The Day I Sat At My Kitchen Table

The day I sat at my kitchen table and cried...

The day I screamed at my kids because they brought a pile of red dirt inside and dumped it all over the carpet...after being told countless times not to bring dirt inside...after they had drained a container of ice coffee all over the floor...after they had pulled their closet door off the track, again...after they dumped the soap out, again...all before 9 am.

The day I hit my limit and I screamed at my kids.

The day I sat at my kitchen table, feeling waves of guilt, anger, remorse, and despair pound me into the ground.

The day I said to my husband on the phone, in a moment of utter frustration, "I can't do this {take care of the kids} anymore; I don't want to do this anymore." {Yes, I am the same person who recently wrote about the devastation of miscarriage.}

The day I realized that just because I cognitively understand the developmental limitations of a 3 and 4 year old doesn't mean that I can handle them emotionally.

The day I realized that just because I know a fair amount about what these little people need - they need to be heard, they need empathy, they need good boundaries and guidelines, and they need me to be patient with them - doesn't mean that I'm always {or even often} capable of doing those things.

The day I realized, while crying at my kitchen table, that I don't want or need other moms to assuage my feelings of inadequacy or guilt by telling me that I'm enough and that I'm doing the best that I can, because I just need to feel these awful things and let them be my guide.

The day I realized that if I actually shared these thoughts out loud with other moms, I might risk being judged by people who might think to themselves, I love my kids so much, I can't even fathom screaming at them or not wanting to be with them. And to think, she's a therapist. My goodness. I might also risk having people attempt to make me feel better by encouraging me and telling me that I'm ok, that it happens, that I'm not a bad mom.

I would receive the I'm not a bad mom part, but the reality is, I made a bad choice. I lost my cool, I mean I REALLY lost my cool and I screamed at my kids. Thankfully, my kids are resilient as they {after a string of very tearful moments} are now off in their rooms, happily zooming their cars to and fro. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here at my kitchen table crying, still angry, still feeling guilty, still sad, still a hot mess.

I think I need to acknowledge my anger and my sadness and feel them until they run their course. And I need to feel that guilt, because guilt tells us what we have done wrong, different from shame which tells us we are wrong. I need to feel like a mess for a little while because this parenting thing is messy, really really messy.

The day I sat at my kitchen table and stared at the photos hanging on the wall of my two beautiful, curious, impressionable children and the deep, deep love I have for them washed over me.

The day that I sat and wondered how and why my anger boils up so easily and seems to momentarily silence the love I have for my kids.

The day I sat at my table and knew that I was wrong; knew I was broken; knew I was so very imperfect; knew I felt sorry; knew I was forgiven; knew I was loved.

The day that I apologized to my kids and they apologized to me.

The day I thought, thank goodness that His mercies are new every morning, that while growth is painful it is good, and God's not finished with me yet.

This is the day that I sat at my kitchen table and cried. And the tears were good and hard and cleansing.

Miscarriage - A Strange, Silent Kind of Grief

I picked up the phone and called Tom, preparing myself to utter the dreaded words, the ones I had hoped that I would not have to say, "It's definitely happening. I'm losing the baby." And in that moment, with those words being spoken aloud to the person I love the most on this earth, it became real. We were losing our baby. We were losing our future as we had quickly come to envision it, the chaotic, imperfectly wonderful home with three kiddos in it. Sadness washed over me as I felt a million tiny hopes and expectations flow out of my being. I put on a t.v. show for the boys downstairs and I gave myself permission to sit in it, to feel it all. I crumpled into a ball, alone on my bathroom floor, and I cried. I cried hard and long and deep. I waited until the tears stopped falling, for the moment when my chest stopped heaving, and then I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and I made lunch. Because life with a 3 and a 4 year old keeps going and despite my overwhelming sadness, they still needed to eat. And probably, so did I. It wasn't the only time that I cried, not by a long shot, because grief comes in waves, totally unpredictable waves.

Miscarriage is a strange, silent kind of grief. It is, in my experience, less about grieving something known and tangible, and more about grieving the loss of your hopes for the next ten thousand tomorrows. It's an eraser that comes and wipes away the future as you had it laid out in your mind and heart, replacing it with the unknown and worst of all, fear. It makes you wonder, what was wrong with my baby? And what is wrong with my body? It leaves you feeling a little bit like a ghost emotionally in a shell of a body. It hurts. It hurts physically. It hurts emotionally. It really, really hurts.

Statistics say that 1 in 4 women have miscarriages. Knowing that doesn't leave me feeling any less sad but it does help me feel much less alone. Prior to my own, I knew countless friends who had experienced one or more miscarriages. It has been helpful for me to talk with those friends, because while every experience is different, they get it. They get the awful strangeness of it all. And yet, when I hear that statistic, 1 in 4 women, I continue to wonder why we as women don't talk about it more; why so many women walk through this painful journey in silence and secrecy.

For starters, I think it has to do with the fact that the majority of people don't make their pregnancy public until week 12 or later, and 80 percent of miscarriages happen before week 12. Back when I told a close friend that I was pregnant with my first child, she {after having gone through miscarriage herself} advised me to identify the people I would want to walk with me through a miscarriage, and to tell those people about the pregnancy early on. That is exactly what I did with all three of my pregnancies and as a result, I am so thankful for my community of friends who swooped in and loved on us with food, flowers, childcare, and empathy when I miscarried with our third child. But I am also thankful for the unexpected connections that have formed with people as a result of the miscarriage, people who could sense something was off with me or people who I simply had to tell because of a situation that needed explaining. As I shared with these people, they in turn shared with me - it had happened to them too, some early, some late, some multiple times, some stillborn (losing a baby after 20 weeks) - and a bond formed, the emotional connection that is forged from being together in the same trench of pain. These are the small graces that fell upon me following my miscarriage.

The sadness was still very real though, casting a dark shadow over my everyday life. For a solid month, I didn't feel like myself in any way, shape, or form. My body had been through a lot and so had my heart. I had no motivation to get up in the morning, much less exercise, which is my usual go-to for working out emotional pain. I wanted to hide in a hole somewhere by myself, where I didn't have to talk to anyone or do anything for anyone. I didn't want anyone to have to be around me. Honestly, feeling irritable and prickly, I didn't even want to be around me. I felt myself snapping at the boys more quickly and frequently than I would like to admit. As the laundry and the dishes piled up in my house, I felt the mess piling up in my heart. People are starting to talk more about Post-partum Depression and Anxiety {you can read more about it here and here and here}, usually in reference to the depression experienced after a baby is born. But I think the Depression and Anxiety that can take your life by storm following a miscarriage, is a real thing too, one which very few people recognize and talk about. 

My hope is to create space, whether it be one on one,  in a group, or on the good ole world wide web, for women to talk about their experiences, to listen to one another, to cry silent tears with one another, to validate feelings and experiences, and to build connections forged through pain. My miscarriage is one more reminder to me of how, in motherhood and in life, we need each other. We are not meant to walk through life alone, not in our joy and not in our pain.

Walking this road post-miscarriage has not been easy for me, but some things that have really helped me along the way are:

1. Talking about it. Not with everyone you meet, obviously. But talking about it with God, with Tom, with my friends, and even with people I don't know very well {in what has felt like a healthy context}, has helped me sort through my feelings. As a result, I feel less alone, and it puts some safeguards into place. Being honest about where you are at creates awareness for your people, helping them to recognize if and when you may be heading for a dangerous place. And talking about it with a professional counselor may also provide just the space, empathy, and empowerment you need.

2. Giving myself permission to be where I am at and feel what I feel. Yes, life goes on after a loss of any kind, but it doesn't mean that we can't carve out space to feel the very real emotions that we are experiencing. It also means that we just might need to be ok with not feeling or acting like ourselves for a period of time. Recognizing that this is a season and that we won't feel this way forever can open the door to allowing ourselves to be right where we are, right now.

3. Naming the baby. Losing a baby fairly early in your pregnancy may feel hard to grieve because it wasn't a person you have pictures of or memories with, rather it's a somewhat intangible loss. For me, naming our baby helped me to wrap my head and heart around all of the future hopes and expectations I was trying to grieve. Now when I think about my miscarriage, I refer to it mentally as the loss of Scout, our third baby, and it makes it feel like there is something more tangible to grieve.

4. Looking for the beauty - gratitude. I don't mean looking for the beauty in the miscarriage itself, but the beauty that still exists all around me even as I am in the vortex of grief. And I don't mean trying to think positive and slap on a smile at the expense of denying my grief {see #1 and #2}. I mean that at the very same time I'm holding all of the sadness and grief and irritability, I'm also looking hard for the beauty and the joy. I'm talking about things like looking at my son, who has taken off his shirt and painted his belly and his face and is giving me the biggest, most mischievous smile, and I'm allowing myself to delight in him in that moment. And I'm giving thanks for him, because he is a gift. I'm looking at the buds emerging on the trees and I'm giving thanks for the new life that follows death. I'm listening to the birds singing and I'm asking God to remind me of the song of my heart, a song whose tune feels a little bit distant and forgotten. I'm looking for the little things of beauty that surround me and I'm giving thanks for them, at the very same time I'm feeling all my sadness.

5. Doing things that I love. Even if I don't love them or have any motivation to do them right now. After giving my body plenty of time to heal, I made myself start exercising again. I normally love to trail run, but I had no motivation whatsoever to run after the miscarriage. But I made myself get out there and put one step in front of the other, first hiking, then eventually running. It did good things for my heart, mind, and body, as it always does. I also began to write again, just telling myself to write something, anything, no editing, no trying to be perfect, just write. When we do things that deep down we know we love, even when we have no desire to do them at the time, I believe it helps guide us to the place where we feel more like ourselves again. 

6. Creating new meaning. When you've experienced a loss, life doesn't go back to normal, because there is now a new normal. Life goes forward and you are different in some way as a result of your loss. This is the dance, allowing your loss to shape you in such a way that it doesn't define you, but creates new meaning for you in your life moving forward. I can't go back to the place or the person that I was before this loss, but I can continue to let it shape me, to inform my future decisions, to have greater empathy for other women, to see life in general in a slightly different way.

If you've experienced a miscarriage or similar loss and feel comfortable telling your story to me individually or for others to hear as well, I'd love to hear it. How have you navigated this loss? What has helped you walk through the grief?

Little Brave Hearts

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You are brave. You just have to try.

Last weekend our family went on a hike together. Tom and I are adventurers at heart, so it's pretty fun to see our boys following suit. At one point along the trail, we took a break from the hiking to have some lunch. The boys were playing on top of a big rock and just as I went to take this picture of them, I overheard this beautiful little conversation:

Ben: Blake, c'mon down here with me. 

Blake: I can't Ben, I'm not as brave as you. 

Ben: Yes, you are, Blake. You are brave. You just have to try. 

Seriously, melt my heart. And so spot on. You just have to try. 

                                                                                                                           Just try. This is one phrase is among many that have been jumping out at me over the course of the last few months. You know when a certain thought or phrase just won't leave you alone? The message flies at you from every direction. Lately for me it's people flippantly say things and the words just scream at me. Or I spot the tiny print on the Outside Magazine cover that says, live bravely. Or I happen to pull out a journal someone gave me who's cover reads, Take Epic Chances. 

And then of course, there's music because both the composition and the lyrics of a song often speak directly to my heart like an IV to my bloodstream. Lately, the song of choice has been one from the Dirty Gov'nahs, called Where I Stand. And these lyrics are the ones that I most resonate with:

I don't know where I'm going and I don't know where to start with fear in my body but fire in my heart; I've got fire in my heart.

In all honesty, I have no idea what the rest of the song is about or the meaning behind it, but that line, it grabs me every time. I'm pretty sure I listened to the song at least 6 times on my last run just to hear those words again and again. Like I said, this message, the one that beckons me to live bravely, take chances, and go forward even in fear, was coming at me from every angle. I usually take this kind of thing as a clue from the Loving One in Charge, that he's trying to teach me something and it's just not getting through.

Ok, ok, I get the message. I used to be better at doing things that scared me. Or maybe when I was just younger, fewer things scared me. Either way, I think I used to take more chances.

About a month ago, someone randomly or maybe not so randomly messaged me an application to be a regular contributor for a local moms blog called, Metro Denver Moms Blog. Hmmm, writing, local, moms, that's totally my jam. But then I immediately thought, why bother, it's unlikely anything would come of it. And let's be honest, the last few months have been no picnic, so I didn't know if I even had the energy for something like this. And man, if it did happen, I'd actually have to write at least twice a month for a fairly large audience, and by large, I mean more than my immediate family and some friends. The inner critic was raging. My mind and body were tired. But on somewhat of a whim, I applied. 

And guess what? It happened. I was selected as a contributor. Two immediate feelings emerged: excited, terrified.

So I will actually need to write consistently. I'm thrilled about this because I've been trying to dedicate more time to writing for a while now. These two little people I have running around in my house provide me with some great content but they also steal the majority of my time away that I might otherwise use to write. I wouldn't trade it but now I have to figure out how to fit the regular writing in. Again, excited and terrified.

And as though I hadn't already taken enough of a step out of my comfort zone, this happened: head shots. What? Yep, we had to get head shots taken for the blog. For a girl who barely ever wears make-up and who calls it a good day when both her hair and teeth are brushed, this is a big step. Huge. In the words of the Dirty Guv'nahs, I don't know where I'm going  and I've got fear in my body but fire in my heart!

on my way to get the head shots taken. oh my. 

I recently got up in front of our church to share for a few minutes about working in the kids ministry. Afterward, my friend commented to me, "Wow, you're so brave. I could never have done that." And I responded, "no, not really. I'm not really brave for doing that. Because in order to be brave, you have to be scared of it in the first place. I'm not scared of speaking in public. I actually, really like it." Oddly enough, speaking is not being brave for me because it doesn't scare me. Writing regularly for a blog, that scares me. Getting head shots, that scares me. But the message was loud and clear, I need to keep doing things that scare me. I never know how they might turn out, so why don't I just give it a shot and live bravely. Going forward, I'm going to hold on to the words of my four year old son, "Yes, you are brave. You just have to try."

What is out there that feels big and maybe out of your reach? What do you want to go after but feel too scared to do it? Where are you being called to live bravely? 

I'd love to hear your story and how you're stepping into uncomfortable places and living bravely.

The Grief Now Is Because Of The Joy Then

On Monday of this week my mind was filled with memories of my dear and beautiful friend, Jenny, who was taken from this earth fourteen years ago. She and her twin sister had become like little sisters to me. Her death catapulted me into a season of loss and while it wasn't my first season of loss, it was a very profound and life-changing one. It was during that season that my life phrase, "love deeply, hold loosely" emerged. That phrase really was birthed out of the question, "why bother loving anyone when it hurts so much to lose?" Her death made me question my life and relationships in big ways. It triggered past losses and tested my ability to get close to people, to love, to be loved. Suddenly, everything felt so fragile, though I suspect it had been fragile all along and I was just living under some illusion of control.

After months of wrestling through questions, trying to swim out from under the waves of grief, I began to emerge with a strengthened desire to love and invest in relationships. It felt scary because the pain felt so real and so...well, painful. Yet I stumbled across the words of CS Lewis, in reference to losing his wife, "Why love if losing hurts so much? I have no answers any more. Only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chose suffering. The pain now is part of the joy then. That's the deal."

That's the deal. But there is some strange comfort in realizing that the pain you feel in loss, any kind of loss really, is because there was some joy to begin with. I currently find myself in another season of loss. It's been a string of losses actually, as I lost my ability to run and level of fitness with my hip injury, I had a great friend move away, we are experiencing some turmoil and loss in our church, and amidst all of that, after five months of trying, I got pregnant with our third child and then I miscarried. There has been a barrage of emotional waves for sure, but grief has been the biggest of them all. 

Whether it is the loss of a person, of a job, of health, of innocence, of safety, or of a dream, loss of all kinds evokes the same emotions, sadness, anger, fear, despair. They don't all come at the same time, though they may, and they don't all last for equal amounts of time. And they certainly aren't predictable. Like unwelcome house guests, they just come when they want and stay for as long as they want, even when you're begging for them to leave. It is safe to say that it's that lack of control that is one of the most difficult parts of grief for me. I don't want to start crying when I am in the grocery store check out line standing behind a mom and her newborn baby. I don't want to feel it then. I can't afford to break down in tears when I'm trying to get the boys out the door for school. I need to hold it together, or so I sometimes tell myself. But the truth is, I can't. The emotions come when they want to and actually, I think that's probably a good thing. A healing thing. I need to feel those things. Don't ask me why. I just know that I need to.

There are four truths that this season of loss, mainly the miscarriage, has imprinted upon me.

1) When there is a loss, we feel not only the absence of that which was lost, but we also experience a loss of expectations we had for the future.

2) Our pain informs us of how important that thing we lost was...whether it was a person or a job or a dream. We wouldn't feel sad about losing it if it didn't mean anything to us. The pain now is because of the joy then.

3) Loss attempts to shake our foundation and can leave us fearing more loss, unless our foundation is firm. 

4) When we choose to be vulnerable in our loss, it leads to deeper connection with those around us. And that is both a wonderful and terrifying thing. 

My hope is to write a little bit more about each one of these four statements in four separate posts. Is there any one statement that you resonate with in particular? 

Hide and Seek

I've been touring preschools again and sadly, somewhere along each tour the subject of "the lockdown protocol" comes up, a protocol in which both teachers and students are trained. This is the protocol where kids are taught to hide under their desks or in closets in effort to mitigate a threat in the building. My heart feels queasy just thinking about my babies hiding under their desks shaking in fear.

We were not made to hide. We were made to be found. We were made to be seen, in all of our vulnerable beauty.

This is why I adore playing hide and seek right now with my three and four year old boys. I begin counting 1-2-3-4...and they go scurrying down the hall in search of the perfect hiding spots. Upon reaching 20, I shout out, "Ok, here I come, I'm coming to find you!" I don't even make it halfway down the hallway before I hear the pitter patter of their footsteps as they burst forth, exclaiming, "HERE I AM! I'M RIGHT HERE, MOMMY." My heart melts. Every single time. "Yes, there you are! I see you."

They are so excited to be found. They have no fear of being seen. There is no shame, no insecurity, no fear to stop them.

"Here I am. I'm right here."

And they don't say it in an attention seeking way. They say it with a desire to be seen in the known sort of way; a desire for connection with me, the seeker. It's pure and innocent. Authentic. Vulnerable. Free.

And just as kids grow older and they learn how to hide and stay hidden in the game of hide and seek, so too it seems that we all learn to hide in life somewhere along the way. Somewhere we receive this message that it's not ok to be seen or known. Because we may be met with hurt or judgment or rejection. So we hide. We hide our strengths, for fear of being too much. We hide our weaknesses, for fear of being too little. We hide. And we get really good at staying hidden, shaking in fear.

But what happens when the hiding one is met with the loving eyes of the seeking one? When the hiding one hears, "I found you. I see you. I'm so glad I found you." Then perhaps the hiding one feels a little less afraid of being found, of being seen, of being known.

What if we met each person we encountered, whether stranger or friend, with the love of the seeking one, "I want to find you. I see you. You are worth finding. You are worth knowing."

And what would happen if we let ourselves be found, be seen, be known, really known? We run the risk of being hurt, yes. But we also run the risk of being loved. And that, my friends, is a risk worth taking.

Grit & Grace: The Finish of One Marathon and the Start of Another

This is a little ditty about my post-marathon journey, the good, the real, and the ugly. It was written in December and so the story continues, but I'll save that for another post. 

So, a little caveat before I begin. I recognize that there are a great many people in this world enduring far greater struggles than my hip injury. This is simply my personal journey through the last three months, how my injury has impacted me and what I have learned…all of which applies to my every day life.

Find the Next Reservoir. Run Strong, Run Free.

Those were the two mantras that emerged for me during my marathon training this summer. Run Strong, Run Free had more to do with running my own race; with letting go of expectations that I perceived others had for me; with letting go of all 'shoulds;' and with letting go of my attempts to be as fast as I was pre-babies (which was never exceptionally fast). It was all about moving forward, in strength and freedom, the freedom to run my own race, my own pace, and to enjoy every step, even the painstaking ones.

Find the next reservoir emerged for me during a long training run when I thought I was toast around mile 7. And then suddenly at mile 10, I found a new reservoir of strength and energy, a reservoir that empowered me to surge for the last six miles, finishing stronger than I had begun. I wholeheartedly believe that there is always another reservoir of strength awaiting us, we just have to press on to find it. Sometimes that reservoir gives us the strength needed to keep going. And sometimes that reservoir gives us the strength needed to stop and say, "I've reached my limit." And the latter sometimes requires more strength than the former.

During the marathon on Labor Day, the further I ran, the more reservoirs I discovered. Even at mile 20 when my hip started screaming at me, everything in me, except for maybe my hip, felt like continuing on. In hindsight, knowing what I know now, that I had both a stress fracture and a torn labrum in my hip, I wonder if I should have stopped. I don't know. I've asked myself the question a million times. And countless people have asked it of me, which if I'm honest, is always a bit triggering. Perhaps it's triggering because I'm unsure. And yet, I think by mile 20, the damage had already been done. I was limping bad and it hurt just as much to 'limp walk' as it did to 'limp run,' and my hunger to cross that finish line felt more intense than it has ever felt before. It had been such an incredible race for me up until that point and I had prepared myself for struggle. I didn't know what it would be or when it would come, but I knew that it would. And I told myself that not everything about the race would be perfect or go according to plan, that I would struggle AND that I could and would still have a great race. I could hurt AND have joy at the same time. I could run with both grit and grace. Unlike in any previous race, I believed this was possible. So just past the 20 mile marker when my hip grew angry, I knew I was at the point for which I had prepared myself. And there it was, my last reservoir. It never actually occurred to me to not finish. It really didn't. For the last six miles, pain and joy ran side by side, with a limp, and crossing that finish line was nothing short of a broken hallelujah.

Little did I know that the marathon finish line was actually the start line of what would be another long and grueling race, one in which I wasn't sure I had adequately trained for, one in which I would need to find reservoir after reservoir to keep soldiering on. I follow a number of runners on social media and I've read my fair share of race recaps, comeback stories, and running related pieces in general. And while I know that runners are sidelined by injury from time to time, the focus is almost always on either the race before the fall or the comeback that follows it, but it seems that very few people talk about the barren stretch of road in between. Maybe this is because people don't care to read about the road of injury, it's not where the glory is found. Or is it? See, I actually think this is the important stuff. This is the real stuff.  How one navigates the deflating reality that injury or pain renders, the uncertainty that clouds one's {running} future, and the agonizing physical or emotional pain itself, well, that's the stuff that reveals what a person is made of. Or at least that's how I see it. And this extends far beyond running to the shattering moments of real life. It's when the rubber meets the road, when you must dance between grit and grace. It's knowing when to fight being sucked into the black hole of self-pity and when to let go of expectations, to pull up the warm blanket of grace and stay in all that you are experiencing.

You see, for me the marathon turned out to be just the training for the real race, the real life that was to follow; life on crutches with two active and needy boys, ages two and four; life in which my ability to ever cross another start line still hangs in the balance; life in which the stress is mounting and one of my biggest avenues for coping with stress, exercise, has been stripped away. That's my race right now. And I'm looking for the next reservoir on a daily basis. I thought that running marathons was exhausting, but it has nothing on crutching my way through life while attempting to care for my family, a house, and a counseling practice. I will never look at a person on crutches the same way again. I have a new empathy and it runs deep. If I ever see you on crutches, don't be surprised if I come up and hug you, even if I don't know you well or even at all!

I tend to experience life in seasons and cycles and rhythms. And there seems to be two predominate cycles I find myself in. One cycle is when it's all clicking, I'm in my rhythm. These are typically seasons when I'm running consistently, I'm strength training, I'm eating well, my faith feels strong, my heart feels hopeful, and I feel mentally strong.  It's all connected and it's all clicking. I feel unstoppable in these seasons.

And then there are those seasons, seasons like this time of injury, or really any season of struggle, when it seems the darkness, self-pity, frustration, apathy, and utter lack of motivation play through my life like a song on repeat. These are typically seasons in which I'm not running, my usual healthy eating tends to go to you know where. Apathy wins out and I eat whatever, whenever. It's when it's all too tempting to seek a false sense of comfort at the bottom of a jar of salted caramel sauce. I could get up and do plank work; I could go to the gym and work my upper body; But I don't, not when apathy is winning, not when I'm in this cycle. In these seasons, I usually find myself believing that I lack the strength to kick at the darkness until it bleeds light, to borrow the lyrics from an old favorite by Bruce Cockburn.

And I believe this type of season has its place, a valid place. I need to feel these feelings. I need to be in it. I need to recognize the darkness. Because only when you recognize the darkness do you appreciate the light. I know that I can't and I won't stay in this cycle forever, because after a while it just starts to feel like a hampster wheel of despair. But I have to let the feelings run their course. And the light always comes, the reservoir is found. Something shifts and pokes a hole in the darkness and it's flooded with light.

During the last two months I've spent some time in the downward cycle. I've cried in the shower. I've thrown my crutch to the ground in frustration. I've watched friends run races and been filled with a heart-exploding combo of joy and excitement for them and silent despair for me. But my faith reminds me that beauty comes from ashes, silver is refined only by the fire, and deep within pain there is beauty to be known. And that, that is what is carrying me through this season, looking not only for the next reservoir of strength but also for the reservoir of beauty. I feel like I'm being refined and it hurts. Yet, I have discovered beauty in the pain. Crutches have taught me both patience and rest. My humility has been summoned as dear friends have come around me, bringing us meals, getting us groceries, and cleaning our house. It's tempting to be weighted down by the panicky feelings like, I owe them, how will I ever pay them back, rather than humbly receiving these gifts of friendship with deep gratitude. This season has slowed me down, just enough to savor the beauty, the beauty in playing on the floor with my boys, the beauty in letting my husband love me with small (but really huge) acts like carrying my coffee out to the deck for me and doing all of the laundry. I'm a do-it-myself kind of girl, so this receiving thing is no easy road for me. I feel vulnerable. But there is so much joy awaiting us in the stream of vulnerability, not to mention connection.

With my running future uncertain, this season has summoned my roots of trust and faith to a deeper place. I've learned how to trust and wait and push through at a new level. I'm now off of crutches but am having some significant pain, which may very well mean that surgery is in my future. This would mean more time on crutches and more time that I am unable to run. So, I feel a little like I'm at mile 20 of the marathon but the fierceness, the hunger feels like a fading song in the distance. Some days, I feel like saying 'screw it,' I'm just going to lay on the couch and eat chocolate and get fatter and less fit with each passing painful hip day. But that's not who I am. And I think that's what pain does sometimes, it strips off the layers and exposes our authentic self. At heart, I'm a fighter and I know it. So, to deny that, even if it's a denial steeped in exhaustion, is to deny who I am and that's just an invitation to misery. So, just like in the marathon, when I sort through the pain and the fatigue long enough to remember that I love running, so too am I now at a crossroads where I will remember at my core, that I'm a hopeful, strong, vulnerable, fighting kind of person. I'm a beauty seeker. And it's in the remembering, remembering the song of my heart, that gives me the strength, the grit and the grace, to run on. Because I can. Because that's who I want to be. Because that's who I am. I will run strong. I will run free. I will find the next reservoir. I will struggle AND I will still have a great race. Or at least that is my hope.

My Journey Through 26.2

There I sat, the night before the race, in the hotel room with Tom and my sinus infection. After one last super encouraging chat with my coach, Susie, I decided then and there that I would do my best to run strong, and at the very least to run free. I knew that there would be challenges during the race, moments where I felt less than stellar. There would most likely be elements that would create a less than perfect race scenario, like it being too hot or my stomach cramping or my head pounding from the sinus infection. I prepared myself for this. And I also sat in the belief that no matter what challenges would come my way over the course of 26.2 miles, I could still have a great and strong race, challenges included. I have to say that it helps the mental game having a few marathons under my belt. I knew to expect poor sleep the night before; I knew to expect the wall; I knew to expect that my body would want to go out too fast.

I don't believe that God cares about marathons or about sporting events, in general, but I do believe he cares about people, about me, and anything that draws me closer to him. So, with my alarm set for 4:40 am, I laid in bed, totally not sleeping, which thankfully, I planned on. I prayed that God would either take my headache and congestion away for the race or give me the strength to somehow float above it.

The alarm went off as planned, always a bonus, and guess what? I kid you not, I didn't have one bit of a headache or congestion. Not one bit. Chalk that up to whatever you want, but after a week of feeling like crud, I felt extremely grateful. So, in the darkness of the hotel room, my friend Renee and I got up, got dressed, and ate our breakfasts. I made some last minute fuel changes (Susie, close your eyes or pretend you didn't read that. She has a strict 'nothing new the week of the race' policy. But those who know me well know that rule following has never been my strong suit.). Why did I change up my fuel plan? I don't know. It felt right. Or, it all felt like a little bit of a crap shoot, but at least it was one I was excited about.

Renee and I kissed our husbands goodbye and went downstairs to catch the shuttle to the start line. As I walked out to the bus in the darkness of the morning, I was reminded of a saying I declare to my kids every morning at home, as I open the curtains. My kids know it so well now, that all I have to do is open the curtains and say to them, "guess what?" And my boys will shout out with all of the excitement that a four and a two year old have at 6am, "IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY, FULL OF POSSIBILITY!" And as I stepped onto that bus, I thought, "Indeed it is. It's a beautiful day, full of possibility."

Upon arriving at the start, I was a ball of nerves. I think Renee, for whom this was her first marathon, must have been too, which is probably why we hardly said two words to each other before we took off. It didn't help that as we were waiting for the port-o-pots, there was a military dude shouting, "It's zero six ten!" The race will start in twenty minutes. Then he would shout it again. Then five minutes later he would yell, "It's zero six one five, that's zero six fifteen. The race will start in fifteen minutes!" I thought to myself, "Ok, we've got it! We're all wearing watches. People can't rush their business. Let it be." The port-o-pots are always a risk for me anyway. With my hyper acute sense of smell, it rarely leads to a win-win situation. Win-win would be if I could do my business AND not vomit. Let's just say I came out with a Win-Half Win...I only dry heaved. I know, TMI, but this was the start to my race, and I counted it as a win.

At zero six two five, we lined up among the crowd of runners. The energy was palpable. I set my watch, turned my tunes on, and gave Renee a hug and a "go crush this thing." The pop of the start gun echoed into the dawn, and we were off! I had my first hour of music set with calm, relaxing songs, reminding me to go out slow, slower than I knew my body would want to go. The idea being that if I restrain myself in the first 5-6 miles, I would conserve energy and have gas left in the tank at the end. I admit feeling nervous thinking that if I conserved at the beginning, I might still run out of gas at the end, and then I would feel like I had wasted that time early on when I was feeling fresh. But I realized that I had to be either all in or all out on this one. I needed to pick a plan and stick with it. So, I decided to trust my coach. After all, that is why I hired her, right? I was all in. So I set out on the trail, making myself go slower than I wanted to go. I just kept telling myself, "you're just storing it up. Take that extra energy and store it somewhere in your body for later."

The trail felt soft beneath my feet and the air, so perfectly cool. The pre-dawn red glow of the sun splashed itself all over the mountains. Sunflowers danced alongside the trail, as though they were cheering us on as they waved in the breeze. I felt good. No, I felt great. I felt strong. I felt free. The miles began to fly by, 2, 3, 4, 5. I knew Tom would be waiting for me around mile 7, simply to check in and throw some encouragement my way. I couldn't wait to see him. I also couldn't believe that I was already almost to mile 7. I felt like I was on top of the world, which most people do in the first ten miles of a marathon.

Somewhere in the midst of mile 2, I had found myself reflecting on Blake being two years old and how challenging life has felt at times throughout the last four years since we had kids. And then the idea popped into my mind as I was finishing out mile 2, to pray for Blake at age 2; and to pray for Ben at age 4 as I made my way through mile 4. As I rolled into mile 5, I began to wonder what they would both be like at age 5, and 6, and 12, and 17, and so on. So, right there in mile 5, I decided that I would spend a portion of time during each subsequent mile, praying for my boys at that age. At mile 12, I imagined them being 12 and entering the awkward middle school years, the ones where boys seem to think that it's hilarious to do super obnoxious silly things to gain attention. I call them the "only as cool as you are annoying" years for boys and the "only as cool as you are dramatic" years for girls. As I thought about them in that stage, I prayed for them to know their worth, that they would walk in confidence without feeling the need to do too many obnoxious or dangerous things. One thought would lead to another prayer, and another and before I knew it, I was ticking off the miles thinking about and praying for the people I love.

Back to mile 7. Shortly before the mile 7 marker, as I imagined Tom standing in the distance, waiting for me, it occurred to me that we would be married 7 years in October. I reflected on how my life has felt exponentially richer with him in it, and I was experiencing heart-busting gratitude for the support and encouragement that he had given me during this marathon training journey. And I would get to see my best friend in .3 miles. I was already crying...happy, happy tears. Man, I thought, if only I could feel this good for another 19 miles! But as quickly as I thought that, I cut it short because I had promised myself that I would only think of this race in sections, 4 mile sections. This race, in my mind consisted of six 4-mile sections with a 2.2 mile finale. I was already almost through section #2 and feeling good. And there in the distance, I spotted Tom on the side of the trail. As I approached him, I flashed him a big smile, grabbed some glide, gave him a thumbs up and told him that I was feeling phenomenal. And just like that, I was off again. The next time I would see him would be mile 15, when he would trade me my vest for a run belt and would essentially become my sherpa for the last 11 miles.

I had been feeling so good for the first 7 miles, that it felt as though I was holding back to maintain a pace that was just under 11 minute miles. So, in mile 8, I decided to see what 10:45 felt like. It felt fantastic, despite some hills and a decent headwind. Some people might have viewed the headwind, which picked up throughout the race, as a curse. And by some people, I mean the really fast people. I however, saw it as a blessing, because it kept me cool. The expected high for the day was 81 and sunny, and I don't run well in the heat, though I was telling myself I could if I had to. The wind kept me cool for the entirety of the race, and for that I felt incredibly grateful. I ran miles 8-14 at a 10:45 pace, and I felt like I was getting stronger with each passing mile. I did notice a little overall fatigue in my body around mile 12, but I still felt happy and strong in my mind. I convinced myself that my body was just getting warmed up, and another reservoir of strength awaited me.

As I made my way to mile 15, a song from the new Planes movie blared through my headphones; the song that the boys had listened to on repeat, oh about 20 times each day in the previous three weeks; the song that we all sing together as a family; the song that we all raise our hands in the air to when we hear the words, 'touch the sky.' This was that song that was playing:

There's a time in your life, when the world is on your side.                                                                                                                         You might not feel it, you might not see it, but it surrounds you,                                                                                                             like a light, makes you stronger for the fight.                                                                                                                                                I'm never letting go, gotta learn to grow,                                                                                                                                                    watch me as I touch the sky, still I fly.                                                                                                                                                        Now I know it's what I gotta do, find a dream that's new,                                                                                                                        and give it all I got this time,  still I fly.           

I lifted my gaze and caught sight of Tom standing there, ready to run me home. I lost it. The floodgates opened. So many tears. So many emotions. When the words, "watch me as I touch the sky" played, I almost lifted my hands into the air like the boys and I always do in the car. Man, was it good to see Tom's smile and his gentle eyes, waiting for me. My emotions erupted, in the best of ways.

After I picked him up, we lost about 4 minutes to a gear mishap. The buckle came off of my fuel belt that was holding my phone, and then it kept hitting a button on the phone, turning the music off. This happened about 6 times before Tom threw out a solution that worked. I didn't care about the time lost, but I was worried about disrupting my rhythm because I had been running so strong. The stop threw me a little, along with a series of small hills. By mile 18 I was so over the hills and found myself longing for some flat to cruise home on. I cannot describe the calm I felt having Tom by my side. We didn't talk much. When I'm in my zone, I'm focused and I don't talk. At all. In reality, he probably welcomed this gift, as me not talking is uh, rare. He tried to read me texts from people, but found it hard to both read and run. So, he relayed encouragement to me from Susie and my friends and I just listened for the pings on his phone, feeling my spirit lift every time I heard a text roll in. This season of life and running has reminded me of the incredible value of community, of sharing in life together, the triumphs and the difficulties. I could not have trained or run this marathon without community; without Tom's support; without my coach, Susie's guidance and encouragement; without the company of my girlfriends, logging mile after mile on the trail; without friends near and far sending me encouraging messages and cheering me on; without Renee to share this marathon goal with. Well, you know, I probably could have done it without these people, but it would not have been the very rich and rewarding experience that it was. I can tell myself that I can do this life alone, because sometimes alone feels safer. But going it alone would mean missing out on the connection and meaning that comes with relationship, the opportunity to know and be known. Those are the very things that deep down, I desire, and I think most humans desire.

As I neared the end of mile 18, I envisioned the boys at age 18, preparing to graduate high school and perhaps head off to college. My eyes welled up with tears once again, as I almost could not bare the thought of it. Just as Tom and I teach them by example, the importance of running and exercise, I realized that we are also teaching them to run after their dreams, to run hard after things that scare them, to run free in who God made them to be, to take the trail least often traveled. In essence, we're teaching them to run in strength out into the world, away from us. AWAY FROM US. As this thought drifted across my weary mind, I remember feeling the urge to run backwards, to fight the forward motion that comes with aging. It was as though, maybe if I ran backwards, I could stop time and they wouldn't grow up, because I simply don't feel ready for it. It might have been delirium, because as I stare at the words on the page, I recognize that they sound totally ridiculous. But I think that's when it hit me, something totally clicked. Just as the miles had been passing by so unbelievably fast, so too are the years. My boys growing. SO UNBELIEVABLY FAST. It's happening too fast, time is slipping through my fingers. Changes are happening daily. And I often find that I'm not quite ready for change, or the challenges that sometimes come with change.

I prayed for my boys at age 19, hoping that as they step out of the nest and face head on, a world that is often times harsh and cruel, that they would be filled with a humble confidence, with an unwaivering hope, passion and faith, all their own; that they would have the courage to step into the hard places, into their big dreams, and into challenging relationships. And just as I was imagining us waving goodbye to them in their dorm rooms, leaving them to survive, I mean thrive, among the wolves, I mean their peers, it happened. I felt a burning-like twinge in my left hip. In denial, I tried to ignore it for a while, knowing that when running I often feel a little tweak or pull or twinge, and if I keep going, it works itself out and I'm usually good to go. I tried to convince myself that this twinge was just that, something that simply needed to be worked out.

Somewhere between miles 19-20, I let Tom know that my hip was hurting a bit. It felt painful just to utter those words out loud because somehow saying it to him made it more real. The burning sensation intensified with every step. My body had held up for this long and now, at mile 20, it was failing, or so it felt, six miles short. I stopped and tried to stretch it out. Tom pulled on my leg. We tried all kinds of things with little to no relief. Tom encouraged me to walk. But it hurt just as much to walk as it did to run. Either way, I was limping hard at this point. Tom kept asking me what I needed. I love him for this. But what I needed, was something that he couldn't give me. I needed a new hip. I needed a hip that would let me run to the finish without feeling like it was blowing up. Or at least that's what I thought I had needed. I proceeded on, sporting a granny-style limp-walk for a ways. The frustration grew to where it would set me off into limp-run for a quarter of a mile or so, at which point I would need to stop for a minute or two and bend over, the only position in which I felt some reprieve from the pain. Why it never actually occurred to me to stop and not finish the race, I don't know. But it didn't. I really was just contemplating how I was going to get to the finish. But I was going to get there, I was sure of that. This was the moment that I had prepared myself for, the moment when things would get hard, the moment when I would have to choose to believe that things could be hard AND I could still have a great race. At one point, around mile 24, as I was limping along, I watched the 5 hour pace group pass me by. It was deflating, to say the least. Long before I toed the start line, I had accepted that this would likely be my slowest marathon to date, and it took me a while to even be excited about a goal time of 4:45. And now, I would surpass the 5 hour mark. When my hip blew up back at mile 20, I was forced to let go of my time goal, but seeing the 5 hour pace group run by me simply made it real. And sometimes real hurts.

Shortly after we passed the 25 mile marker, I caught a glimpse of the big ring statue that marked the finish area. I had been visualizing this statue ever since I had completed my last long run on the course, rehearsing the finish two weeks prior to the race. This was not the finish I had rehearsed, but there it was, that statue, peeking out above the trees and marking the finish line that I had longed to see. I won't tell you what words actually exited my mouth at that moment, but let's just say that it made Tom laugh, as he watched me take off. I could taste it, I could taste the finish, and with tears once again streaming down my face, I took my failing body on home to that finish. We entered America the Beautiful Park, the site of the statue and the finish line. A wave of relief crashed over me. I started running toward the finish with all of my might, only to be re-directed by my friend Renee and her husband, who had been done for quite a while. Apparently, I was going the wrong way to the finish and had to turn around to run a lap around the park to the finish line. Seriously, I thought? Seriously. So, there I was limp-running past runners long finished, past kids playing in the fountain, ugly crying my way to the finish line. Finally. I crossed the finish line, dragging my leg behind me, with Tom by my side. It was nothing short of a broken hallelujah. Nothing about that moment was pretty. It wasn't the smiling, triumphant moment that I had rehearsed in my mind. But somehow, I was still smiling and I still felt triumphant in a very different way. Sometimes there is an unexpected challenge. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes it's really ugly. But that doesn't mean it can't still be beautiful.

I'm never letting go,                                                                                                                           gotta learn to grow,                                                                                                                           watch me as I touch the sky,                                                                                                                 still I fly.

Showing Up

As we approached the expansive green field, we saw it, the swarm of about a hundred 3 and 4-year- olds, all eagerly awaiting to find out which soccer team they were going to be on. My oldest, not quite four yet, clung with vigor to my leg, filled with what I imagine to be a perfect little combo of bewilderment and terror. There was a part of me that just wanted him to walk right up and grab his orange shirt and sit down with his team. I wanted it to be easy for him. I wanted him to feel comfortable. I wanted him to feel like he fits in. I wanted him to like soccer. No, I wanted him to love soccer.

But there was also a part of me that felt very connected to him in that moment, that moment where he was clinging to my leg and saying, "Mommy, you come with me to get my shirt" and "Mommy, you come with me to the team circle." And that feeling of connection is what led me to say, "Yes, I'll go with you, Monkey." Because doing new things is hard. New places, new people, new experiences. That's hard stuff. It's hard because we don't know what to expect. We don't know how things will go. And we don't always know how we're supposed to act or what to do. I get it, buddy. In this moment, you feel vulnerable and vulnerability is often scary. And vulnerability is beautiful. I get it. You know why I get it? Because I often feel the same way when I find myself in new places and new experiences. I do.

And just as my little man has been finding his way in preschool this year, and now at soccer, I am finding my way in motherhood. I had to give myself permission to be anxious and uncomfortable at preschool drop-off at the beginning of the year. Just as preschool was new and unknown for my boy, navigating the world of preschool parents and relationships was new and unknown for me. How will other moms perceive me? How do I connect with these parents? What if I don't fit in? What if I don't dress cool enough (because let's face it, running tights are not that cool. or flattering. at all.)? What if we do things differently in our family? How will the teacher perceive me? What if I am misunderstood? I hate being misunderstood. What if I say the wrong thing, or I say something that doesn't reflect how I really feel? I wish, just like I wish for my little guy, that I didn't care about these things, that I felt totally comfortable in new places. I wish new experiences felt like a breeze for me. But they don't. They don't. They feel uncomfortable and I almost always feel vulnerable. So, if they feel that way for me, I can only imagine how terrifying they must feel for my little not-quite-four-year-old. It's good for me to remember that.

      Mine is the one standing no where near the ball!

 It's good for me to identify with how he feels. Because it reminds me that the best thing I can do for me, and the best thing I can do for him, for both of my kids, is to keep showing up. I can give myself permission to feel vulnerable, to feel anxious, AND permission to be brave and show up. (Thank you, Brene Brown for helping me to realize this! If you haven't read her book, Daring Greatly, do yourself a big favor and check it out here.)

"I can see your anxiety, little man, and it's ok. It's ok to be where you are and feel what you feel, and...I may not be the hippest mom or say the right thing or be on time, but I will show up, for me, and for you. And hopefully, in doing so, I will model for you what it looks like to live bravely into life, new experiences and all."

The Story Lines

I shared a sweet moment the other day with my oldest son. We were outside and laughing about who knows what, when he moved close to me and gently placed his finger in one of the creases beside my eye, asking ever so tenderly, "Mama, what are those lines on your face?" "They're smile lines," I said, knowing this was not the end of the conversation. "Did you draw those lines? With a crayon? How did they get there? Do I have smile lines too?" he fired off in his usual inquisitive three year old style. I paused. And I thought for a moment about those smile lines, those wrinkles on my face. And I thought about how exactly one month from today, I will turn 40. That's four decades I've been on this earth. And then I proceeded to answer his questions one by one, as best as I knew how. "No, I didn't draw those lines, life did. And not with a crayon, but with moments. You see, Monkey, you know how you're about to turn 4 years old?" He nodded and reminded me of his intense desire to have a sea turtle cake for his birthday. "Well," I continued, "I am about to turn 40 years old." He chimed in, "whooooaaaah, that's a lot bigger than 4. That's more than 20!!" I probably would have been o.k. without all of the emphasis on how big that number is. "Yeah, it is more than 20. Forty is a pretty big number and it means I've lived a lot of years, a lot of life. And each one of these lines on my face tells a story from my life." I could see the wonder in his eyes as he exclaimed, "there are a LOT of lines on your face!" Thank you very much. "Yes, there are. I've lived a lot of life and there are a lot of stories behind those lines." Always wanting to know more he asked, "can you tell me some of the stories?"

"Each wrinkle and line tells a story of once upon a time,

moments where we did laugh and love, worry and weep;

each wrinkle, a mark of life running deep." ~MLM

I began to tell him about some of my memories from childhood, the good, the hard, the confusing. After a few minutes, he and his 4 minute attention span got bored and moved on to the water table, where he was quickly immersed in his own story-telling, epic tales of how the scorpion crossed the desert to sting the snake and so on. And I, I was left sitting there in a moment of quiet, thinking about all of those lines on my face and the stories they represent. They tell stories of times when I laughed and times when I cried; stories of heartbreak and trauma, triumph and healing; stories of friendships lost and friendships gained; lessons learned and mistakes made. They tell stories of when I was worried and mad; nervous and glad, times when I didn't know what to expect and was anxious about the unknown; stories of when I wanted something so bad and stories of unfulfilled expectations I didn't even know I had; stories of accomplishment and joy, and those of failure and disappointment; stories of faith, and challenge, and growth. Yes, there are a lot of stories behind those lines. Would I love it if some of those stories were absent from my life's repertoire? I absolutely would. And yet, I know that together all of those stories and moments have made me who I am today, for better or for worse, imperfectly beautiful, just like the lines on my face.

I admit, forty for me feels a bit like the halfway mark. Not that there are any guarantees that I will live to see eighty, or tomorrow, for that matter. But turning forty is giving me pause, pause to look back and to reflect, to take inventory of my life and my relationships. Just as I am looking back, I'm also looking forward. I'm asking myself what it looks like to embrace getting older and all that comes with that, and to age gracefully, whatever the heck that means. And I find myself wanting to let go and throw off all of the things that hold me back from being my real self. I don't really want to be successful anymore or spectacular, I just want to show up and be the best me, the one I was created to be. And in the moments and the days, of which there are many, where I am not the best me, I want to own it, and rest in the grace of knowing that I'm still in process. I desire to live each day more and more authentically, with actions on the outside that are congruent to what I believe on the inside. I hope that my face is radiant and my love is strong as I live into the stories yet untold. I don't want to hide those lines on my face or the parts of my story that don't shine, but rather set them free as part of me, imperfectly beautiful, wrinkles and all.

The Pain That Connects Us

Warning: This is raw and unedited, and not super thought out either. But when I don't know what to do with my feelings, I write. This is what came out.

I began writing a post after the Sandy Hook shooting, but I never finished it. I never found words that seemed to adequately capture my feelings and thoughts. So, with tomorrow being the one year anniversary of the shooting, I sat down to write again, one year later. And just as I picked up my pen, a notification flashed across my phone screen, "School shooting in Colorado. 2 injured. Shooter is active." My heart felt as though it literally had sunk to my feet. My chest tightened, squeezing the tears up and out of my eyes. "NOOOOO. Not another one," I cried, as I'm sure so many did when they heard the news. I had to just sit in it for a minute and feel the pain. Not because I like to feel pain but because I need to feel pain.

You see, I don't know or pretend to know what it's like to receive a text from my son that says there is a shooter in his school and he is safe, for now. I don't know what it is like to be emotionally strangled by hearing the news that my son was one of the ones that didn't make it out alive. I don't know what it is like to be a teacher, who risks her own life to protect the lives of her students. I don't know what it's like to be a student who witnesses the shooting of her classmates while trembling in fear beneath her desk. I don't know what it is like to be a first responder who has to carry a child's limp body to an ambulance. I don't know what it's like to be a doctor who did her best to mitigate the gun shot wounds of a 5 year old, but was minutes too late. I don't know their pain first-hand and I have not been in their shoes. I don't know their trauma. But I know my own pain. I know my own trauma. I think about these people, real life people, real life trauma, and the horrific things that they've experienced and the tears pump out even faster and harder. I don't do this to re-traumatize myself, I do it to re-connect to my pain so that I can connect with theirs. Because I think the place of pain is a place shared by the whole of humanity, a point of connection in a world of differences.

There's a reason that even those removed from the situation hear this news and we feel things, real raw things like rage, sadness, fear, and despair. We may not know anyone anywhere near this shooting and yet if we pause and take it in, we feel things. Because it touches a place in us that we all have, a place that holds pain and grief. We've all experienced loss in some way in our lives. Whether it's the loss of a person, or a job, or a dream, or the loss of innocence or safety, loss is loss, and we all know it to some extent. And loss is a strange beast, we all experience it differently and we all navigate it in our own unique way. And loss comes in waves, much like the tide, in and out. At bay one minute, crashing down on us the next. Yet there are no tide charts for grief, we don't know when it's coming or going, it just comes. And I think the tragedies like the one at Arapahoe HS today, the ones that we've become far too familiar with, touch a place of loss in us, as if removing the wall of a dam, allowing the waters of grief to once again barrel towards us, overwhelming our souls. And some respond to it by crying, others feel a deep sense of despair and hopelessness, some turn to prayer, grunting out the rawest of emotions, some feel anger and want desperately to place the blame somewhere, anywhere. Some take action, in any way they can, in direct defiance of the feelings of powerlessness that grief can so quickly effect.

We all do grief differently. And sometimes we wonder, "why is that person so upset by this? He didn't even know anyone at that school." Because that's not what the pain is about. Because when we see tragedy, be it near or far, personal or not, it touches a place in us, and has an uncanny ability to connect us to our own pain, our own loss. And one might at first think, "well that sucks. I don't want to feel pain. I'm going to do everything possible to avoid THAT." But what if we let it connect us to our own pain? And what if we let that pain connect us to each other? What if as we passed people in the grocery store, on the street, at our workplace, in our home, what if we recognized them, no matter how glammed up their Facebook timeline might be, as people what have known loss, and pain, and brokenness? How might that change how we see each other? Maybe it would simply allow us TO see each other. To really see each other. Maybe it would soften us and our responses to one another. Maybe if we allowed ourselves to see and feel a connection with people at the point of pain, we could then hold space for each other, safe space to let pain out instead of burying it deep within. What if we met pain with love, not answers, not judgment, not ignorance, just loving space to hold the pain.

This may sound like shrink talk to you. I admit, it does sound a little warm and fuzzy. Except that I've seen it work. powerfully. I've seen people hold space for each other and for me, allowing the raw discomfort of pain to emerge, only to be met with love, and thus transformed into hope and healing. I've known it first-hand. I've known how tremendously powerful it can be to have someone see through my anger or cynicism or sharp words, only to recognize the pain in me, coming out sideways. And to have that met with love and space in which I could freely kick at the walls of my pain until it bled light, wow, that has been powerful. Because of those people I have known healing. I ultimately credit the healing to my Maker, but I believe that those people were in my life for a reason and acted as vessels of healing, and for that I am so grateful.

So, I am not saying, that in response to this or any other tragedy that we shouldn't DO things, like work to pass laws, or increase funding for mental health, or improve safety protocols. I guess I'm just saying that I think we have more power to affect change than we realize. The opportunity is right there in front of us, in every interaction we have. You might be angry at me for saying this, and that's ok, but I really don't think that stricter gun laws or greater access to mental health or arming our teachers with guns is going to cut it. It may help or may not help things or prevent some tragedies. But when people are broken and in pain, the pain is going to come out somehow, some way. So what if we started by looking around us, pausing to see, really notice and see the people right in front of us? And what if we connected at the point of brokenness and pain, armed with time, space and a love that wins? This is just as much a challenge to me as to anyone, but what if???