Dirty Kisses and Forgiveness.

I had just written 3/4 of a completely different blog and my power became unplugged.
I lost it all.
I was avoiding writing about what God told me to write about.
See what I put up with?

So, here God.
Have it Your way.

As many of you know,  I work with toddlers at a childcare center.
I think the main response I get when telling people my occupation is: " Oh my...I could not do your job."
Many people just see the screaming, snot and diaper changing when they see my job.

They probably walk in on me with half my hair missing, chasing some two year old around the room with a broom in one hand and butt wipes in the other.
I do clean a lot of snotty noses.
I change dirty diapers.
I wipe tears from dirt-stained faces.
I get frustrated.
I get angry, even.

But if that's what you see, you have missed it.
Big time.

You have missed the hugs, the kisses, the "I missed you Bwitney!" i get in the mornings.
You have missed the dancing, the laughing, the story-telling.
Most of all, you have missed the incredible, confusing, offensive display of love I am slapped in the face with every day.

I hate when me and a child are arguing.
I hate disciplining.
It is the least favorite part of my job.
I hate putting them in time out and seeing their tears just roll and roll.
It is annoying, but it's always hard to see the same face that lit up when walked in the room turn to disgust or distain.

Yet, they get over it.
It does not matter what I did to that kid that day or how at odds we were with each other that day, when the day comes to an end they are sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and stroking my face.

This week at work me and a small girl in my class were at it all day.
She just would not listen.
She made the corner her home that day.
I was so frustrated.
I pulled her into the time out chair over and over again and kept having to raise my voice at her for her to even pay any attention to instruction.

She glared at me with her folded arms and swollen eyes.
In that moment you would have thought I was the most disgusting woman she had ever met.
I took away her toys, I embarrassed her in front of her friends, I separated her from everyone else.

May seem like nothing to us, but to a two year old that's pretty much the worse day of their life.

You want to know what that disgruntled, disgusted two year old said to me at the end of my work day?

"I love you Bwitney. I'll see you tomorrow!"
She climbed in my lap, hugged my neck and gave me a dirt/frosting kiss on the cheek.

God likes to teach me lessons in strange ways.
Most of our conversations are on car rides, runs, or while I'm knodding off to sleep.
Most of the deepest snippets of wisdom He allows me to snatch up are not in a sanctuary blaring from a pulpit, but from the mouth of babes.

Guilt immediately swept all over me when this child reacted with love, grace and forgiveness without a second thought.

I heard I was supposed to have this thing called "child like faith" from the get go.
But what in the heck did that mean to me?
Blind faith?
No thanks.

I'm a natural skeptic.

This is where God does a face palm and says, "Britney, no. I want you to love like a child. I want you to forgive like a child. I want you to be like that child was to you today when all you did was scold them and they loved you still."

Duh.
Biggest fail.
Today we are taught to "forgive but to never forget."
That is not what Jesus taught.

When He cast our sins as far as the east is from the west He meant He did exactly like that.
He didn't hang on the cross and say, "Well, I'll forgive you but I'll remember this when handing out crowns of gold later."

No.
No.
No.

I missed the mark on this one, guys.
In the wake of recent life events, many people have slapped me in the face.
Instead of turning the other cheek, instead of forgiving and casting the pain they caused as far as I could from me, I dwelt.
I held contempt.
I couldn't let go of the fact that they "took away my toys."

I do not forgive with ease, and even when I do I keep a nugget of resentment with me just in case.

Something sparked when I received that frosting kiss on my face.
It isn't forgiveness if you don't trash everything with it.
Trash the bitterness.
Trash the resentment.
Trash the mistrust.
Trash the anger.

The wrong done to you may never be made right by the other person.
Thats a hard fact to swallow.
Pride doesn't want to accept that.

Let pride die along with it too.

When you follow Jesus, you give up your rights.
All of them.
The right to be right.
The right to hold on to your pride.
The right to forgive but not forget.

Be a child again.

It doesn't make you naive, it makes you obedient.

The Heart Transplant

The rain beat on my windshield as my wipers tried to dance in between the blows.
I was crying, trying to drive through the tears and rain drops, unsure of which was which anymore.

This wasn't your typical cry.
I was sobbing like a child who just lost sight of his mother in the supermarket for the first time.

It was a cry of release.
A release of so much.
Too much to tell you in one blog.
Too much for those of you who have just met me to get.
Years of just...turmoil.

When I held my newly born nephew in my arms, my sister tiredly smiling up at me I felt the innocence, the freshness of this life.
Untainted.
He had never experienced heartbreak.
He knew no pain or chaos.
He would love easily and freely to anyone who held him.
He was the definition of simplicity.

I was holding a fresh start in my very arms.
I brushed his face with my fingers and held back the tears from all the things my sisters little gift brought to me.

The rain washed off my windshield and the sunshine began to reflect off the remaining drops onto my face.

With that passing rain went every scream I wanted to let out for the past 4 years of my tiny life.

That cry was not one of sadness.
Or mourning.
That cry was a cry of being overwhelmed with absolute joy; one I've never know before.
I hadn't ever cried of...happiness before.
Of complete release.
I had been holding my heart so tightly to my own chest, my own husband who has fought more than anyone on the Earth to open my rigid grasp hasn't even seen its full capacity to love.
The absolute innocence of baby Benjamin broke me.

I wanted his softness.
His naive outlook on the new world around him.
His ease to love.
His ease to trust his heart with whoever claimed to keep it safe.

I broke because I had become so rough to the touch.
My heart cold and incapable to love how it once had when I was freshly 16.
It had been broken.
Not your typical broken.
Absolutely shattered.
While my husband daily attempts to find every piece he can to make me completely whole again I knew only the gentle touch of Mercy could do the job.

Mercy reached down and broke my heart again when I touched Benjamin's tiny fingers.
He broke it how a heart is meant to be broken.
He broke it so everything good and lovely could now be let in.
He broke it in such a way that Light could kiss every dark corner I had tucked away in shame.

I rolled down the windows, letting the freshly damp air mist on my face.
Heart break never felt so right or good.

Hope returned that day.
My rough edges were smoothed out.
With the birth of a baby boy came the birth of a new, unscarred, untainted, trusting heart.
My heart.

I had been putting patches where God wanted to do a full transplant.


I had to let Love win.
Over the past.
Over heart ache.
Over the longing to expose truth.
Over mistrust.
Over fear.
Over bitterness.
Over anger.
Over hopelessness.
Over seemingly lost prayers.
Over everything that keeps the Light out.

I'm not the girl I was 6 months ago.
That girl was small, weak, broken, pitiful, indifferent to each day she woke up.

I don't even recognize that girl.
She can stay where I left her, along with the heart I donated to the garbage.

I stuck my hand out the window and let it just dangle for awhile.
Swaying back and forth to some old Beatles song.

To the Scorned Woman:

To the Scorned Woman: 

I've learned many lessons in my short life. 

I have faced battles that many grown women have yet to taste before the age of 20. 

I say this not out of pride, but to express in the rawest way possible that I know more than you think about life, love & religion. 

I've hated God.

I've convinced myself He doesn't exist at all. 

I've fallen in love with Him over and over again. 

I've tasted the distain of bitterness, the sweetness of romance and the rotten aftertaste of heartache. 

I have failed. 

At many things. 

I have bottled up pain so great it would bring even the strongest women to brokenness. 

Listen to me closely you broken woman. 

You scorned woman. 

You talked about, beaten, trampled over woman. 

You who think you should just shut up and lay down like the door mat people see you as. 

You who think a good woman is one who grins and bears it. 

You who beat yourself up every day for being a girl that just wants her fairytale. 

You listen to me. 

You are a strong woman. 

You are full of courage and fire. 

You are nobody's door mat. 

You are precious. 

God sees you.

God is not looking down at you with a face of shame. 

Let people gasp. 

Let them talk.

Let them flap their busybody lips until they fall right off their face.

By remaining silent you are already above them. 

There is a time to stay silent and a time to stand up. 

I will stand up for you and with you. 

You are not a china doll; fragile and designed to sit on a shelf and collect the dust of comfort. 

You are a woman. 

A beautiful, fierce woman. 

Fear of the unknown. 

Fear of yourself. 

Fear of others. 

Drop it. 

Kick it. 

 Don't pick it up again. 

Do not lay in the dirt and let anyone throw their stones at you like a victim.

You pick up those stones and build a fortress out of them. 

I've learned many lessons in my short life; 

One of them being that I am worthy of love.

You are not the victim.

You're the heroine. 

Signed, 

A Once Scorned Woman

Shedding Your Dead Skin

I know, my title is pretty gross this time.

I couldn't think of a more perfect analogy to convey my heart. 

As a marathon runner, my feet take a huge beating. 

Blisters, callouses, the works. 

After an endurance event I always go and get my feet worked on. 

This is going to come as a shock, but I never cry over the stripping away of my dead skin. 

Fresh. Soft. New. 

Finally. 

Granted, those callouses served their purpose in my training at some point along the way. 

If I had scrubbed them off myself before running 26 miles, you would see me hobbling at mile 15 with feet covered in blisters. 

Alike, a cocoon serves its purpose, but you do not see a beautiful butterfly lingering around its old cocoon mourning over the loss. 

 

When I was a young girl, I would take my mothers mason jars and take them to the backyard; I was on a mission. 

In the south, kids found it fun to pick locust shells off the trees and save them. 

Now, looking back I see I was just a strange kid.

Funny thing, I never saw a locust weeping by its old shell wanting to go back into its dead skin. 

Yet, so many of us weep over dead skin, callouses. 

Some sort of life choice kick starts the process of shedding the old and gaining the new. 

You will shed people or places, maybe both. 

Mourning has its place, but this is a time of celebration and rebirthing. 

Change is your ped -egg, shaving off every dead particle you no longer need to flourish. 

The butterfly, the locust, they don't just slowly walk away from their old, empty shells; they fly. 

They free themselves with extreme haste and celebration! 

The callouses have served their purpose, but it's time to show off that new skin. 

Enough with the analogy merry go round. 

Some people are in your life to teach you who you do not want to be or who you are not. 

Some people are in your life for a season simply to strengthen you. 

Do not consider their disappearance from your life desertion; it is shedding of a callous. 

Harsh? 

Maybe. 

Not all people are designed to be the encourager or loyal companion you want every human that walks into your life to be. 

Some are in your story to help you find yourself the hard way. 

Celebrate, because mourning over dead useless skin would be bananas. 

To My Father.

To my father: 

I love you. 

I think God understands your anger. 

I think God understands mom's heartache. 

I think God understands me and my sisters fear. 

I think God understands human suffering, but knows we never will. 

I think disease is like a tragic car accident for most people that they casually drive by on the freeway. 

They look in their rear view mirror at the mangled mess and say, "man looks bad," but never think of that scene again a mile down the road. 

You don't know disease until what you love is tainted by it. 

It is unlike any other tragedy because nobody can see it. 

It's not something a human can wrap their hands around. 

We only feel the aftershock of its blows. 

I can't really say I know what you feel. 

To want to be the stone foundation of your family, the strong fortress for those you love, yet you feel like you can no longer shield us. 

You have been my hero even before you knew I liked you. 

I remember the exact moment I really saw you. 

I was a little thing; tight curls glued to my head and eyes bigger than my face. 

You came home in your business suit with your black suitcase that I tried breaking into any chance I got. 

You sat down in a pink chair the size of your hand & drank invisible tea with that little girl who felt so small. 

You made me feel like I was the only person who mattered as you ate fake cookies I sat before you. 

From that evening on, I've seen you and loved you more than anyone could love their father. 

When you feel small, know I still see you as the man with his briefcase, sitting down to my tea party; the greatest, most precious father a girl could know. 

When you feel weak, know I still see you as the man who threw me on his shoulders after that baseball game on a summer night. 

You saw the storm brewing and tossed me up like a bag of feathers. You ran from the stadium all the way to the car with my chin bouncing up and down on your scalp. 

I was scared of storms, but not that night; my dad was strong and instead of feeling fear I felt safety. 

You are still that dad that would set me on his back and do push ups in our living room as I giggled all the way. 

You are still the man that took me and my sister kite flying every chance you got. 

When you feel helpless, know you helped me. 

As a person, I don't have any of the answers. 

As a girl who loves Jesus, I know I never will and I'm trying to be okay with that. 

As your daughter, the only thing I know is that I love you; that somehow I know we're gonna be alright. 

Confessions of a Stepmom

    I never saw myself as the "motherly" type of gal.

I've always joked with those in my life that God forgot to put the womanly qualities in me; cooking, nurturing, the works. 

You know, the stuff that makes your mom a mom. 

When I was growing up during the holidays all the girls would be prepping, baking and talking jargon like "put it on broil at such & such degrees for so & so minutes until browned." 

I'm sorry, what? 

I was typically in the living room with my dad and all the uncles listening to talk about hunting and whatever else men discuss. 

Talk of politics would be floating somewhere in the background as a television show about southern men catching large bass flickered on and off. 

I had no interest in hunting or baking pies. 

My interest was eating. 

I never was the little girl that wanted to play mommy & daddy. 

I played adventures! 

Princess! 

Heroes! 

Villains! 

While other little girls daydreamed about their future husband I had fantasies of saving the world.

Just Britney. 

Solo. 

Ms. Independent. 

Dressing up in a white sheet pretending it was your wedding day seemed pretty lame to me. 

Who wants a flimsy dress when you can have a cape? 

Obviously the teen years hit and boys came into my world like a meteor struck straight into my core. 

I made countless foolish decisions like many teenage girls who are in deep, wreck less "love" do. 

My stance on children never wavered even when I dated someone who desperately wanted children. 

Something just wouldn't settle. 

I got the typical, "ohhhh you're just young. You'll change your mind!"

Didn't happen. 

I grimaced at mothers who licked their fingers and wiped their kids' day old chocolate off their face. 

"Ohhh it's different when their your own. You just wait!"

I am currently 23 years old.

I still grimace at the mom spit move. 

I am full of sarcasm and a "suck it up" attitude. 

I make mistakes. A lot. 

Choice words fall off my lips when I step in mud puddles. 

I've got 13 tattoos and I fancy lip rings. 

I like "that's what she said" jokes entirely too much. 

But there's one thing God instilled in me from the start: deep, unconditional, unwavering, loyal love for those that I let into my heart. 

Some people naturally waltz into my heart effortlessly while others have had to fight their way in. 

There are three boys that danced in like it was always how it is now. 

Like a natural occurrence. 

Like how the sun rises every single morning. 

Coming in so late isn't easy. 

Any step parent will tell you that. 

Some days I go to sleep with less hair than when I woke up with that day. 

Some days...I go to bed smiling from the sweetest hug or "goodnight Britney". 

Sunday night, our oldest hugged my neck and told me he loved me for the first time since I made the transition here. 

My heart swelled with pure joy-a joy I can't remember ever feeling before. 

At that moment, my world tilted.

All of those moments where I felt broken or confused as to why I couldn't picture myself having a child of my own burst into a million fragments.

I imagine the way my spirit felt when I heard those words fall off tiny lips was how Edison felt when he saw the glow of light for the first time. 

I am most certainly still learning how to navigate the ship of parenting. 

God knew what He was doing long before I knew Him. 

He saw me with glazed eyes as other little girls sang "hear comes the bride" with a funny piece of toilet paper hovering over their face to attempt a veil. 

He saw before I did that I would one day step into this challenging, beautiful, rewarding role of a step parent. 

When people raise their eyebrows at me and ask, "so you think you're ready to be a mother to three boys?" I know they don't understand the dynamics of this whole step mom thing. 

I am Britney. 

To those three boys, I am Britney.

I'm not here to replace or to be their mother. 

I'm here to love them as hard as I can as Britney.

When they fall off their bike.

When they get their heart broken.

When they get a bad grade.

When they need a bandaid, a kiss on a scraped knee or just a pat on the head with my typical "Hey kiddo."

That's what I am. 

I will be their cheerleader.

I will guide them as far as I know to go.

I will protect them before protecting myself. 

I will sacrifice late nights with friends for sleep overs in the living room. 

I'm 100% human with a 100% chance of screwing up a few good times as I sail the seas of growth. 

I am constantly still trying to find my footing in this climb.

Every giggle, kiss on the cheek, hand holding I receive is a confirmation of where my heart belongs even on the days I can't seem to wrap my mind around the journey I'm on. 

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I have ended up where I needed to be.