settled; reminding me that my work is important. That although I’ve failed in moments, I haven’t failed in life.  I haven’t sacrificed as gracefully as I had hoped but my sacrifice is still valid.  My favorite theme of the bible isn’t grace alone but the progress grace allows. His grace is sufficient, but for what? Sufficient grace so we can stand still or sufficient grace so we can progress? If God’s blessing to my family came immediately after the adoption papers were signed, what story would we have to tell?  That God is simple?  That we systematically receive when we give? There are no stories like that in the bible. Why did I think my story would be the first?