Happy 18th Birthday, Abby

Oct 7, 2016 | Mothers and Daughters

How is it possible that this day is here?

Surprisingly, miraculously pregnant with you – wasn’t that just a few years ago? Your beautiful, blond curls bouncing as you learned to walk and run and fall – wasn’t that just a few months ago? 5th grade student body president – wasn’t
that just last week? Gorgeous and sophisticated at the prom – wasn’t that just yesterday? My little girl – gone? No. Never.

This reality, this truth will always be mine to hold, feel, and know: you ever-remain my youngest, my last, my little girl, my love.

For all my reminiscing and remembering, it is you today – here and now – who captivates me. You surprise and sustain me with your perfectly dry and perfectly timed sense-of-humor. One single line texted in the midst of painful tension. Two hysterical sentences that capture the exact irony or silliness of a particular scene. The faces (and photos) you post on Snapchat that depict a young woman who does not take herself too seriously, who can laugh at herself, who often needs her own smile more than anything else, who ultimately, eventually, no matter what, lets it light her face.

And then there is the way you lead – still catching me off guard. Stepping up, signing up, saying yes. You, the petite and often quiet girl who over and over again takes on responsibility for others, for friends, for projects, for timelines, for tasks – and all in alignment with what and who you most love, your values, your priorities, your heart.

I watch you navigate the space between youth and adulthood, the way circumstances and emotions pull you one direction or the other, and I smile (even through tears, at times) because I sense your struggle, but more, your strength. I witness what wounds you, what breaks your heart, what pierces your soul and increasingly recognize that there is less and less I can say or do, more and more for me to learn as you grieve, restore, and rise, yet again. I see how you must navigate deep and stormy relational waters, over and over again; the ways in which you straddle self-interest with your heart’s desire to be kind. I observe and marvel at your ability to make hard decisions, your clear and definitive voice, your wisdom and strength.

You will be fine. I probably say this more for myself than for you. In fact, you probably already know.

In a little under a year I will be taking you to college, leaving home, setting out. How is it possible that this day is almost here?

You will be more than fine. You already are.

Yes, Abby, walk and run and fall…and fly. You can, you are, you’re ready. No more bouncing, blond curls, but a trail of brilliance and strength that transfixes and transforms me still. Always.

I love you, sweet girl.

Nearly 20 years ago . . .

Oct 31, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters

It was nearly 20 years ago that I hastily opened the drugstore-purchased home-pregnancy test, that I tried to pee on that small pink stick without making a mess, that I left it sitting on the counter for the allotted time as I walked into the next room – disciplined and determined to wait the exactly-prescribed amount of time before I looked, that I held fast to my unswerving certainty that no line would appear, no plus mark would be revealed, no wishing, no matter how fervent, would ever be rewarded.

Over the next two days, I took six more tests. (Months later I found them all in a drawer and laughed at the evidence of my highly-honed doubt and disbelief.) And in the early-evening of the third day I went to the doctor because clearly, the over-the-counter tests could not be trusted. I needed an expert’s definitive declaration before I would allow myself the luxury of inhaling, of imagining, of believing that what I had longed for, prayed for, and grieved over for nearly five years could possibly be mine.

Every once in a while I can capture the emotion of being suspended between complete disbelief and overwhelming ecstasy. Every once in a while I can remember what it felt like to breathe in truth, to let in hope. Every once in a while I can recall what it felt like to finally feel whole, complete, and worthy. And every once in a while I will weep as I picture the moment they placed my daughter in my arms – how all the waiting and wishing and depression and despair vanished in an instant, how every fear evaporated, how something in me knew that I was forever changed by this miracle, this gift, this girl.

I was right. Forever and endlessly changed by her.

By you.

Happy 19th Birthday, Emma Joy. I love you. 

Happy 17th Birthday, Abby!

Oct 7, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters

Today marks the 9th year in which I have written a blog post on your birthday – celebrating you, honoring you, loving you.

I wonder if they’re more for me, than you: each year’s addition an expression of my need and desire to somehow capture and
hold onto parts of you that seem increasingly fleeting. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that year-after-year I want you to hear my heart, to know and believe what I know and believe about you.

This year, in yet another attempt to see you for all of who you are, I’ve drawn upon words previously written to prove my point:

Look how amazing you are! 

At 9
You have struggled with your own emotions – the things that hurt, that seem unfair, that don’t make sense. You have raged, wept, sat quietly, and thought things through, often without resolution, without available answers, without any fix. And still you have laughed, played, danced, sang, created, and loved. I love that about you.

As I have walked through this past year’s days with you, Abby, I have been amazed at your tenacity, your demand for the good, your endless hope, your tender heart, your stamina, your strength, your loyalty, your sense of humor, your laughter, your singing, your love. I love all these things about you.

At 10
You have had a hard year, sweet girl AND you are brave and incredible in the midst. You have cried and screamed many times, just like at your birth AND you have just as quickly and spontaneously burst into laughter or invited those around you to the same. You are full of life, Abby – all of it…not just the restrained, what-you-think others-want-to-see kind of life. Though I know that is painful for you, at times, I wish I had learned to do such by the age of 10 vs. 30+ years later. You are stunning and I continue to learn from you – every day.

At 11
In your grieving and writing, your celebrating and singing, your gooffiness and intensity, I see the woman you are becoming. You are a rare gift, Abby – full of life, passion, energy, intellect, and always strength. As of yet, you still don’t know and believe all this about yourself, but it will come. It can’t not. It’s too clear, too predominant, too “you” to be ignored – even by you!

At 12
You are wizened, courageous, and deeply intuitive. You accurately read the hearts of others in a split-second and then set out to do everything you can to bring healing and hope. You reveal a strength that you don’t yet trust, but that cannot be quenched…Though smoldering at times, you can’t not blaze. Perhaps most profound is that you know none of these things about herself. You struggle to maintain a fragile ego. You ache when misunderstood. Your heart bruises at the smallest of wounds. You are a puzzle, confusing, hardly perfect, and brave. Your self-perception does not oft’ include the objective and affirming eyes of those captured by your gaze; rather it is informed and shaped by the subjective and critical eyes of a near-teen, combined with a culture that continues to assert that you’re not good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, rich enough, loved enough. It’s easy for the blaze to flicker under such conditions.

At 13
You have captured all of me. Gorgeous from the day you were born. Strong in ways you don’t see, don’t believe, don’t yet understand. Tender in ways that pierce your own heart and compel you to compassion beyond bounds. Gorgeous in relationship. Strong in intellect, humor, love. Tender in actions, generosity, empathy.

At 14
You are girl and woman simultaneously, in an ever-shifting orbit of emotions and passions and desires and hopes. Though deeply compassionate and longing for the happiness of those in your world, you speak your mind – boldly, unapologetically, and calmly. You hardly ever raise your voice, but under a relatively calm exterior, a fore smolders. Sparks fly, often.

At 15
You are brilliant, beautiful, and have the kindest, most tender heart in all the world. You can size up a situation in a second, know exactly what’s going on underneath the surface, and slice your way through agendas and drama like nobody’s business. You might not always name or say what you see, but there’s no question you understand. You have a gazillion friends who all think you are fabulous, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are completely lovely, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are wicked funny. You are talented. You can sing and sing and sing. And you are a bit of a perfectionist! Falling short is not an option. (Given that I know something about this, I also know the dark side of this trait…) You finish your homework, get great grades, and excel at pretty much anything you put your mind to. And when you’re not busy with other things, you watch endless episodes of favorite shows – The Vampire Diaries (which I don’t really like, other than the soundtrack), Grey’s Anatomy (which is probably not the best choice for a near-15 year-old, but I can hardly tear myself away either, so….), and the two of us together, Sherlock, Dr. Who, and of course Downton Abbey. Microwave popcorn, chips and salsa, and Top Ramen seem to sustain you and you can bake a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies without the recipe.

At 16
I have never loved you more than I do this day. Every part of you – seen and unseen. Every emotion – expressed and hidden. Every sadness – revealed and withheld. Every joy – known and secreted away. Every hope – yours to hold, mine to marvel.

At 17
And now, this year, what more am I to add, offer, or say? As I look at this brief and incomplete history, I realize that much more of your childhood is behind you than ahead; that much more of our time together (at least as we’ve known it thus far) is behind us than ahead. My heart nearly breaks at this awareness.

This year, as has always been true, your strength amazes me, your courage undoes me, and my hope on your behalf remains as undaunted as it was on the day you were born – my every cell willing you into strength and sound and life. This, truly, is all I want for you any and every year, every day, every hour, every second: strength and sound and life.

May you, in even the slightest glimpses and sidelong glances, come to see yourself as I do and in such recognize the gift you are to this world…and certainly to me.

Happy Birthday, Abby. I love you.

Happy 18th Birthday, Emma Joy!

Oct 31, 2014 | Mothers and Daughters

I do not know whether to cry uncontrollably or celebrate wildly, Emma. Perhaps both.

Both…and then some.

Nearly undone at the thought that you are only months away from leaving my home and beginning to craft your own; that you are leaving the predictability of (and frustrations inherent within) the public school system and diving into the newness and expansiveness of college; that from this point forward you will be gone more than = you will be here; that I am a place/person to which you will return from time-to- time, but with whom you no longer “stay. So incredibly grateful that every bit of this is true.

I can hardly wait for you to rely on an ever strengthening identity apart from mine. I can hardly wait to hang your senior picture on my wall. I can hardly wait to see you don cap and gown – just months away – and = walk across that stage; a graduate. I can hardly wait for you to get to college, finally meet your peers, be engaged by curriculum and content you love, and be challenged in ways you can’t yet begin to imagine. I can hardly wait for you to come back – yes, only for visits – full of stories to tell. I can hardly wait for all that our relationship will yet be when I am less a day-to-day mom, more a here-when-you-call-me source of support and love.

No matter what, whether crying or celebrating, here’s what’s true: you can no more be separated from me than when still in utero. I feel your heartbeat just as I did 18 years ago. I see the signs of your movement and growth just as I did 18 years ago. I imagine your every discovery, your every learning, your every milestone just as I did 18 years ago. And I can hardly hold on to my heart as I look at you – grown, gorgeous, wise, kind, witty, talented, generous, compassionate, and full of love – just as I did the first time I held you, 18 years ago this day.

That day doesn’t feel all that long ago – when they forst put you in my arms; when I wept and wept and wept in joy that you were finally here – whole, safe, strong; when I couldn’t quite believe my good fortune, my luck, my answered prayers that you were mine; when I stared at you for hours upon hours as you slept, pinching myself with the truth of your breath, your presence, your beauty.

This day, I still weep with joy that you are here; that my good fortune, luck, and prayers have been answered more times than I can possibly count; that your breath, your presence, beauty are more stunning and powerful and miraculous than ever before.

But far more now then ever before, I look at you with wonder: for every moment I’ve had the privilege of witnessing: each step you’ve taken, fall you’ve known, heartbreak you’ve lived through, problem you’ve solved, question you’ve asked, tear you’ve shed, song you’ve sung, argument you’ve had, belief you’ve challenged, insecurity you’ve risen above, hope you’ve held to, risk you’ve taken, day you’ve lived.

You are a wonder.

Happy birthday, Emma Joy. May this day (like the one that can’t possibly have been 18 years ago) be yet another birth – no less miraculous or profound – into all the life and life and life that awaits you.

Because I Am Older

Feb 5, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

I could talk about what I have learned these past 53 years, about how my body doesn’t move or respond quite the way it used to, about how I sometimes don’t recognize the face that stares back at me in the morning, about what it feels like to walk through the mall or thumb through a magazine or flip through channels surrounded by youth and its glorification, about often usually being the oldest person in the room, house, business, even social settings.

None of this is what I really want to say.

Here it is:

I’ve heard and felt it for the past few years: a sort-of distant drum beat to begin with, now, closer than my very heartbeat; a pulse, a whisper, a chorus, a chant – a nearly-visceral awareness that I am compelled, called, and required to say and give what I know – because I am old(er). It’s not about content – what I’ve studied, the expertise I’ve gained, the work I’ve done – though that matters. It’s not about my unique experiences – places lived, relationships survived and lost, lessons learned – though those matter. It’s not about my particular story – family of origin, personality, choices, preferences – though this matters, as well. It’s about all of this and then some. And it’s the “then- some” of which I really want to tell you; the ways in which each of these elements have impacted all that I know, believe, doubt, question, and trust.

I did some research for this post, looking online and in books I own for quotes, perspective, data on what I’m feeling and trying to say. Oddly, maybe profoundly, nothing showed up. And though I know it’s out there, I closed the last book and every single-extra tab on my laptop screen then moved my keyboard in front of me.

This is what it’s about: not looking other places for the wisdom that’s within; speaking what I know because it matters and needs to be heard; trusting that my thoughts must be articulated and shared. I am compelled, called, and required to step into the world with more strength, more perspective, more volume, more fierceness, more determination, just more, than ever before. I am compelled, called, and required to walk through my world as one who sees, who hears, who knows, and who offers all of this and then some to my daughters, my friends, my peers, my world. I am compelled, called, and required to speak and give me, expressly because I am old(er).

I couldn’t/wouldn’t have seen, let alone said this ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. The credibility or authority (whether offered internally or externally) would not have been mine. But now it is. At 53 I can and must sit at my kitchen table or my laptop, stand on a soap-box or a mountain-top , and speak/give what I know. No holding back. No editing. No censoring. Because what I know and who I am matters.

A part of me All of me wants to say, “Come. I have so much to tell you, so much to offer, so much to give.” But it sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? (The too-long-listened-to voices within still attempt to control and quiet.) And right now, in this very moment, I see myself reflected in the windows that front my desk: a woman in her 50s, questioning her right and ability to speak! I laugh, out loud. Mostly at myself, but also at any who would think me too much and ever dare to say so.

So consider yourself warned and wooed: I am waaaaaay too much! Which is exactly the way I like it, the way it should be, the way it is.

Risky. Bold. Dangerous. Deal with it. Deal with me – or don’t. But if you can, if you want, if you will, oh, how much I will give, how much I will offer, how much I will say, how much I will love. Because I can. Because I must. Because I’m old(er).

And at the end of this post, what I realize is this: Even the remotest feeling that as I age I should somehow quiet down, slip away, or fade into the background is a lie from the pit of hell. More, the endless attempts by the over-culture and media itself to convince me of such, is evil embodied.

Here is what is true: the older I get, the louder, the more present, the more fiery and alive and passionate and impossible-to-ignore.

This is no small story – mine. I carry the lineage, the blood, the hope-and-strength of thousands of women before me and it is my right and responsibility to keep them alive, just as they keep me alive in every single way possible. I am the daughter of Eve, Hagar, Deborah, Jael, Mary, Mary Magdalene, the woman who wept, the women at the tomb, the countless others who have names we’ve never heard, tales we’ve neglected to tell, stories that thunder, lives that yet live. They will not be silent, nor will I. And this is what keeps me alive; hardly old, rather, old(er), wis(er), strong(er) than ever before.

I’ve heard and felt it for the past few years: a sort-of distant drum beat to begin with, now, closer than my very heartbeat; a pulse, a whisper, a chorus, a chant – a nearly-visceral awareness that I am compelled, called, and required to say and give what I know.

Do you hear it? Do you feel it?

It resonates, reverberates, and shakes the rooftops (as do I). I am here. And oh, how much I have to tell you, to say, to give…because I am old(er).

May it be so.