The Stepmom Chronicles: Mother's Day

I hung tiny shirts and folded underwear with batman symbols neatly into the wooded drawer.
I picked up candy wrappers and dumped out popcorn remnants from the night before.
I smoothed the wrinkled sheets, the bedding still tossed around from the tiny sleeping feet the night before.

I give hugs, I pick up dirt infested shoes and I wipe toothpaste from Spider-man toothbrushes.

I am not a mom.
I have not been with child.
I did not nourish their bodies for nine months.
I did not see them when their chest rose with air like a fresh sheet falling onto the mattress for the very first time.
I did not see their first steps to the recliner.
I did not get to squeal in joy as they said my name from soft pink lips, like I had never heard my name spoken before.
I did not see the first curl drop to the tile floor after their first hair cut.

I am not their mother.
I am their stepmother.

I cannot replace those first missed moments.
I cannot go back and guide their fingers, covered in paint as they drew refrigerator masterpieces.

I am their stepmother.
The phrase can be scary.
I grew up thinking of pointy nosed women with dark eyes and heartless schemes.
A picture painted of my role before I even stepped into it's waters.

I am their stepmother.
I am their stepping stone into the young men they will become.
I am their stepping stone to the kind of woman they may one day marry.
I am their stepping stone to the heart of their father.

I do not get to wake up every Mother's Day to their glowing faces and giggles.
I will be a few seats down at each of their weddings.
I will be the second to hold their first born.
I am their stepmother.

I am here to take on the responsibilities of not only a mother, but a woman of grace, style and humility.

I am here to show them that in life sometimes you will be the backstage  hand that works the lights and moves the props when all the lights are out.

I am here to show them that sometimes true success is not being the lead role, but guiding the entire production behind a velvet curtain.

I am here to show them that love is not a feeling, it is a daily decision.

I am here to show them that I can not be a part of their firsts, but will spend what I have left of this wonderful life creating moments and making sure their lasts are unforgettable.

I am their stepmother and I will step with them as long as time allows.

The Victory Lap

I wiped the sweat from my eyes to look up at what the other tiring legs were sighing at.
The mile 21 marker looked like a golden scepter to me; reaching down from the heavens for me to hastily snatch.

I smiled to myself, laughed even.
I felt so strong even in the midst of warm air and sore feet.
My body wove in and out of runners walking with heads down and wobbling knees.
I bounced up the hills, shouting encouraging words to the disheartened.

26 miles of running felt like a graceful dance on broadway compared to any training run.

My tutu flipped up and down, waving to little girls with widened eyes at the girl trudging by men five times her size.

"Oh man, a girl just passed us...a girl wearing a tutu and a bow for crying out loud."

At mile 24 I still had the energy to high five every kid with a cowbell I could see.

This was my victory lap.

Victory after all the training.
Victory over my fears.
Victory over not feeling good enough.
Vicinity over beating myself up with distorted body image.
Victory over my past.
Victory over my regrets.
Victory over everyone in my life that didn't have the guts to stick out the race with me.

I was victorious.
I was strong.
I was sure of myself and my abilities.

I was sure of the fact that in that moment, bent down to graze the hand of a child that I had never looked or felt more beautiful.

My hair was frizzy.
My face was covered in lost salt from the rising temperatures.
But I was a fearless woman, carrying herself with only the strength that she alone had built.

I did the work.
I ran the miles even when life spit at me in every direction.
I had built this tower of independence and pure fierceness with tiny moments of discipline, one brick at a time.

A marathon teaches you a lot about your body, but it will always teach you more about your spirit.

My spirit is not one to mess with.

My spirit is a warrior trapped in a mascot's body.

My training taught my body how to run through fatigue.

My marathon taught my spirit how to race through pain with grace.

Strangers screamed so loud for my sprinting legs you would have thought they were life long friends.

I rounded the corner of mile 26 crying tears of complete joy.

I wasn't happy the race was over, I was happy I finally realized the true run of victory had just begun.

The young woman hung a medal around my sunburned neck yelling, "Go you! So proud of you!"

I laid down in the grass, whispering only for myself to hear, "yeah, me too."

Why Don't You Want to Have A Baby?

                        I just don't want to.

Birthday Candles.

I looked in my rear view mirror and let out an exasperated sigh.
My lips were still trembling from screaming in the cold rain.

Did I look like I had just had a mental breakdown in my own driveway?
The faces of my expecting friends greeted me with pats on the back and candles.

I couldn't hear anything.
Not even their joyous happy birthday tunes as my eyes went a glaze over the candles thrust before me.

I couldn't see, feel, hear...anything.
Except the words I typed a few moments before, "Let's do this."

My morning was greeted with a cold cheesecake in the fridge, a glazed over stare and a "I'm going to sleep. Oh yeah, happy birthday."

I drove to school but never went in.
When your heart is shattered, even windshield wipers can dance on your frayed nerves.

I sped to the river, got out & screamed.
To no one.
To the rain I guess.
The rain was the only thing that had witnessed my birthday how it really was.

It saw the fists pounding on the pavement.
It saw the glove department destroyed with my shaking hands.
It saw me dump the contents that had made my life hell for the last two years all over the freshly waxed convertible.

"Happy birthday dear Britney! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday..."

As I pulled grass chunks from the mud and threw them into the river, I just sat.
I don't know how long I sat in the mud there, covered in so many emotions I couldn't pick which one to catch.

Then, in the midst of my pity party, my heart spoke.

"Enough is enough."

I hugged my friends necks, grabbed the left over sushi I had no intention of revisiting later that day.
I glanced at them longer than usual as I pulled away.
They had no idea that this would be the last birthday I spent by their sides.

I slept alone for the last time in that bed for an entire two hours.
The next day was filled with texts, phone calls and emails to friends of the bomb about to fall into everyone's world, including mine.

I had to take breaks after throwing clothes in my trunk, heaving and weeping as I thought about my father, my mother.

I let my back slide down the wall that had seen so much turmoil night after night.
I wiped my tears with my fist.
That was it.
The tears are over.
The bleeding has to stop.

Missy rushed over, hugged my neck after flinging the door open and helped me finish up the last of everything I possessed there-not much.

Some shirts, shoes & brokenness.

I left the brokenness hanging in the closet.

The question she asked next resonated in my ears.
"Why didn't you tell me all of this was going on?"

I didn't tell anyone.
I couldn't.
Acting okay is easier than admitting something is broken and you can't fix it.
No amount of time, screaming, loving, pushing for help can fix it.

Some things can't be fixed if they're not ready.
Sometimes you just have to walk away and start over.

Sometimes you've fought to stay aboard the ship, but the only way for both of you not to sink is for you to jump and take your chances with the sea.

I knew everything would change.
Friends would be lost, but friends would be made.

I had found something I was willing to tear down my reputation for if it meant building one somewhere new.

I knew what this would mean, but I swore to my heart this would be the last birthday I spent in a dark place; emotionally, physically and spiritually.

Stories would be told, but that was okay...because I was already finished with that chapter.

Hell, I was finished with that entire book.
If someone told it wrong, it was no longer my care.

The next morning I woke elsewhere.
Arrows flew all around me, but I remained untouched because those throwing them were so far away now...they just appeared as tiny specks behind me.

That's where they belonged anyway.

Is life all about being happy in the moment?
No.

Life is about living.
I was merely a shell, taking blow after blow until it was time to find a new home;
The one I now inhabited was no longer strong, no longer healthy, no longer protecting me from the conditions around me.
My shell was cracked from things I could not control.


So I migrated.

April 2, 2013 I went to bed with a soaked pillow and an empty house.

April 2, 2014 I went to bed with my husband playing with my curls and the sound of little sleeping breaths dancing up to the heavens just next door.

Pain doesn't just show up in our lives for no reason, it shows up to tell us something needs to change.

For me, it was time to promise myself that I would begin living from intention, not from habit.

I own everything that happened to me.
I will tell my story.
If I haven't written warmly of your character, then you should have behaved better.

End script.

How My Husband Messed Me Up.

Ever so often I would move the dust pan over to where he was in the room.
He would gently move the broom my way, letting cake crumbles grace the pan.

I looked up at the man holding the broom and almost lost my grip on the dust pan.

He was so beautiful in that moment.
That moment of pure servanthood.

He was washing feet as he stacked chairs and rearranged tables for people he had only met hours prior.

He really messes me up sometimes.
The way he moves.
The way he leads me into a room.
The way he shakes a stranger's
hand.

It's such a messy kind of love.
It always has been.
But somehow, God took His dustpan, swept us up and all our mess and did something beautiful.

Magnificent actually.
He broke my heart.
He messed me up.
He saw His child suffer.

I see now-all the suffering, all the guilt, all the shame, confusion & self discovery through raw pain was all leading up to moments like that one.

Moments where I look up and see the man who guides me in every way looking so full of humility.

My husband has broken me.

When I see him, I see Jesus.

I see all the things I aspire to be.

Being by him has shined light onto the darkest corners of my spirit, corners that collected some dirty stuff that I wouldn't let myself see on my own.

Things like impatience, selfishness, a sharp tongue...and the list could go on and on.

My husband did not complete me-he showed me the parts of me that Jesus needed to come in and reshape or destroy completely.

He loves me with the tenderness of the Son, but calls me out on my flesh like the Father.

A spouse who loves you will not let you remain where you are.
They will lift you up on their shoulders so you can see and touch how far you can actually go.

They will be your eyes when you are blinded by bitterness and your bridge -maker when you come across rough waters.

I have seen my husband stand on a stage and preach behind a pulpit, but he has never looked more like Jesus than today-washing feet, sweeping a floor, holding a door open in the rain for a stranger.

Stage lights make anyone look great, but washing feet?

That. Makes. God. Look. Beautiful.

Man Crush Monday.

#MCM

We all know what that hashtag represents; probably even if you're 65 years old and wonder what an Instagram is because the last time you checked it was only milligrams and kilograms.

Man crush monday.

Ahhh...the day we all let the social webbing of friends and associations know who we think is the most attractive man on our list.

For some it's a celebrity.
For some it's their nephew.
For some it's their spouse.
For some it's an underwear model.
For some it's their pitbull.

Whatever/whoever it is, most of the women I know participate in this charade.

Heck, even I do it.

But, what is your man crush monday saying about you?

Is it painting the picture of your character that you would want the Maker to see?

Is the innocent plastering of a half naked man on your Facebook wall screaming "Daughter of the King" or "Flirter with the prince of Lust"?

Sure sure, you're probably thinking, "Get off your high horse and shut up. Stop taking things so seriously and making everything such a big deal. It's just a picture."


Today I sat in the car with my husband and he told me it bothered him to see another man's wife post photos of someone other than her husband-as innocent as they might make it look.

Wow ladies-didn't expect that one did ya?

Men care.
They watch.
They see.
They feel and they observe.

If MY husband is bothered and views your Instagram man crush monday as public lust, what do you think your spouse thinks?

What do you think God thinks of your eyes glorifying a man's body (as even a single woman) for the world to see?

Would it be acceptable for your husband to post a photo of a woman other than you, making "socially acceptable" lustful comments about her?

I would hope not.
It wouldn't be so in my own marriage.

My husband is mine and I am his.

Just the thought of another woman crossing his mind in a lustful manner is painful.

Guard your heart.
Guard your mind.
Guard your marriage.
Guard your future marriage.

Setting up another man (distant celebrity or not) above your spouse is dangerous, ladies.

He may never speak a word to you as you continue to post how "yummy" your favorite movie star is week after week, but trust me-he's watching and he's hurting.

Protect your husband.

The only man aside from him that should be taking up space in your mind or your heart is Jesus.

Neither of them are fond of sharing their queen's attention.

If you're single-you have a future marriage to pray for and protect.

Cut it out.

"Crush" sounds innocent; masking something evil and dark with a cute persona.

Lust is not cute.


Take it from someone who once plastered photos of Ryan gosling all over her page-it's not okay.

It hurts.

Even if you do not agree with/respect my high horse/soap box point of view, respect your husband enough to make him your permanent #mcm or cut it out completely.

Don't let your sweet eye candy eventually make you sick.



Psalm 119:37 ESV

Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things; and give me life in your ways.


1 John 2:16 ESV

For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride in possessions—is not from the Father but is from the world.


Romans 8:6 ESV

For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace.

James 1:14-15 ESV

But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.

Stretch-Marks and Sundresses

Today as I sat in the dentist office I couldn't help but hear a woman talking on her phone to whom I would presume was a girl friend.

The conversation made my stomach turn and not because she was discussing her child's recent stomach flu.

I became disgusted at how this beautiful 20 something young lady was skinning herself alive with such a negative perspective of herself.

"Ugh I know. I tried it on and was like, ' why are my hips so huge?! It just made me look like a whale, well I am one but...'"

"Well if I had a tan maybe I could pull it off."

I wasn't only sickened at how such a pretty girl could see herself this way, but that I do the exact thing to myself.

I tell my husband I hate my pale skin, my hips, my hair, the way my arms look in tanks & why it's so unfair I have hideous stretch marks yet have no children.

I am sick and tired of women killing themselves day after day by their bathroom mirror, including myself.

Who taught us to take our characteristics and label them as flaws?

Since when did having a patch of cellulite distract us from how beautiful we are?

I shy from shorts in the summer to hide my porcelain, freckled skin.
But, why?

That fair skin is what makes Britney unique.
That nose that you wish you could trade for a button one?
That makes you unique.

The way we measure ourselves as women is sickening.

We are more than our curly hair, our stretch marks, our freckles or moles.

I quit wearing foundation to cover up those freckles I used to detest.
I will wear sundresses and shorts with pride.
I will not ruin my skin with tanning or chemicals.
I will not cut or reshape the design the Artist intended for me to keep.

I am more than my skin.
I am more than my hair.
I am more than my weight.
I am more than my bra size.
I am more than my height.

I am more than comparing myself to an airbrushed photograph.

I am smart.
I am sarcastic and witty.
I am a book worm.
I am poetic.
I am kind.
I am compassionate.

I am a friend, a sister, a wife, a mother, a daughter.

I am done speaking of myself negatively, even when I am alone changing clothes and my husband isn't around to rebuttal.

You are more than looking good in a dress or the size of your jeans.

You are more than your hips or those stretch marks on your thighs.

There is nothing more rare or beautiful than a woman who is unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection.