Confessions from a Thirty Something Momma

Next Monday, a week from today, my husband and I will be celebrating our 7 th Wedding Anniversary. As I began to think about my next blog topic, I realized I have never blogged about my husband or my marriage. It’s such an integral part of my life, and yet I've never really thought to write about it. Not until now. While I chewed on the subject all weekend, I tried to decide what to write about. I had many ideas, all of which I quickly scrapped. It didn't take long at all for this to seem like a rather daunting task, especially when the subject alone could be the focus of an entire blog website. My husband and I have a good marriage. A great marriage really. And interestingly enough this great marriage was forged on the fires of adversity. We were in the middle of our second year of marriage where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. The majority of the difficulties began when circumstances outside of our control caused hardship and trouble. Someone robb

I remember when Brittany Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” became the hit song on most popular radio stations. It was everywhere. On the radio, on music video stations, on the lips of countless Britney Spears fans.  It was during the beginning of my early college days (I think).  I remember hearing a little girl about 4 years old singing it. I’m not exactly sure of her age, but she was a preschooler. I don’t really remember any details about when I heard her sing it or where. I just remember my reaction. Moral indignation. Self-righteous ignorance. I was so offended that an adult would allow a small child to let sexual references be sung from her lips. I didn’t care that the little girl had no idea what she was singing. I didn’t care that other adults thought it was just cute and funny. I thought it was horrible. And I judged. Oh did I judge. Over the past 3 years of being a parent, I have learned that all my “I’m never going to do that when I’m a parent” statements have det

Simone Weil said, “There are only two things that pierce the human heart: beauty and affliction.” And while I find little if no joy in affliction, I have learned to value its merit. I was driving in to work Saturday with thoughts about grief in my mind. I have been no stranger to grief in my life. It’s not an emotion I enjoy spending time and space with. Sometimes the impact of grief is obvious, particularly after the death of a loved one. Other times it’s more insidious but still acutely painful, like parting with the closely treasured dream or expectation (which has been my experience of late). As I was thinking about grief and trying to put my experience with it into words, a couple of things came to mind. The first is that grief is like a great purging. While part of the grief experience embraces and acknowledges hurt and pain, the other part of grief seeks to let all that pain and hurt go. Grief is supposed to allow us to move past hurt and pain without becoming ensnarled i

Several years ago, in my early twenties, I prayed a prayer that would have changed my life. Like the verses of some of the Christian worship songs I sang at the time, I prayed that God would “break my heart for what broke His heart.” I sincerely and genuinely asked God to give me a compassion for people, a compassion I didn’t have. I asked Him to break my stony heart of self-righteous judgment and learn to give love and mercy others. I asked Him to show me how to grieve the things He grieved over and fight for the things He fought for. What a dangerous thing to pray! Not only because God would answer that prayer, but because gaining these things required more of me than I would have had imagined. God did grant these things to me. But it wasn't through some transcendental change of heart that happened overnight. It wasn't through Godly service and dispensation of compassion acts, like Mother Teresa embodied. No, it was through my own pain and suffering, through my own

Some seasons are filled with newness, anticipation and excitement. Others are experienced in the rough patches. Neither exciting nor happy, these seasons prove to prune and shape our hearts and lives into something stronger and greater. I seem to have taken up residence in such a season. My address can be found in the phonebook listed between A Rock and A Hard Place. No way past it. You must pass one to find me and I’m stuck in the middle. My only fear in this season is that somehow this would become my permanent address. Unlike my bouts with depression, this season isn’t determined by hormones, angst, or inner grief. Neither did I land here because I didn’t try hard enough or because I gave up. I’m here because life happens. Circumstances outside of my control happen. And “everyone goes through times like these.” Jeff Manion calls it The Land Between . It’s a transitional place, rich with opportunities to become angry and bitter. Or fertile land to learn to trust God i