Oh Be Careful Little Eyes What You See

O Be careful little eyes what you see, 

O Be careful little eyes what you see, 

There's a Father up above Who is looking down with love,

So Be careful little eyes what you see.

I remember the Wednesday evenings I would sing this tune in my mother's "Rainbow" class.

The room was filled with spry 4 year olds and a rust-colored carpet that smelled of both spit and syrup. 

I swung my white Keds and sang the words, well mumbled half of them, totally unaware of anything but the catchy tune and little Johnny sticking his gum underneath his blue seat.

As we grow, we are taught to "not watch those movies" with "that one rating."

Don't look at dirty magazines.

Don't watch Cartoon Network after 11 p.m.

You know, all the basic conservative home rules.

I followed those.

Yet, I noticed that sometimes my little eyes can't help but see things totally out of my control.

I noticed my husband's eyes will sometimes see things they can't block out.

I noticed my boys' eyes will constantly be exposed to images that they can not simply "blink" away.

Commercials with women moaning over a...cheeseburger?

Cartoons with full chested females on Nickelodeon? 

The ballpark.

School.

Church. 

The gym.

The bus.

The street.

Chuck-e-cheese.

My four men are exposed to sex everywhere.

What do I do when their eyes cannot be shielded?

Sure, I would love to walk around with my husband and three step-sons, covering their eyes and spraying every half-dressed female I see with pepper spray, yelling, "MODEST IS HOTTEST HONEY!" only soon to find myself in the county jail.

Rewind. 

A few weeks back, a woman old enough to know better, struts by me and all of my guys in a tube top and shorts that would make an old dog turn it's head.

Initial reaction: Smoke out of my nostrils and to grab the first baseball bat from a random 8 year old that I can snag and whop some sense into her.

Reaction in reality: Smile and calmly give the bulging eyes to my husband saying, "Are you kidding me? I'm here in jeans and a baseball tee and this lady is dressed like the sun is about to make it's debut."

The reality is that we as mothers, wives, girlfriends, daughters, whatever- simply can NOT control what our little eyes and what the little eyes that we want to guard so dearly, see.

What can we do in this seemingly hopeless, booty short-wearing world?

We wear jeans at a summer baseball game.

We wear those shorts over our bikini bottoms.

We throw that t-shirt back over our sports bra after our run before walking through the door to our little eyes glancing up from their video game.

We consistently and purposely demonstrate how a virtuous woman dresses in our home.

Am I saying you should go to bed and make your husband stare at those nauseatingly hideous flannel pants with 15 holes in them?

No.

Am I saying you should wear a robe over your swimsuit when you take your kids to the beach?

No.

I'm saying when you wake, after brushing the rats out of your hair and stepping into your closet, think, "What outfit would I not be embarrassed for little eyes to see me wearing?"

"Would I be okay with my children's future spouse to wear this?"

"Would I be okay with another woman to walk by my husband wearing this?"

If you do not yet have a husband or children, please dress with purpose.

You will one day have a husband and kids too.

Dress your body for the kind of man that will have only eyes for you.

Do not dress to be hott, dress to be valued. 

We can only guard the hearts we love so much.

We can only live and dress as a virtuous woman consistently and pray they see that.

We can only live by faith that they will get it.

"Like a gold ring in a pig's snout is a beautiful woman without discretion."

-Proverbs 11:22

Happy Birthday Daddy. I Ran For You.

It only seemed fitting to celebrate my father's 50th birthday with a run; the thing which gives me so much life.

Sweat and tears met like dance partners at the climax of their performance on my upper lip.

As my legs pumped, my mind took over.

For the last four years my family has wrestled with God.
There were so many days all I wanted to do was tap out.
Suffering can really mess up your idea of salvation.
I couldn't understand how my loving Heavenly Father could look upon my earthly daddy, barely able to walk to the mailbox and not bend down and save him.

A year ago I wasn't sure if my father would be celebrating another birthday.
That makes today something to celebrate; something to reflect on as my legs trudged past the weeds still damp with dawn's dew.

I ran for the pain he felt, the countless blood drawings, pokes and prodding's.
Remember that night you described in Hawaii, of you laying on the hotel room floor, body writhing with unbearable distress?
I ran for that night, too.
I ran for the patients you saw in spiritual turmoil, a human much like you.

I ran for the time I saw mom lay you gently into your chair, kissing your now bald head with such tenderness  and warmth.
I ran for the time you were really high on drugs before a biopsy, laying on a hospital bed.
You looked over at me hunched in a blue chair, a child confused of what her father was becoming.
You smiled through the drugs saying, "my daughter Britney. Isn't she so beautiful?"
I don't think you will ever remember this, but I will.
I ran for that moment.

I ran for all the times I looked across the room at my sister, both of us giving a half smile, filled with so much pain but so much hope; a smile of understanding one another in that exact moment.

I ran for all the times you felt helpless.
I ran for the times you longed to sweep my mother up in your arms and tell her it was all going to be just fine, but could only lay in bed with such a tiredness only cancer patients can know.

I ran for you, mother.
I ran for all the times you tried to act like life was normal for me and Kim.
Keeping busy and hugging me like it was all okay.
I ran for the times you just wanted to be taken care of when you were so busy taking care of your family.

I ran for the moment I saw my father hold his first grandson.
In that moment, my father looked like my father, not a tired or worn out man trying to hold it together.
A part of him was fixed that day.
I'll never know what part, but for the first time in years...I saw hope in my father's eyes.

I ran for all the doubt you've felt.
I ran for all the times you wanted to take mom all the places she wanted to go.
I ran for all the times you had to wear that blasted mask.

I ran for hope.
I ran for thankfulness.
I ran because God never let us tap out.
I ran because it was the only way my body could express what my heart was feeling.
I ran because you're here.
I ran because of your life and all the life you've given me because of it.

I ran because I love you, dad.

Happy birthday.

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.