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Authenticity

Authenticity, Boundaries, Grace, Lessons, Stillness

Freedom to be misunderstood

Once, I was headed to a gathering where the reception wasn’t anticipated to be super warm. As I was preparing for awkwardly coldish, yet clammy weather, my anxiety was bubbling at an all time high. I was praying fiercely that God would wrap me in a protective bubble, maybe even letting that bubble float back home, when a song by Dolly Pardon and For King & Country came on the radio. There are several miracles in this simple situation. Miracle #1 – I was listening to the radio and not a podcast, audiobook, or playlist. Miracle #2 – Dolly was singing. Miracle #3 – I paid attention to the words of a song, which were this…

“God only knows what you’ve been through

God only knows what they say about you

God only knows how it’s killing you

But there’s a kind of love that God only knows.”

Ah, that love. I rest in it. You should too. We have the freedom to be misunderstood because He knows. Not only that, we have the freedom to be misunderstood and not even explain ourselves. Not even a little bit. Please consider this your misunderstood ticket, enjoy! It’s redeemable for a lifetime.

When things are so misconstrued or wrong, we naturally want to correct another’s mindset or opinion. SURELY if they only heard the story from your mouth, they would then understand the shoes you are standing in. That very act of explaining yourself takes so much energy, when it could be used on greater things. Like loving your family. Or cuddling with a dog. Or enjoying a mammogram.

“The people pleaser’s best accomplice is the fine art of over explaining.”

I am the most engaged and needy student on this subject. My fight or flight instinct comes out in a desperate desire for everyone to understand, be on the same level, and all get along. I have a huge problem of using all the words to over explain, while trying to get everyone up to date and on the same page. I am so uncomfortable when people are scattered on different pages, “Everyone gather! You guys up front, might you slow down while these peeps catch up? Peeps in the back, read over these handy Cliff Notes to catch up with us, so we can ALL UNDERSTAND TOGETHER.”

Just ask my husband. He does not suffer with this issue or with the need for anyone to “understand” him. He doesn’t even try to get others to understand me. Perhaps due to the length of time it took him to learn my crazy, but that doesn’t need to be unpacked here. Blessed be sweet man.

There is freedom in being misunderstood. There is freedom in just letting it go and letting it happen. There is freedom in letting people land where they naturally belong.

Sometimes the simplest resources teach us best. Like water. Water seeks it’s own level. And we should just get out of it’s way and let it settle. Don’t create waves to pull yourself or others to a different level so they can understand where you are, or vice versa. We are different people, with different gifts, and understand this world and our experience in it a billion different ways.

Besides, water is still beautiful no matter the level. Water doesn’t bother itself by explaining where it stands. It doesn’t beg for us to see it’s perrogative. It has the freedom to just be, understood or not.

As do we.

“If we are more concerned with spinning around trying to assess everybody’s opinions and reactions, trying to manage what the whole world things about us, we run the risk of losing the ground He has given us.”

**Quotes are from “Stand all the way Up” written by Sophie Hudson

June 30, 2020 by
Authenticity, Brave, Clothing, Family, Lessons, Parenting, perfection

The Depth Finder

Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls…” Psalms 42:7

As the kiddos have entered into the teen years, we started to feel them slip away from spending as much time with us, the parentals.  I’m sure you are as shocked at this news as we were. They didn’t get the memo that we are totes cool.  We were sad about this fact since we really kinda like those kids.  So, in a desperate attempt to attract teenagers back to the fold – we bought a boat.  Worked like a charm – yolo.

My favorite feature on the boat is the depth finder, it seriously amazes me.  However, the infatuation I have with that little tool of information is distracting to everyone else on board.  Especially since I usually end up sitting wherever there isn’t a kid, tucked in a corner where it’s hard for the Hubs to hear me yell, “Chad!  How deep is it here?”

He will mouth back, “Huh?”  Then point to his ear and shake his head – the universal code for “I can’t hear you.”

I’ll repeat my question until he slows the boat down enough to hear me and then give me the answer.  The answer is always followed with one of my children rolling their adorable eyes and telling their friend on board, “She is obsessed with the depth finder.”  Imagine this scenario on repeat x 101.  It only took us a whole summer to come up with a code for my same ol’ question, because we are quick problem solvers.

Look at those teens, WITH their parents. #winning

It’s fascinating and terrifying that there can be 86 feet of water under us one minute then, without a sign or warning bell, it goes to 23 feet deep.  I just need to know where we figuratively stand with this water thing.  My friend Christine would feel better if the lake could be drained, just for a day or so, then we could see exactly what is under the boat.  I think this plan is brilliant, no matter how crazy the Corp of Engineers think we are.

I wish people came with a depth finder gauge.  Think of all the small talk we could cut down on – we could fit so much more in our day if we simply checked their depth gauge to determine if it is worth the energy of a chat or not.  I have a friend who is honest enough to admit she has a disdain for small talk, and claims to be horrible at it.  She is best suited in the deep waters of conversation, this has found to be true.  She can give you several embarrassing examples of her attempt of the task.  Word to those who want to converse with her – throw on a lifejacket and doggie paddle out to the deep.  I love this about her and, for the majority of the time, I am dog paddling out there alongside my friend.

In my own life, there are areas I can go as deep as the ocean, and then others I’m about a shallow as a kiddie pool.  My most shallow moments show up while organizing family photos – the highlight of every mother’s year.

Since a young age, I always wanted three boys. What I did not account for was planning boys outfits for family photos. Especially now that they are all basically the same sizes, and throw fits when I try to dress one in burgundy colored jeans to pull in the color from the other kiddo’s plaid shirt (Sorry son, sometimes you have to take one for the team, just think of it as a character building moment).  It isn’t trendy or cool to completely match, we have to simply coordinate. Coordinating is supposed to look seamless, almost as an afterthought.  Kind of like we all showed up, looked down at our clothes and airily laughed that we all wore the same color scheme, how precious.

It is freaking hard. Gone are the “Everyone throw on a black shirt with your jeans, and let’s go take a picture.” days. I miss the Aussie hair product family’s advertisements, where they proved how simple and fun matchy-matchy family photos could be.  Gone are the simple times with robes.

Nothing says “Happy Family” like matching robes. Nothing.

For our 2017 family photos, I text the oldest darling at work and said, “What are you wearing tomorrow for family pictures?”  We went back and forth discussing what he had and what we might need to shop for that night. T-minus 22 hours before execution.  I informed him we were going with grays, warm neutrals, with a pop of red. He replied that we had already done red. I reminded him that was maroon, and his little brother had asked to do red for years and we had ignored him. Mason said, “Fine. But what kind of red are we talking about – Blood red, Lorena red, or like a muted red?”  You see how I’m used to the deep waters of topics and conversations.

By the time we actually show up for family photos, I’ve given up on caring about the perfect-nice-normal-family photos.  The pop of red was thrown out (sorry bud, maybe next year) and we just smiled.  No matter my level of stress, the photos always turn out amazing, because any photo with my babies captured in it usually is.  They are just handsome little suckers that will always have my heart, no matter the depth of our current water.  Also, I might have had a wine spritzer inside of my yeti to help me chill out – this is just an assumption, not an admission.

See? Perfection.

To be authentically you, one has to be the same at 1 ft. of depth than you are at 80 ft.  Authentic – who doesn’t love people who are described by that adjective?  To show your real self, to live in your own skin and stand in the truth of who and whose you are is the best gift to give the world. And yourself.  To put it eloquently, you do you boo.  I’ve frequented both levels on my journey -swimming in the deep or wadding in the kiddie pool, and I’ll take deep waters over shallowness any day.  Each come with their own scary stuff (Jaws and alligators – both equally as terrifying), but life is less peopley in the deep end, there is much less chatter.  For that fact alone, swim out sister. After family photos of course.

* 2017 Photos by Taylor Nicole Photography

**Not the Aussie Hair family photo…that was produced by google.

 

 

 

 

 

December 11, 2017 by
Authenticity, Courage, Courage, Family, Grace, Lessons, Parenting

Hearing…with our own ears

God always meant for you to hear Him with your personality.

It took me a long time to grasp that thought. I used to think that in order to be spiritually mature, I needed to be more serious.  To be pleasing to my Creator, I was going to have to push down this ridiculous sense of humor, straighten my act up, and have the funny-bone of sarcasm surgically removed from my head.

When I became a mom at the age of 21, no one was more shocked than myself. I was making pennies as a legal assistant in Dallas.  On a lunch break, I went to the doctor to see about the stabbing pain in my low abdomen.  After listening to all my symptoms for about thirty minutes, we went in for an exam.  Then came the ultrasound.  The doctor pointed to a black dot on the screen and said, “Do you see this spot?”  I raised up on my elbows, squinted and gasp, “Is it a tumor?!” He unsuccessfully hid a smile and replied, “No, it’s a baby.”  (Turns out it’s painful for your uterus to stretch…who knew?)

I don’t remember driving home. I just ended up there, completely forgetting about the last half of my work day.  I grabbed a white dress, and we planned a wedding.   A few months later in my pregnancy, I went to change my last name at the doctor’s office. The nurse smiled and said, “Most first pregnancies only take about six months instead of the normal nine.”  Please. I see what you did there, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t fool anyone.

As shocked as I was to arrive early into Motherhood, I adored it.  I jumped in with both feet.  I read the books, followed the rules, and even ironed that baby boy’s onesies, no lie.  I adored my new roles.  When I wasn’t ironing baby clothes, I tried to find my footing on exactly who I was and where I needed to be.  I didn’t fully know, as I went from teenager to a mom in one hot second. This precious baby needed a godly mother that was stoic and treated life serious.  And I was the gal who loved God and found humor in most everything.

The turtleneck phase….through many seasons.

The summer after he was born, I displayed modesty by owning every color of sleeveless, mock-turtleneck shirts.  Seriously.  There is only ONE picture in that time frame that I am not wearing a turtleneck.  How I didn’t get tackled and thrown on a make over show is beyond me.  I’m still disappointed in my friends. Friends don’t let friends wear turtlenecks in the heat of a Texas summer.  The winter came and brought sleeves to my turtlenecks.  I was trying to hide my body, because a big chest didn’t seem like it would be godly.  Right? Even though I had zero input on how my body was naturally shaped.

Mason, with a look of shock….wondering why my neck is showing.

I started attending church again. When a bible study was offered, I signed up.  At one point, I was in three different bible studies at the same time. I was ironing and studying so much that I didn’t leave time to apply.  There wasn’t fruit being produced because I wasn’t watering the tree that I was, instead I was planting faux trees with leaves of wax.  I believed this baby boy deserved for his Momma to be a better tree.

Straight and narrow.  Because I snuck into this role the backway. I didn’t follow the correct steps, so by gosh, I wasn’t going to mess up now that I’m here.  At my core, I believed that I wasn’t enough.  I believed that I needed to push down everything that I was, in order to be what others expected.  Push myself down and perform.

As you can imagine, this only works for so long before the cracks start to show. At one point in Mason’s elementary years, he went through a sassy stage with a really bad attitude.  I was exasperated with this spicy child.  A friend pulled down a message from heaven and gently told me that perhaps I was chosen to be Mason’s mom because I could handle it.  Not the representative that I was performing as, but me.  My authentic self was given the specific skills and tools to navigate and nurture this child. I was only fooling myself, my first born had caught on to me.

There are few things more painful than living a life that is not in alignment with who you are.

What I have found throughout the 17.9 years of raising that baby and his brothers is that our Creator never meant for me to hear him outside of who I am.  He uses our own language to speak to us.  And thankfully, God is into simplicity.  I think it must grieve Him to watch us contort into something different than He constructed.  We were made in an image to fulfill a specific destiny on this earth.  Be you, because you are more than enough my friend.

When the boys were little, we had a birthday tradition of me tucking them in bed and telling them the story of the day they were born.  They loved hearing it, year after year.  McCray liked hearing how alert he was, his big blue eyes wide open, scanning my face.  They liked being reminded of who they are, where it all began.  The song lyrics to “Remind me who I am”, makes me feel like I’ve climbed into the lap of the One who designed me, listening to the story of the day I was pieced together.  Asking Him to tell it, again and again.

“When I lose my way, and I forget my name, Remind me who I am.

In the mirror all I see, is who I don’t wanna be, Remind me who I am.

In the loneliest places, when I can’t remember what grace is.

Tell me, once again, who I am to you, who I am to you.

Tell me, lest I forget, who I am to you, that I belong to you.”

Ah grace.  Grace covers like a salve when we realize we need to course correct and get back to the original.

You are enough.  You were created with a specific purpose.  You were knit together with the most brilliant and beautiful colors. The formula mixed and poured into you was measured with careful precision. You’ve been planted, and watered with love and light.  Who you are is so, so lovable.  Sister, cut off the turtleneck, throw off the chains that are keeping you from being the authentic version.  You are an original, a custom-made one and only.

Climb up in that lap to be reminded how your ears were perfectly and wonderfully made to hear Him, exactly where you are.

 

*The whole thought of this blog post came from Christa Black Gifford, at some point while reading her amazing book, “Heart made Whole”.  I cannot take credit for getting there without her words of encouragement.

 

 

 

August 17, 2017 by