I have my share of insecurities, but there is one that surpasses them all: insecurity about my parenting. I want so badly to be a good mama to my daughter. I want to do all that is right for her…be all that is right for her. I want to be the perfect mama, which is ridiculous because I know that’s humanly impossible. Other mamas seem to do it, though, so
(Note: This was originally published in 2014, when my own daughter was only 5 and I was squarely in the middle of mothering a young elementary-aged kiddo. Now, with a “not-so-little” kid, I see this post from the opposite vantage point and go back to it in my mind often.) Dear Mamas, This is hard for us to say because we really do look up to you. You are further
Dear friend, You’re not the only one. For years I was alone. Not alone alone, because I had my husband and family and all…but really, I was alone. My life was defined by feeling alone in a crowded room. Maybe you know the lonely feeling I’m talking about. I’m not entirely sure how it happened for me, but here it is: I used to hate Sunday mornings. That sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it?
Last spring my family had the chance to travel to the mountains of West Virginia to visit my husband’s extended family. The highlight of the trip, for me, was visiting the farm where my mother-in-law grew up: deep in the Shenandoah Valley, nestled between the rolling hills and a hilly mile’s walk from the nearest road – which wasn’t paved. (And the nearest road wasn’t a big one, either.) The
On a Thursday night about a year ago, I sat at the softball field waiting for my daughter’s softball game to start. I wasn’t watching her team warm up, though. I was watching for my parents to get there and claim their spots on the metal bleachers. They arrived just as the kids took the field. “How are things tonight?” my mom asked. That was what I had really been
I’d seen her at church for awhile – how long, I’m not sure, because I was in my own self-imposed solitary confinement and wasn’t fully aware of anything going on outside of myself. But I had seen her, and based on what I saw, I had my assumptions. She was in *that* community group, so she was obviously one of the popular kids. (Seriously. This is how I think.
At the restaurant, we laughed until our sides hurt and tears streamed down our faces. It wasn’t until I was driving home later, tears streaming down my face yet again, that I realized exactly what had been happening in that moment. I was having dessert with two of my closest friends – a desperately-needed night out. (At a local cafe known for its desserts larger than the average human head,
I wish I could say that I’ve always been interested in Jesus. That would be dishonest, though. And if I really think about it, my years of disinterest in all things True actually – in a very real way – made me who I am today. People say that sometimes – that we’re products of our pasts – but in my case, I can see the pieces strung together like
It was my fifth trip to Belize before I ever really understood why I was there. Traveling with my church mission team, I knew the purpose of our trips: to work alongside our sister church in the capital city to reinforce the work they are already doing. That meant we provided for basic needs like food and shelter and beds and clothing, but it also meant that we led Bible
For as long as I can remember, “friendship” meant “fitting in,” but not in the sense of having a place to belong. Friendship was like a crocheted afghan, with each strand and each loop perfectly aligning in the pattern to create uniformity. It was fitting in to the point of matching – conforming – sticking closely enough to the pattern that any variances were undetectable. Friendship, for me, was a kind of