Know What You're About (Day 1)

There is an old Sunday School song I grew up with, one that I can still recall, complete with church-appropriate hand motions (because dancing is wrong but motioning that something is gushing out of you is holy).  It goes like this:

I've got a river of life flowing out of me,

Makes the lame to walk and the blind to see!

Opens prison doors sets the captives free

(youth groups love to squeeze in a little

shout of "I'm free!" here)

Oh, I've got a river of life flowing out of me!

I always liked songs that were upbeat and especially gave me the chance to stand up and move around a little.  (I'm in the Lord's Army was another gem.)  But as I get older, as time and experience, and yes, even Jesus, transform me, I find that the message in this simple song rings true.

When I was young and singing this song heartily with other kids, I was one of those captives.  I was held in by shame and fear, so painfully shy and uncomfortable with myself.  I went into my head, into my imagination, and I pretended I was whole and free.  Having no idea what the real thing felt like, I convinced myself that what I was able to dream up was enough.

I made up stories and began to write them down.  I imagined that someday I might even make a living as a writer, like the still, smiling photographs on the backs of my novels.  They were calm and happy, and most importantly, grown up.  If I could be like them, then I maybe I wouldn't be me anymore.

But everyone said it was impractical to try to write fiction, and even if I could block out the pragmatist in my head who stomped on those childhood dreams, what would I even write about?  What did I know?  What could I give?  What could I write that would make a difference?

Marriage and motherhood cracked my heart wide open, and I began to see little streams of ideas.  I started writing again, writing what was in my imagination but also in my heart.  One day, I conjured a woman, a character.  She was full of shame and hiding in her life.  (Hey, write what you know.)  She needed love to transform her, to set her free from her invisible shackles.

And so I wrote the first part of a novel.  I set it aside to welcome my third child, and over the course of his first year of life, I experienced the transformation that she and I were both desperate for.  I finally had the courage and the support to voice my shame, to let go of my fears, and to finally start to find peace with myself.  When I sat down again to work on the story, I couldn't believe how parallel our lives were, me and this imaginary woman.

Soon, the ideas began bursting like popcorn in my mind.  With three children to take care of, it is slow work to put pen to paper (yes, I write my first drafts longhand).  But I finally know what I'm about.  I am about redemption.

This is what I know, because this is what I've lived.  A life that is not pretending, but really being lived free.  It is the gift I want to give my characters.  More importantly, it is the gift I want to give my readers.  I want you to know that you don't have to hide.  I want you to know that your past doesn't define you.  I want you to know that you are not alone.

Someone tossed me the keys to open my prison doors and beckoned me to walk out, to live free.  I want to write words that do the same for others.  I want to shine light in the dark places and show you how to experience a river of life pouring out of you.  Spring up, Oh well.  (Goosh Goosh Goosh Goosh) 

Four Stages of Procrastinating

I spent 2015 trying to work on developing better habits.  I exercised more, I made better choices with food, I steadily worked on decluttering and being more organized.  I've even managed to be more awake in the mornings while I get the kids ready for school.  (No tardies!)  But something people may not realize about me is that I am a committed life-long procrastinator.

Especially since I published my first novel this year, I've been hearing the same thing from lots of people.  It centers around how amazing it is that I managed to do this on top of everything else: being a full-time mom, having other kids in my care (whether it's for a few hours or a few months), volunteering at church, and I don't even know what else.  Every time, I cringe a little.  I think about all the time I spent avoiding writing, all the days when I lost confidence and wondered what I was doing and wanted to give up.  It took me three years to finish that first book, but I know that I could have finished it much sooner if I hadn't spent so much time procrastinating.

Now that I'm nearing the final pages of my second novel, (completed in less than two years with a little more focus!) the desire to slack off and push the deadline has been strong.  So I thought I would break down the four stages of procrastination that I find myself cycling through.

1. Whirlwind When that blinking cursor begins to overwhelm me, the first thing I'll do is throw myself into family time.  I will be the most energetic mom, I will build Legos and play endless games of Candy Land, I will take the kids to the park or McDonald's or the library.  Anything to stay in motion, to convince myself that I'm making better use of my time.

2. Mindless drone Eventually, the kids go to school or bed or find something to play that doesn't involve me.  And rather than return to that waiting document, I'll find some super boring task that's been sitting undone for months.  Remember my decluttering project that I mentioned?  All completed while avoiding writing.  This is a great time to sort through the pile of junk mail or rearrange the cupboards or sort through the lotions and medicines in the bathroom.

3. Internet rabbit holes So at this point, you're probably thinking, Hey that doesn't sound bad.  So you take a break from creative work and engage with your family or clean your house--you're still being productive!  And I totally agree.  I tell myself that when I go back to the computer, I'll be more focused and ready to write again because I've just satisfied my other commitments.  Like making sure the house is pristine before leaving on vacation.  Then you can really enjoy your time away, knowing that everything is done.  Except I come back to the computer and decide to check Facebook.  Or Suri's Burn Book.  Or catch up on the blogs I follow.  Or price trips we might take once my book becomes a best-seller.  My husband calls this "falling into an internet rabbit hole", and as someone who loves to accumulate information, I can be there for hours.  Rarely do I accomplish anything productive or worthwhile once I've gotten to this stage.  This is when I click on links to celebrity gossip sites or research the British monarchy, none of which pertains to the book I'm writing.

4. Catatonic The fourth and final stage of procrastination finds me in hibernation mode.  I've given up pretending that I'm doing anything worthwhile, and retreated to the couch or bed.  I might go to sleep, but even rest can be refreshing, so usually in this stage, I binge watch something online and play stupid apps that I deleted from my phone, but are still loaded on the family iPad (looking at you, Candy Crush Saga).  I probably look like someone who is bored, who has nothing to do.  But I haven't felt bored since I had my first kid almost 9 years ago.  I actually get to this point when I am most overwhelmed, when the pressure, the tasks, the endless cycles of life are pressing in.

So 2015 has been a year of learning better habits.  In looking at the habits I have, the ones I unintentionally created over the years by default, I've learned more about myself.  I've realized the bad things I run to when I feel stressed, and I've made an effort to rewire my brain so that I choose good things instead.  Procrastination has been both a curse and a crutch for as long as I can remember, in college and high school and probably even before that.  It's not always a bad thing, like when it spurs me to spend more time with my kids.  But if I didn't put off my work, I wonder if I would be more like the other accomplished people I know.

As December winds down and 2016 approaches, I don't know what word I want to focus on in the new year.  But I would like to set some boundaries for myself.  Sometimes I need to go catatonic.  But when I withdraw, I need to set a timer for 30 minutes.  I've found that if I give myself half an hour to disengage and retreat, I can return to my task feeling better about life.  But if I just go catatonic without an extraction plan, I'll be out for the rest of the day.

I've also learned how to break up writing into manageable goals.  Many full-time writers can put out thousands of words a day, and I've done this myself when an idea hits or I have the support to write all day.  But most of the time, I am on duty for all the other people in my life.  I've found that all I have to do is write 500 words a day, which I can accomplish during gymnastics lessons or nap time.  And those words add up!  In January, I'm starting a new novel.  If I can stick to my 500 words a day goal, I'll have it finished by the time school lets out in May.  Writing in summer has been virtually impossible so far, and I know I'll have to give myself a few months off.  So I'm challenging myself to do in about 5 months what has taken me years in the past.  Procrastination, be gone!!  There will be no room for you next year.

Are you a procrastinator?  What goals are you setting for 2016?  Leave a comment!

That Time I Wrote a Novel

When I think back to the happy times of my childhood, I remember books.  I remember getting lost in a story, to the point that I couldn't hear my mom calling my name or my sister asking me to come play with her.  Books truly transported me somewhere else, to Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sweet Valley, California, to the Orient Express chugging across Europe.  And like many readers before me, I wanted to use my words to move and inspire people.  I wanted to write.

I remember sitting at my desk, a fresh notebook open in front of me, pencil poised to record a new story.  That was the best moment back then, when the possibilities were endless and all I had to do was begin.  So I did.  Again, and again, and again, I began to write.  Sometimes I would fill a page, sometimes several.  But the same thing kept happening.  I didn't know what came next.  I would stop and chew my lip and tap my pencil on the desk.  I was great at inventing a character and setting and describing what was in my head...but then what?  I couldn't come up with a plot.  And because the words didn't just flow out of me (as I imagined they did for Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin and Agatha Christie), I considered myself a failure.

I never quite lost the idea that I would write something someday, that eventually it would all come together in a magical afternoon and I would finally figure out how to progress in my story, and even find the ending.  But when high school came along, followed by college, the focus of my writing turned to book reports and term papers.  There didn't seem to be time to imagine, to create something new, in a world that demanded I learn new information and regurgitate it for a good grade.  I downgraded my goal to writing a children's book after I took a class on Children's Literature in college.  It would be perfect.  The books were shorter, the stories and language simpler.  I could do that.  Please.

Except it's not that easy, if you've ever tried it.  Dr. Seuss deserves all the acclaim he gets for making stories that seem simple and singsongy...except they rhyme and draw from a pool of less than 50 words and tell a whole story in a handful of pages, with pictures to match!  It all began to feel hopeless and impossible as life moved on.  A title would come to me out of nowhere, and I would begin to imagine the story I could tell, but I'd dismiss it after a while as just a dream that would never materialize.

Then I became a mother.  I quit my job and stayed home with my tiny bundle of love and spent hours on the couch, reading classic literature and eating dried fruit while my baby slept on my lap.  And my mind began to wander in ways it couldn't while I was working or in school.  An idea took root, and I took the time to let the story come to me.  Finally, while the baby was asleep and my husband was at work, I snuck off with a pen and a notebook and began to write again.  My first story in over a decade.  There were plenty of stops, followed days or months later by starts.  I didn't put pressure on the idea.  I wasn't thinking about word count or whether people would want to read it.  I wrote what I found inside me.

The end result was a short story entitled "In My Mother's Closet".  To date, only my husband has read it.  I don't know if it's any good, but it was the start I needed.  After another baby, I had another idea.  I sat down late at night over the course of a summer and wrote.  This was it, the idea that had enough depth to become a book.  I was so excited that I showed it to my husband before I even finished the first draft.  I was proud and wanted the ego boost of his support.  Except...he didn't really like it.  He pointed out some holes in the character development and kind of shrugged over it.  It was disappointing, yes, but he was right.  I set it aside for about six months as we welcomed another child into the family.  In the meantime, I did some research.  I read some books on writing, I set a goal for myself to finish, then I pulled up the Word document and re-read it.  Suddenly, the fixes became clear, the edits I needed to make in order to finish the book and present it to my husband for a second opinion.

Because the life of a mother of three young children is hectic and distracting, it took another two years to get to that finished work.  (We added yet another child, a 3 year old foster daughter who left shortly after the book's completion.)  But I did it, I wrote a novel called Every Little Piece!  I shared it with some trusted friends, people who would be honest with me but also kind.  They offered some great suggestions to make it even better.

For the past 18 months, I've been sitting on this book.  I've sent queries to agents and researched the publishing industry and fretted about what to do next.  Four years after I began to write it, my novel is ready for Kindle Direct and becoming an e-book.  I have no idea what will come next, if anyone will read it or like it, but my childhood dream of writing a book has already come true, and now I'm ready to fulfill another goal: becoming a published author.

Friends, I hope you'll check out my book.  I had fun writing it, getting to know my characters and telling their stories.  But more importantly, I hope you'll think back to the thing you loved when you were young, whether it was dancing or playing outside or making jewelry out of dandelions or painting, or maybe even writing the first page of a story.  And I hope that you can let go of whatever distractions or to-do lists have kept you from it.  Find room for that thing to be a part of your life now, without fear or embarrassment.  Return to your first love.

A busy life
Photo credit: We Love Your Love Photography

In the Middle

I turned 33 this year.  The definitions of age are shifting in my generation, so that "young" is different than it was for my parents or my grandparents, and "old" has moved further back than it was in the past.  People say things like "40 is the new 20!" which I think means that people hitting their forties are still as youthful and exciting as twenty year olds.  Not like my parents, who were packing their children off to college and preparing to be "empty nesters" when they hit forty.

So maybe 33 is still "young" and maybe (given genetics) I'm only a third of the way through my life, but I feel like I have hit the "middle age".  Not just because my knees click when I climb stairs (which they never used to do) or because I started wearing a swim skirt (the better to hide my lumpy mom body!), but because the time to figure out who I am seems to be over.  I can still try new things and experiment and fail and pick myself back up, but I have to do this in the middle of a life being lived.  I can't change course quickly, because I have a family that goes along with me, and I have to factor in everyone's needs, not just my own.

At 20, I could try a new hobby and decide if I liked it or not.  I could spend all day reading or watching tv with no guilt.  I could move to Tennessee and then back to Ohio when I felt like it.  I could eat an entire bag of chips or stay up all night or suddenly decide to bike 10 miles with no consequences.  But now?  Now I'm in the middle.  Now the consequences of disengaging from the world are cranky kids and huge laundry piles and late bills.  Now I feel the effects of what I ate or how I slept or what crazy thing I tried to put my body through for days.  All of this leads me to believe (no matter what the magazine covers say) that I have transitioned into the middle of my life.

So all of this is well and good, except I've heard about this thing called a "mid-life crisis".  Those never go well.  That's the time when people spend crazy amounts of money on sports cars or leave their spouse for someone else or travel to India to prove they can still have adventures.  But I'm wondering what has to happen to go from realizing and accepting that my life has reached the middle to a full-blown, poor decision making crisis.  I mean, I love my minivan.  I love my husband.  I love staying at home and not contracting some flesh-eating virus from, I don't know, dirty ashram water.  Maybe I'll be lucky and miss the "crisis" part of aging.  Wouldn't that be nice?

I was listening to "Coffee with Christine Caine", my new favorite podcast (because, hello, Christine Caine, and also they are about 10 minutes long which is about how much time I have to do anything for myself this summer), and she was talking about embracing new things and being innovative in our thinking.  She said something interesting, which is that being old happens when you get stuck in your ways and close off to new thinking.  According to Chris, there is no numerical age when you get old; a 26 year old can be old if he refuses to accept change and adapt to new circumstances.  Likewise, an 80 year old can still be skirting the young side if she is willing to try new things.  I witnessed that this past year when I signed up for a women's Bible study at a local church.  I joined my group the first day and was a little surprised at the white haired woman who announced herself as our leader.  She said, "My name is Betty and I've never done anything like this before, but I was asked if I would be willing to lead a group and so here I am."  Over the course of 25 weeks, Betty challenged my ideas about age and what people are capable of.  She doesn't drive after dark and she gets nervous when the sidewalk is icy, but she did her research each week and she kept our group on topic as we discussed the Life of Moses together.

Here I am, in the middle.  No longer an untethered young woman with the world at her feet and opportunity hanging like fruit from a tree.  Not yet a grumpy old lady shaking her fist at kids on skateboards and bemoaning "the good old days".  I'm navigating the middle of life, finding time to try new experiences between the demands and responsibilities of all I've been given.  To accept the limitations while continuing to dream.

Five Minute Friday: Finish

How funny that this word would pop up on a week when I can actually join in with FMF, because at the start of the year, this is the word I chose to pursue. 

FINISH.

Because I'm good at quitting.  I've done that my whole life.  This is too hard.  This is confusing.  This is potentially great, which is even scarier than hard or confusing.  So I quit.

FINISH.

Because sometimes I talk myself out of even starting.  Sometimes the excuses drown out all the reasons why I should, and so I sit out, on the sidelines, and I miss it.  Whatever the "it" is, the social gathering, the new beginning, the commitment.

FINISH.

Lisa Jo Baker is right, finishing is the hardest part.  Following through on what you said you would do, remaining faithful to something that doesn't seem to be gaining any traction, ending things at the right time and in the right way.

FINISH.

I'm 32 this year, and a mother and wife, and it just seems sad to list quitter and avoider as personality traits.  It's time to stretch and be someone who can be counted on.  It's time to do the showing up, especially when it's hard.  It's time to stay engaged with my family, with my friends, with my passions.  It's time to live the life that has been beckoning me all these years.

Autism Acceptance

Are you sick of these yet?  Do you feel like sending me some new sheet music so I can play something other than this one note?  I feel that way myself sometimes.  Like, just talk about something else, right?  But just when I start to write a blog about how much I love to binge watch shows on Netflix, my fingers take over and the words come out different.  Because there are other times when I think, Why bother to do this at all if you're not going to do something worthwhile?  If I can't use my words, my blog, my hair to tell people how much I love my kids and how much they should love the kids in their lives, then what am I doing?

You've seen the puzzle pieces, you've read the articles, you wore blue!  You are AWARE of autism.  And, with 1 in 68 children in the US being diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum disorder, how could you not be?  Now that we're all here, it's time to collect your belongings and move on, to that door marked "Acceptance".  Don't just know about autism, ACCEPT it.  Understand that the child you see melting down at the store very well might be suffering a sensory overload, or having difficulty processing the transition from the car to the building.  Realize that the person on their iPad is using that amazing technology as a tool...it enables his family to enjoy dinner at a crowded restaurant, it's teaching him to speak and write, it actually engages a child who might otherwise be withdrawn into himself.  Celebrate when your friend tells you that her 10 year old learned to tie his shoes, even though your own kids mastered that skill at age 5, because development doesn't always come in a straight line.

My family is different from yours...except when we aren't.  We love each other fiercely.  We dance in our living room.  We get on each others' nerves and need time alone to recharge.  My 7 year old has terrible tantrums sometimes, and I am constantly trying new ways to reach him, to help him find his calm.  When I ask him questions, I have to wait patiently for an answer.  Sometimes it takes him years to give it.  He is also gentle and kind.  Did you know that my children only fight with each other about once a week?  That most days, they are in a nice groove, and they give to each other and walk away from each other, that they hold hands without being prompted and sneak into each others' beds to cuddle at night?  Did you know that raising an autistic child has taught me an entirely different way to look at the world, and I'm a better person for it?  Did you know that when you accept someone with a neurological difference, that you start accepting all kinds of other folks: people in wheelchairs, people with Down Syndrome, people with addictions and criminal records and even people who liked the series finale of Lost?  Because the definition of "what matters" and "who is worthy of my time" is completely re-written when you can't project the best image of yourself onto your child.  When you have to accept him for him or lose your mind, because he refuses to be something he's not.  And then you'll be free from that conveyor belt you SO DESPERATELY wanted to live on, and you'll realize it's actually pretty nice here, where time moves at a different speed and success looks so different from how you always saw it.

It's okay if you don't like my son.  Really.  If you spend time getting to know him and decide you just don't care that much about Angry Birds or you like big crowds, it's okay to go in another direction.  Because you took the time.  Because you looked at him and saw another person with feelings and interests and a huge heart.  Because you accepted who he is and didn't try to change him.

Happy April friends.  See you here again next year for Autism Acceptance Month.

On Dreaming

A few years ago, as our Family Village was beginning and we were getting to know our leaders, Joe and Mandy, better, I began to read her blog.  It was a great way to learn more about her and her family, because she writes about funny things her kids say, her relationships, the crazy things she does at home (like throwing water on her husband or wearing underwear on her head), and most frequently, about following Jesus.  I remember one post in particular, in which she said that she and Joe were up late dreaming big dreams.  This post struck me because I realized I've lost the ability to dream.  I don't stay up late talking about my dreams because I don't have any.  When did that stop?  When did limits and shortcomings replace the "We Girls Can Do Anything Like Barbie" mentality that I was raised on?

I think its that I used to dream for me, my imagination running wild with what I would do, where I would go, how I would matter.  And some of those dreams came true, and some didn't, and I learned that I can't do everything.  I will never win American Idol or pilot a plane around the world (although I did fly one for about 15 minutes).  Some of my dreams were cast aside to make room for a new reality, and at this point in my life, I'm happy to be the mom of three beautiful boys instead of US Ambassador to France.  But there were no new dreams, no goals to reach.  I didn't think much of the future beyond what the weather would be like the next day or if we would be able to afford a vacation the next summer.  My life and my focus became so...narrow.  When I heard terms like "vision-casting", I just rolled my eyes and cynically thought, If it hasn't happened before, its not likely to happen now either.  Feeding the hungry, eradicating poverty, changing the world...it sounded like a children's story, with an ending wrapped in a nice little bow.

At this same time, as I was losing faith in myself and life became monotonous, a new hope was also taking root in my heart.  A hope in Someone greater than myself.  A Someone who wasn't limited by time, space, or ability.  And its that same Someone who enables Joe and Mandy to dream big about their mission, the people they lead and the way they live.  And I was reminded this past weekend at the IF: Gathering that following God (the One True God, the God of the Universe, the Alpha and Omega) means living with a purpose, a calling that is from Him.  "Your calling is where your talents and your burden collide," Rebecca Lyons declared.

Last night, I lay in bed with my husband, and we dreamed big dreams.  We talked about our burdens, the people that are never far from our thoughts, the ones we are broken-hearted for.  We talked about actually doing something, acting soon (immediately even) to reach them.  We talked about real things we can do by the end of this month to follow through.  And maybe those small steps, those quiet little Yes's will grow and blossom and become formal programs or big events.  But when we ask God to show us where we fit in His plan, instead of trying to get Him to show up in the ways we think best, it doesn't matter.  We dream, and He turns it into a beautiful reality.