Friday, January 29, 2016

At almost 33

I'll be 33 this Sunday, and that leads me to a lot of thoughts, like:

wait, what? isn't that how old my mom is right now?

And also:

Wait, I remember my mom when she was 33. Keenly. And vividly. I can't believe I'm in a stage of life when I am turning an age I remember my mom being. 

And then:
33 sure is different than 23. It's been a decade since I've been 23. That means that for 1/3 of my life I have been married to John. And he is old! #whoa

So sometimes all of this comes to a head when I'm standing in the wine aisle of trader joes, like I was today, picking out a bottle of wine for my birthday. 

Because it's oddly like how it was when I 23 and picking out a bottle of wine.

"Oh that one looks pretty! I wonder if it's sweet or if it tastes like old shoes?" I miss to myself and my four year old.

"You need pink, mommy," she says. "Because pink bootiful!"

I agree. Pink it is. I've always secretly liked pink.  

And then Rebel Rebel comes on while I'm standing there and just like I couldn't resist dancing to it when I was waitressing and my friend Matt would put it on the old jukebox, I couldn't resist in the middle of the aisle as I scoped out the wine. 

Some things, no matter how many years go by, never change. 

My four year old then announces loudly, "mommy, you love this song? You dancing and dancing and dancing! I take your picture!"

So we stop dancing and pink wine selecting for a moment to take a picture.

Because some things do change.

At almost 33 my inhibitions about dancing through the wine aisle of the grocery with my little and pausing for a selfie with her have faded because I'm no longer ruled by the fear of judgments from passersby.

And I'm no longer ruled by the fear of stepping on the scale and being met with a number I would have gasped at a few years ago but slowly closing my eyes and instead offering thanks for almost 33 years in this amazing creation of a body.

Or by the fear of saying no to something that's not right for the right now. 

There's something comfortable and almost trait worthy about this skin, this heart, this body, this wisdom God has graciously gifted me that I'm now living in, and I'm almost 33 and I'm not sure thank you is quite enough of an almost-birthday prayer to a God who has afforded me every breath my whole life and every bit of goodness my heart knows. 

But somehow, at almost 33, I think He knows just how much heart is behind those two little words. 

So that's what I offer today amid all the differentness and all the sameness, amid my dancing rebel heart: thank you, Lord.

Just thank you.  

Monday, January 11, 2016

If I Always Cry When I Hug You

You, my children, are miracles in every sense of the word. 

You are the living, breathing reminders to me of a God who doesn't just creates but a God who breathes the breath of love into the very lungs of His creations. 

You are the artful masterpieces of complexity interwoven with the simplicity of pure joy. 

And you, each of you, have a story, one that is unfolding and being penned each and every day that you get out of bed, plant your feet into the ground and meet the sunrise with your faces. 

I marvel over the ways our lives have intersected. 

Two solid and strong boys born of my very body. 

And two beautiful and loyal girls born of our hearts. 

All grown out of God's love.

Sometimes when I'm hugging your growing-ever taller bodies and touching the softness of your face and your hair, I can't help but see you for who you really are:

you are faith wrapped up in skin. 

You are the fingerprints of a God who radiates love.

So if I always cry when I hug you,

I hope you'll remember that sometimes tears are sometimes just liquid gratitude that stain our sleeves and shirts with the the smallest pieces of our hearts.