Finding a new "normal"

Woo-hoo: confessions of a party pooper

I, for one, am glad it’s over – “it” being New Year’s Eve.

When I consider the prospect of being in a place like Times Square to celebrate with thousands of people (anything over 200 people is arbitrary – it’s simply too many folks in the same place at the same time), I … well, let’s just say I never have really considered it, and I likely never will.

Where I grew up, we would say “gag a maggot” for things that were particularly repulsive. Times Square on New Year’s Eve? Gag a maggot.

By far, New Year’s Eve is the biggest, most extravagant party in American culture. My hometown has its own special way of ringing in the new year – we drop an acorn. I think I stayed for the acorn drop once. That was enough.

On New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, my Facebook news feed was full of comments by friends and family who felt “lame” because they fell asleep early or else didn’t party with the big crowds, choosing instead to celebrate (or not) at home in a cozy setting. I just want to say to those dear people, “Don’t believe the hype. You are still cool, even if you didn’t go out into the throngs of revelers. And 2014 came, just the same.”

I am one of those (seemingly few) Americans who was born without the party gene. I don’t care for small talk. Drunken people annoy me. I adore getting all dressed up, being in beautiful places and seeing beautiful people, and I love to talk to someone – maybe a couple of people – in that setting, but I like meaningful conversation, or at least witty. I am perfectly fine with this understanding of myself. However, it makes a lot of people uncomfortable. I’m sure someone of my type was labeled the original “party pooper.” The way our culture defines celebrations, there is little or no room for an introvert such as myself. I’m actually fine with that, too. The problem is, I haven’t settled on a redefinition of “celebrate” … or “fun” for that matter … that can fill the gap between the cultural definition of a celebration and that of a more intimate celebrant like me.

Of course, that’s part of the hype, too. I shouldn’t feel as though I need to “fix” anything since I believe there is nothing wrong with people like me. I am intensely uncomfortable in crowds and I deeply desire intimate conversation with people who have good sense. (Don’t miss the inference.) I suppose the odd thing is that, as a performer, I do not mind crowds one bit while I’m on-stage. There’s enough distance and opportunity for an emotional connection there that I’m totally fine in that context. Same thing goes for events that I’m in charge of or otherwise leading. That’s an analysis for another article, though.

For years, nothing convinced me more quickly that I need ongoing therapy than a large, celebratory gathering. Oh, I have always attended special celebrations for family and friends because I have a very strong sense of obligation and loyalty to be present for the people I love. I simply learned to go with both an entrance and an exit plan. Honestly, since I learned how to navigate crowded celebrations, most people would never guess how draining and un-wonderful such things can be for me. That doesn’t mean I’m being fake, because I’m not. If I’m laughing and talking, then I’m genuinely enjoying the moment. (Of course, I could be genuinely enjoying the moment while sitting quietly, watching everyone else do whatever they’re doing, too.) If, however, I’m pacing and making strange faces, I’m probably trying to reconfigure the exit plan.

At that point, you might say – as the now-more-famous-than-ever Robertson boys would say – “She gone!” (sic)

Countdown: on the launching pad

Today, on this eve of a new year, I have an image from August burning inside my head: my first ziplining experience.

I remember a sense of utter dependency on the expertise of the person in charge of tying together my harness. Since Jen was a friend of my cousin who coordinated our adventure, and since she questioned knots and made fixes and adjustments to our ropes and gear, I felt more comfortable that I might not die from harness failure. (That outrageous wedgie, however, would surely show up in an autopsy …)

The major discomfort showed up not in my harness, but at the top of the tree house – the first launching pad. Our group consisted of three adults and two children – both of whom were seven years old at the time. One of them was my own child. He wasn’t the first to jump into the air and ride through the trees to the next pad. He was the second. And I hadn’t jumped yet – none of the adults had jumped. Suddenly, the children were “there” and we adults were still “here.” All of the dialogue inside my head about not going through with the ride ended there. I had no choice now. My son was “there” and I had to get “there,” too.

Then the dialogue shifted to ways to embrace the ride gracefully and without repeating a rock-climbing scene from summer enrichment camp just before eighth grade. There, I climbed to the top only to discover that my legs totally gave out and my knees were shaking. Uncontrollably. I was mortified. I don’t even remember how I got down. I did, obviously, but I have zero memory of it. This HAD to play out differently.

It’s funny how, as I remember that moment, I can see my whole self on the launching pad, as if I were watching it AND doing it at the same time. I sat back into the harness to become confident, at least, that I was securely tied to the wire. I fixed my eyes not on the trees and certainly not on the ground, but on the wire as I jumped off the first launching pad. I probably didn’t breathe for a few seconds, but I did squeal as I flew through the air, white knuckles and all. I’m sure it was by design, but there was an unfortunate camera set up on this first pass between tree-houses. There was a sign about two-thirds of the way across telling you when to smile, etc. I may have mustered one, but there was something FAR more important on my mind. I needed to nail the landing. For those seconds on the wire, I was some sort of gymnast, or an actress in The Matrix, and my “pay” depended on how well I could land. When I passed the camera, I smiled, but in my mind, I was a cat, and I was about to cheat death with a brilliant landing on my (paws) feet in that tree stand. I landed so beautifully, that the guide who caught me had to comment on it. “Why the heck didn’t they catch a picture of THAT?” I thought to myself.

Today is a sort of launching pad day, too. That’s probably why I remembered the ziplining experience. I’m one who believes that images that come to us – particularly ones that are so clear and detailed – are messages to us, and that we should pay close attention.

I’m not going to ruin things by unpacking everything the story/image means to me specifically. Instead, let me simply wish three things for you in 2014:

1. May you experience trust in new and thrilling ways.

2. May you discover your personal motivation precisely when you need it the most.

3. May all your landings be a perfect “10,” even if you look awkward and perhaps feel frightened while you are moving from point A to point B.

Peace and love to you and yours in 2014. Go with God,

Oh, and don’t forget to breathe!

This isn’t the first time I’ve shown up late in a trending conversation. Until something becomes an issue for me directly, I don’t generally go looking for answers.

For the past several years, I have improved my habits toward a more healthy lifestyle – in some ways, rather dramatically. Still, I am one of the millions of Americans who spends a majority of her waking hours sitting in front of one screen or another. And, apparently, I am also one who forgets to breathe while reading the screen.

More than 5 years ago, Linda Stone broke a story about email apnea on Huffington Post. The condition is defined as simply holding one’s breath or otherwise shallow breathing while reading the screen, mostly while reading email. The idea is that we often hold our breath in anticipation of what is coming next in communications. And what, do you suppose, is her suggested remedy for overcoming the cumulative effects of such an under-serving practice of breathing consistently over time? Well, get up and go talk to somebody face to face!

I admit freely to having a preference for email for most communications. It can be very effective for communicating information without losing too much time in yada-yada-yada. But, what we lose by limiting our face-to-face interactions is the essence of the person to whom we are “speaking.” So, even though I like to use email for practical reasons, I do recognize the loss of other sensory connections made while talking to someone and the elimination of signals that come through body language.

My line of full-time work is in administration. We live by email, essentially, 24 hours per day. Weekends used to be “closed” days, but email continues to come in day or night, seven days a week. That’s a lot of impersonal communicating – and a lot of breath-holding if you are reading emails that provoke anxiety.

A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with adult-onset asthma. It was unsettling. Unnerving. Difficult to accept. The worst part, really, was dealing with the sleepless nights and emergency room visits prior to getting a diagnosis and some drug therapy. It seemed in many ways like anxiety because, well, when you can’t get in a full breath, you do become a little anxious. The symptoms escalate reciprocally: airways constrict, you begin to feel anxious, more constriction, more anxiety … you get the idea.

I stayed on medication until things seemed under control. I did a lot of research about adult asthma and discovered that, during those times when I felt I couldn’t get in enough air, I was sucking in my stomach and trying to breathe with my neck and shoulders. It looked desperate, and it was. And it never worked. It was like I had forgotten how to breathe.

As I became more aware of my breathing habits, I made an effort to practice proper breathing techniques. Upon inhaling, I allow my stomach to open out, making room for my lungs to expand. As part of one exercise, I take in a deep breath, hold it a few seconds, then exhale, sucking in my stomach at that point, to help squeeze out the air. Then, I hold that for a few seconds before taking in the next breath.

After exercising this way for a while, I noticed that my “asthma” symptoms disappeared. No night-time panics, gasping for a deep breath, no need to prop myself up to sleep, no daytime breathing difficulties. All better.

Until recently.

I noticed the return of my symptoms, along with a significant increase in stress at work, over the last several weeks. This time, I made a connection between my daytime breathing habits – shallow, improper breathing with repeating periods of “apnea” – and my daytime sources of stress.

We can’t eliminate stress. I know that. We have to figure out ways, instead, to cope with it. I always considered breathing one of those involuntary activities of the body – you know, something I don’t have to remind myself to do. However, I’ve learned that breathing may not be as automatic as I always thought, particularly in a stressful environment.

The holiday season can be very stressful. Do you notice these symptoms as you spend extended time in front of the computer screen? Take notice! And don’t forget to breathe.

Worse than “no”

[Tonight’s article posted first at More Than Millennial, where I am a new contributing partner.]

I’m not sure exactly when it happened. At some point in the last 50 years or so, American culture essentially lost the ability to delay gratification. Maybe it was because we were deemed a world “superpower.” (Try not to let THAT go to your head.) We put our American ingenuity to work and came up with new ways to get the things we want – bigger, faster, better. Well, maybe not always better, but bigger and faster at least.

Think about some of the most popular technological advances since the 1970’s: microwave ovens, computers, the internet, personal cell phones. They all seem to be inventions that save us from something we dread: waiting.

Now, I’m no different from the majority of folks born and raised in this part of the world. I am one of the most impatient people I know. If I have the choice between heating something up in a saucepan for five minutes versus a quick minute in the microwave (using the same plate I plan to eat from), then I’ll choose the microwave. Every time. When I mentioned to my ex-husband that I was preparing an article on the subject of waiting, his response was explosive laughter. You know, the one that goes BWAAAHHHHAAHA! “That should be a good one,” he remarked sarcastically, insinuating his first-hand knowledge of my heroic level of impatience. He would want to use an illustration other than my saucepan example. He’d have lots and lots from which to choose.

For people like me – and maybe you, too – there isn’t much worse than being told, “no,” you can’t have something you want to have or do something you want to do. “I want it, and I want it NOW!” There is one thing, though, that can really get us. It’s being told “yes, but not yet.”

You see, “no” is harsh and cold, and it leaves us feeling a bit hopeless. It hurts sometimes. But, it’s a lot like ripping off a bandage. It really stings at first, but we get over it relatively quickly. “Yes, but not yet,” though … that one is a lot more tricky. We have to sit in our discomfort – sometimes, for a pretty long time. We might prefer “no” to “yes, but not yet.” “No” seems kinder than “wait” because we don’t have to suffer as long.

I just finished five years of graduate studies (Divinity School), full-time status, while maintaining a full-time job and a part-time job, all while maintaining a family and home. I want the closure and the celebration that goes along with graduating by ceremoniously walking across-stage to receive my degree and hood while my family and friends are there in the audience to mark this very special occasion. Ideally, I would like for that to happen now. But, the process is that I have to wait.

Until May.

It’s Advent season now in the Christian calendar. It’s the season of great expectation – waiting for the arrival of Jesus, the Christ, the Savior. We commemorate the birth of Jesus and the miracle of “God with us.” We also acknowledge the ongoing period of waiting for His return. Contrary to the slew of predictions you may hear from time to time about the end of the world or the return of Jesus, the fact is that we don’t know when Jesus will come back. He even said it “isn’t for us to know.” We are just supposed to wait. And be ready.

While driving through downtown this evening during commuter traffic, I was struck by the ringing of church bells. I rolled down my window so that I could hear them more clearly. “Come, Thou long-expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free. From our fears and sins release us. Let us find our rest in Thee. Israel’s Strength and Consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art; Dear Desire of every nation, Joy of every longing heart.” (Charles Wesley, 1745.) Beautiful.

And as I was reminded of the joy in this great expectation, sitting at a light in the middle of heavy traffic, I didn’t mind waiting. I found rest there instead … and smiled.

Give Thanks. Please.

I recognize that it could be viewed as a form of laziness, reposting a portion of last year’s Thanksgiving-themed blog. (Particularly since I’ve been a real slacker in my blog writing for the last half-year.) Indulge me, if you will, in allowing this one to be passed around in a few heads and hearts again. The message is no less important this year.

For the record, I am exceedingly grateful this year for the joys and milestones experienced in my life and in the lives of my immediate family members. I am grateful for many sincere, genuinely loving and lasting relationships in my life. I have some really awesome friends … and I wish we could spend more quality time together. I am grateful to God for the grace (unmerited favor) that gives me an opportunity to share the gospel (good news) of Jesus with people I may never have a chance to interact with otherwise. May you all have an abundantly joyous Thanksgiving as you seek to truly GIVE thanks.

[Bonus inclusion to make up for re-posting last year’s article: click for a video recording of “Thank You,” recorded live during worship in Butler Chapel on the lovely campus of Campbell Divinity School in 2013.]

From the 2013 blog post:

Thanksgiving Day, when I was growing up, was one of the more revered holidays. It wasn’t a religious holiday, but it was a holy day in many ways. Businesses were closed. We set aside that one day to gather with family – as extended as possible – for an afternoon and evening of feasting. Often, the party moved from one house to the next where we had an opportunity to see new, happy family faces at each stop. When I think of family gatherings, inevitably, I remember the Thanksgiving Days of my earlier years.

Now, Thanksgiving Day has been diminished to a sort of pre-game for the Superbowl of holiday shopping. It’s appalling, really, our lack of attention to the importance of acknowledging and demonstrating gratitude. Surely, we could all use a day to lay aside our cash and credit cards to assemble with friends and family, and to simply be grateful – individually and collectively – for what we have received and for the grace we have witnessed in our lives.

So, I’m making an appeal again this year – an appeal for our return to Thanksgiving. I’m making a plea for our turning away from culturally driven consumerism and turning toward God and those people with whom we are in relationship to say “thank you.” Maybe, just maybe, if we protect that one day of Thanksgiving, we can gradually learn to nurture gratitude as a way of life, instead of nurturing our insatiable desires for more of everything … that leads to satisfaction with nothing.”

I’ve noticed a few of my Facebook friends starting a daily post of thanks-giving as the holiday approaches. Even though a few folks are posting their daily journal in a public forum, I hope there are several more who have, perhaps, decided to take on the Give Thanks challenge in a more private way.

Will you be honoring Thanksgiving Day as a day to practice gratitude in your family? I hope you put as much (or more) effort into that plan as you put into planning which sales you might hit on Black Friday.

I really like the phrase “give thanks.” I like it because it emphasizes the truth that gratitude isn’t something meant to be felt and left there. It’s meant to be shared, to be given away.

Thank you for spending your time reading and thinking about gratitude with me. Now, let’s give thanks together – generously.

Scar stories

My legs tell an interesting story of this summer.

First of all, they tell the story of the first day I wore my favorite new shoes. (I know, the shoe thing again.) On that day, I walked across the street from my office building to get lunch. On the way back, I picked up a couple of chiggers (aka “red bugs”) while cutting through a landscaped area of our parking lot. They’ve marked my legs with red scars the entire summer. I figure the cute shoes distract from the chigger damage.

My legs also tell the story of a one-day beach trip with two of my children. It was a perfect day, really. Except for my sunblock application. That wasn’t so perfect. And I have three very odd areas of tan (previously sunburn) on both legs. I laugh every time I see it. Eventually, this one will fade into even whiteness.

An inch-and-a-half “strawberry” under my left knee tells the latest leg scar story. This one will leave a scar for a long time – maybe forever. On the night before my week-long vacation, I woke up disoriented by the alarm on my dryer, stuck in a loud, consistent buzz. In my haste to turn the buzzer off, and forgetting that an open, fully packed suitcase was beside my bed, I tripped and took quite a fall. Based on my injuries, it was spectacular. No one saw it, not even me. It was dark and I was practically asleep. I asked my son, who was sleeping downstairs, if he remembered hearing all the commotion. He didn’t, and I was relieved. I don’t want him to learn those words from me.

I have several other scars that remind me of past injuries. Most of us do. Sometimes, a scar can remind me of more – like the dinner I was cooking, or the special occasion when I burned the back of my hand – but, most often, I don’t remember anything beyond the actual injury.

What a waste of a good scar!

Our scars represent a lot more than skin damage. Sometimes, they tell of an amazing slide into home base that helped your team win a big game. Or, a scar might be all that remains of a health scare that resolved as a complete healing. Sometimes, scars remind us of lessons learned.

Sometimes, like the risen Jesus, our scars help identify us – not based on the injuries they represent, but based on the story of healing they tell.

Do you have a scar story you’d be willing to share? A scar that is particularly important to you? I’d love to hear what your scars say about you.

What’s in a name?

I suppose we’re all “Royal Watchers” to some degree. I mean, how could you not know that Kate and Will’s son was born this week with all the media coverage?

Our interest in the story of The Royals is nowhere near the interest level in England, of course. (I’m sure the same is said in reverse of our infatuation with our American celebrities.) We have to admit, though, that the appearance of a new heir to the throne of England is exciting stuff. Particularly to those of us who have ever fantasized as children (or adults) of being a king or queen or prince or princess.

So, today’s big news is that Baby Royal has a name: George Alexander Louis. Otherwise, he’ll just be called “His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge.” You know, his nickname.

Not too long ago, there was big news about another choice of name – that of Pope Francis. News agencies referred to the choice as “precedent shattering.” According to the Vatican spokesman, Pope Francis chose his name in honor of St. Francis of Assisi because he is revered as a lover of the poor. I like Pope Francis. I like the way he takes seriously his role as a servant leader who genuinely loves people.

Of course, then we read about the slew of names given recently to American celeb babies: Moxie Crimefighter Jillette, Tu Morrow, and North West, for example.

I know. Hard to know what to say about that. I mean, it certainly isn’t the kids’ fault. I wish them all a happy life. But, still …

your name here There is something very important in a name. I like the stories in the Bible that tell of God giving people a new name after some defining mission or transformation comes along. (Think Abram, Sarai, Jacob, Saul …) In counseling, we talk about something called “key memories.” One of my key memories as a child is looking up the meaning of my given name, Sandra. In the book I used those many years ago, the name was defined as “helper of mankind.” (I just pulled it up online and found it to mean either “defender of men” or “unheeded prophetess.” Hey, pay attention.) Reading the meaning of my name led my young self to decide that I should be a missionary of some kind. That knowledge became a very important part of my identity development.

Our names give a certain impression of who we are outside of our actual presence. I have one of those annoying hyphenated last names, by choice, because I have children with two different last names. I chose to maintain my identity with both.

It’s interesting to see the process of choosing when it comes to names. Some choices are driven by tradition. Others are inspired. Some are selfish and silly. A few are earned.

As The Royals have announced the name of the newest heir, I am reminded of a simple girl named Mary, who named her baby Jesus. It was a very common name. Yet, Jesus would become the one to whom all authority in heaven and on earth is given.

There’s a name for the headlines, eh?

My “by 50” list

I suppose I’ve always been a dreamer and a goal setter at heart.

As a young musician, I wanted to meet Prince. And I did, at 22 years old, while living in the Uptown district of Minneapolis. He was wearing a blue jumpsuit. (“I’m goin’ down to Alphabet Street…” Y’all don’t know nothing about that, do ya?)

A few troubled years later, as a recovering AFDC recipient and a developing sales director in North Carolina, I set goals to earn company prizes, awards, and even cars. And I did. I wanted to own a house in which to raise my two young children before I turned 30. And I did. With two weeks to spare.

When my former husband and I first got (back) together (long, semi-sweet story), I wanted to get married and have a child together before I turned 40. And we did, when I was 39. I still have my precious child. The marriage, however, was short-lived.

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be squarely in my late forties. You know, early forties, mid forties, late forties. Ok, late-mid forties. I don’t have any specific goals I want to achieve within the next two weeks – although it would be great if I could choose paint for my bedroom and finally have just one wall color – but there are a few things I’d like to see happen in my life before I hit 5-0.

It’s a short list of things, not entirely unlike a bucket list. I won’t necessarily “die happy” when these things are accomplished. I just need for them to happen to help me cope with the mental baggage of turning 50. By then, I hope to have some actual fruit growing on my tree. A legacy, I suppose. Something that connects me to others in a life-affirming, loving way, and that proves that I’ve been here and did something worthwhile for somebody beyond myself.

So, here are two of the major items I can share, in order:
– Publish The Addict Magnet
– Establish a related conferencing ministry

Truth is, I have done a lot of preparatory work toward these goals, from as far back as six years ago. I wrote the book in 2007, and had a publishing offer, but not the kind I’d like to get. I’ve been in graduate school for the past five years, studying toward a Master of Divinity degree from Campbell Divinity School, to train as a counselor and as a minister. With the book and training under my belt, I should have more of what I need to develop an effective and meaningful ministry.

Of course, if I’ve learned anything in Div School, it’s this: I don’t know much.

I can barely make sense of any of the things that have already happened in my lifetime. I have even less of a chance of accurately predicting what’s going to happen in the next few days, weeks, months, or years.

Still, I’m grateful to the God who continues to plant dreams in the human soul. Those dreams are the only link we have, really, to any notion of “future.”

I believe in dreams, not in the self-helpers’ “believe it and achieve it” way, but as God’s way of communicating to me through the wild ride of my transformation into the Sandy I’ll eventually become while I’m still the Sandy I am.

Maybe I should add in some more intentional dreaming time over these next three years before I reach 50 … Who knows what might be on the next list!

Do I really have to? A lesson on sacrifice, resentment, and choices

Call it a midlife crisis. Call it post-divorce stress or even PMS. Call it what you will, but I’ve had it with living a life framed by what I “have to” do and what I either can’t afford to do or don’t have time to do.

I am in the middle of quite a run of overdue home repairs, replacements, and maintenance. I like home improvements, trust me. I just don’t like to be forced into them.

Building wealth has never been a priority of mine. Give me a person with lots of heart and talent any day over somebody who merely makes a ton of money. Money, however, is a huge factor in my current frustration. Back when I was a sales director, I remember using a line about money that went something like this: “You don’t have to love money. But, it’s kind of like oxygen – you need to have some in order to live.” Being a homeowner makes that sentiment even easier to believe. Since I work more jobs than a sane person should, my solution is to enter home improvement sweepstakes. Hey. Don’t judge.

Actually, what is most likely happening in this momentary frustration is that I’m feeling the effects of some pretty significant and intentional sacrifices I’ve made in my life. Some people find it easier than others to delay gratification. Still fewer tend to make sacrifice a way of life rather than a temporary commitment for a greater purpose. I’m pretty sure I fall into the latter group. I sometimes have to have long conversations with myself about my purposes in giving things up to ensure that my commitment hasn’t outlived its purpose.

As a single parent, saving money and spending time on projects for home improvement have been sacrificed for childcare costs and graduate school. Steaks, chicken with its amazing array of cooking methods, bacon, ham or turkey sandwiches, and dairy-based milk and ice cream have all been set aside to improve my health and my odds of beating heart disease and cancer risks. (Explore a pescatarian diet here.)

Seeking the companionship of a man has been set aside until I feel ready to swim in that sometimes wild, sometimes wonderful ocean again.

All of these things added together can make me grumpy. Grumpier than I like to admit and grumpier than I would like to remain. Sometimes, long-term sacrifice can breed resentment.

As I talk myself through it, I see more clearly that my frustrations are not only temporary, but that I can make new choices to change my circumstances, just like I made choices that led me here. Having choices and knowing what they are is empowering. Choices increase hope and excitement and can reduce feelings of resentment.

Perhaps, choices are the biggest luxuries any of us have — rich or poor or somewhere in-between. I thank God for choices, demonstrated lovingly in the free will He gave to all humans. I thank God also for Wisdom that shows us our perceived walls and limitations and makes us see our choices more and more clearly.

Finding my feet

I may have put too much pressure on myself to break loose and have fun now that my next-to-last school semester is finished.

Rather than being pumped full of motivated energy and chomping at the bit to go out and discover new people and things, I’ve found myself itching to get home at the end of my workday and going to bed early, or at least on time.

Online retail therapy deserves an honorable mention in my current pattern of life. What can I say? I enjoy receiving packages of pretty things … that I can wear.

Part of me is still putting pieces together from things I’ve lost over the past year. I miss my little dog, Stuey, sometimes, especially when I see his picture on my screen saver. I don’t see my adult children as much since they both have grownup jobs now, along with grownup relationships and responsibilities. A lot of my friends are on a trip to Israel this week – a trip I planned to take, but decided against back in the Fall. I don’t regret the decision, but I still wish I could have been there.

I miss being married and having another adult personality around, too. (Especially my ex-husband’s exuberant personality.) That sense of missing out permeates all of my other senses. Frankly, I feel kind of lost without having an insane amount of work and all of my family to focus on in this season. But, I need to take an opportunity to deal with facts and feelings. A lot of my life was pruned away. I remind myself, and others in a similar circumstance, that pruning is just a way to prepare for the season of growth that is coming.

So, I’m feeling a bit less full-grown than I did before. I may look a little bare, or less green. But, I still feel richly blessed in the middle of all of my awkward or self-conscious days. I wonder about what might be around the corner for me and my little guy and pray for wisdom and clarity – for beauty, as we wait for all of our new growth to sprout and bloom.

I’m finding my feet. And I’m buying new shoes in the meantime.