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Family, Love, Parenting

Above All Else…

The gentleness of Jesus is always what brings me back to His teachings.  His humility and love, His simple way of looking at things.  On the spectrum of Jesus, I’ve occupied a lot of different spots – a fan, a hopeless skeptic, a follower, a stubborn brat, a believer, a disobedient wanderer, an admirer, frustrated, confused, and in awe of Him.  In my early adulthood, I got tired of trying to figure Jesus out, so I quit.  I laid Him down for awhile as I would a book that was too long or hard to read.  I felt He was too complicated and I was never going to able to please Him.

In the Chris Tomlin song, he describes Jesus as;

Who walks on the waters
Who speaks to the sea
Who stands in the fire beside me”

It is almost too good to believe that One with the power to walk on the water and speak to the sea, would still have the gentle lamb-like humility and love to stand in the fire beside me.  Not just standing beside me, but wanting me to know and believe I have power through him.

What has broken my heart more than anything on my spiritual journey is what has been referred to as the “Christian Machine”.  So much in fact that I have found myself pausing before labeling myself a Christian.  What I will claim is clinging to and learning from the teachings of Jesus.

Please don’t read judgement in that last paragraph, for I have played a part in the legalistic machine as well.  Years ago, I sat with a friend, crying over the death of her mother, and then she asked me if I thought her mom was in heaven.  I mentally checked my Christian Rules and Regulation handbook made by man and replied, “No”.   I completely based this on the way she died.  I had never met her mom, nor did I know her heart.  Such ignorance took the place of love.  Even though I have since gone back to fix it, the posture and judgement of my heart grieves me to this day. I think Jesus grieved that day as well.

As Bob Goff says, “We keep pushing people off of the roofs that we need to be lowering them down from.”  There is enough love for everyone, it multiplies when used, and it never, ever divides.

Above all, love each other deeply…” I Peter 4:8

It’s as simple as Jesus said love.  I have a gay son, and it is well with my soul.  There have been some things we have had to unpack and work out, but God was so gracious to give me a peace from Night One.  (When hard things come in my life, I can’t help but count the days.  My friend Amy says we know we will be okay when we wake up and forget to count.  It’s true.)  It wasn’t a peace that took away the questions, pain, or fear for his future – but it is a bottom line peace.  A peace that says all will be fine because he is mine, perfectly and wonderfully made.  The saddest part about him telling me that he was gay was the first sentence, “Mom, I’m a Christian, but I’m also gay and I don’t know where that leaves me.”  It was a failing report card on exactly what I had taught him about Jesus.  Forgive me Creator.  Jesus said love, so I’ve added His love on top of my Momma love and it is truly well with my soul.

I know what the bible says – so please don’t quote it to me.  For if you do, I’ll gently weed through your rule book and point you to Jesus’s bottom line.  Love.  Above all else.  (On the days I’m struggling to love you, I’ll just point to my “Mama Bear” bracelet. Because every mother has a mission; to love, guide and protect her family.  Don’t mess with her while she’s on it.)

Listen, I’m a front row student on this – and some days back row, sleeping behind my text book.  We all have our quicksand – life is sweet, we are walking along, loving the mess out of life and people…then boom, quicksand.  We step into it without even realizing it and is sucks the love straight out of us.  What’s left is rating and judging. It’s easy for me to love our family stuff, but yours?  Eww.  How about when we feel unloved, yet are still called to love?  What does that look like for you?  Hard. That’s what it looks like for me.  My nerves can be sat on faster than a hot knife through butter.  I believe we all would be happier and more whole if we each had a Love Snuggie.  Our arms would be free to be the hands and to do the love work, while our heart and core would be wrapped in the warmth of a love-snuggie hug.  Just think about it, it might be a great addition to your capsule wardrobe.  Nowadays they come in all sorts of prints and patterns, even leopard.

If none of this sparked a love fire in you, let me come at it from a different angle.  Beauty tips.  Loving and carrying for others reveals the best version of ourselves.  Which means our prettiest, youngest looking version.  Better than any wrinkle cream.  For reals.  Just test it.

Let’s open our hearts, blow out the dust and allow it to be filled with love.  If we are judging, we are not loving.  If we aren’t loving, then we aren’t pointing to the teachings of Jesus.  We may end up in quicksand from time to time, yet we always have a choice to reach for the love rope to pull us back out.  Grab the robe, hoist yourself out and start loving.  I doubt we would ever regret such a decision.

Loving you BIG friend.

*I will eventually share some of my writings regarding our journey with Mason coming out almost two years ago.  He has given me permission from the beginning, I am just choosing to respect and honor the space of what is intimate on this journey.  Until I feel that time is right, my ears and heart are always open for anyone on a similar journey needing a safe place to chat.  Or a hug because life is sweet but sometimes hard.

 

January 15, 2018 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
Family, Forgivness, Grace, Hope, Lessons, Love, Parenting, perfection, Prayer, Renewed

Sanitized Martha and Transforming Grace

Sunday morning started down a rough path…beginning on Saturday.  The oldest darling had sent me a text stating what his weekend plans were (with him now being an adult and all).  I replied that his social calendar was fine with me as long as he was asking and not telling, and that we were planning on going to church the next morning, so to make sure and factor that in. The whining that began was enough to make you want to donate your ears.  The arguments ranged from, “This is my only day this week to sleep in”, to “I don’t have anything clean to wear” to finally, “Are we going to the really EARLY service??”.

Irritated, (as he only goes to church with us twice a month due to our co-parenting schedule) I informed the entitled, overgrown tyke that we were going to the same service we always went to, then followed up with a short text telling him, “Don’t be a butt”.  Only I didn’t say butt.  Jesus fill the gaps.  (Feel free to message or email me for any further mothering tips.)  May God help me recognize earlier when to insert gentle teaching moments, as I clearly have some parental growing to do.  That is a scary realization when you have teenagers and hear the clock ticking down on your job being mostly done.

Mason has always referred to me as the “Blind Side Mom”, and I now see why.  I thought he had always based it on the “Get your feet off my dash.” line in the movie, also the fact that I will take in anyone – whether they have two legs or four.  I want to focus more on the opportunities for grace-filled, building moments and less snap-you-up moments.

Have you ever noticed that your attitude can sometimes determine your circumstances, and always seems to have a say on your outcome?  Obviously I haven’t.  No doubt, my attitude laid the foundation of our Sunday morning (starting on Saturday).  Mason was meeting us at church, since he had stayed the night with a friend.  McCray had decided to drop his brain in the toilet, which short circuited his memory into forgetting what he is allowed to wear to church and walked out to the car looking like we were headed to basketball practice.  “WHAT are you wearing?” is a sentence I learned not to waste my time on with boys, due to it never being answered with a good reason, but I relapsed.  I was stressed because my morning started with getting full out dressed (aka wash, dry, AND fix my hair…angels be near.) and load the car with all the fixings for Sunday lunch with it being my week to cook.

By the time we got to church, I felt as though I had fought my way out of a fierce swarm of bees, with some stingers still tucked inside my skin.  Irritation was written all over my body.  I might as well have been on a 24-hour college bender, because that’s how tired I felt.  Was the fuss even worth it?  It’s so peopley here today, with all these perfect families.  What did I just teach these boys with my attitude about them getting here to worship our God who is into simplicity?   Good grief, what a missed opportunity.

Then, we sang a song with the chorus that sings,

O church, come stand in the light.  The glory of God has defeated the night.”.

All the stings, given and received, and the past eighteen hours melted – like holy calgon, taking it away.  They say that hope begins when you stand in the dark, looking out at the light.  I believe hope is also realizing that our notion of a sanitized, perfect Christianity isn’t really what Jesus taught or intended us to strive for.  Hope is a whisper that says, “Come stand in the light beloved, no matter how dirty you feel.”

I had spent the last two days getting worked up that my boys didn’t have the right attitude about church or dress perfectly for church, that I missed an opportunity to attract them TO the church – the act of worship and the practice of filling your bucket.   Oh Martha, dear Martha, why do you have to show up here again?

When McCray was an infant, I started (note started, didn’t finish) the bible study, “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World”, based on the story of the sisters in Luke 10.  I not only identified with Martha, but I felt so sorry for her.  Everyone was being so hard on her, wanting her to be more like her sister.  Clearly Mary wasn’t going to cook, clean, and prepare for Jesus, so who did that leave?  Martha!  I want to have a pep rally for Martha, or create a power point explaining her perspective, because every time I read the story, I see myself in her actions and frustrations.

Martha, dear Martha, you’re fussing far too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing.  One thing only is essential, and Mary has chosen it – it’s the main course, and it won’t be taken from her.”  Luke 10:41-42 (The Message Bible)

There is no space for sanitized Christanity in transforming grace. Transformations are messy, yet grace can clean better than a Roomba and bleach.  Grace can easily tackle messy foundations and sanitized surfaces. Poor Martha’s wholehearted service got tangled up in sanitation while Mary did the good thing and sat at the feet of grace Himself.  Grace says to our Martha moments, “You are worried and troubled by many things, but choose the GOOD part.  Calm down and come sit down, right at My feet beloved.”

I think I heard grace also say, “Who in tarnation cares what that boy is wearing, we are aiming for his heart, not his fashion sense”.  I’m pretty positive I heard that whispered.  God is into simplicity.  Let’s join Him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 27, 2017 by
Family, Lessons, Love, Parenting, Prayer

The Endless Titles of Parenthood

Actual conversation in my house this morning.  Before caffeine or centering prayer.

Child who lives here, “MOM! Someone took my short, black socks that were tucked inside my shoes.”

Mom-trying-to-wake-up-and-channel-the-patience-of-Jesus, “Like who?  Which shoes?  When?”

Child, “I dunno, but they were there, and someone took them.”

Mom, “Bud, no one else wears those type of socks.  I highly doubt someone broke into our house this morning, while you were brushing your teeth, to steal your coveted socks.  Go look in your drawer or the pile of clean laundry on the couch.”

While throwing clean clothes all around the couch, “Nope, they aren’t here. Someone took them.”

Child finds another pair of short, black socks and heads to school.  Twenty minutes later, mom finds the socks on the kitchen table, where he left them.  Text a photo to the child of irritation, for him reply, “What are those?”  At that moment I was just thankful he was at school, under the protection of his principal, as I wanted to gently wring the bones in his cute little neck.

Bless my soul. Bless your Momma soul, since I’m pretty sure this type of conversation happened all over the globe this glorious morning.  Today, I am completely over my bratty children.  Tonight, I will gush over how precious they are.  This is Motherhood- the real kind, a perfect balance of adorable and frustrating.  A combination of zealous, superhuman love for the darlings and a continuous prayer line of inquires, and the occasionally begging of patience.  Parenting is a love so big that it requires the grounding of both feet just to manage it.

My darlings refer to me by several names; Mom, Momma, Mother Dear, Madre, and Brooke.  I don’t particularly care what they call me, just as long as I get to hear their sweet voices.  And that it is respectful, let’s be clear. Momma’s not raising thugs. I don’t necessarily need one politically correct title, this job is too important to be limited to one name.

I think God feels the same.  Father, Abba, Most High, Highest Power, Yaheweh, Jehovah, the Alpha & Omega, and so many more.  I think God would rather have our hearts reach for Him, than to have us tangled up in the specifics and rules.  God is into simplicity, and is too big to be packaged in just one name.  I don’t believe He cares which name from the list that we use, just as long as we call him.

I use Creator a lot, the thought of the Divine creating me to be exactly Autumn Brooke, is soothing to my heart.  On hard days, it’s also restoring to my soul.  I won’t pretend to understand the adult acne added into the package, but whatever.

A few years ago, my mind was flooded with uncertainty and questions.  This doubt was so unsettling that I drove two hours north to discuss it with the pastor from our “home” church.  I loved belonging to that church, something about entering those doors brought me a wave of peace.

I recently found the list of questions I took to the pastor.  Not that it was missing, as I’ve kept that paper tucked in my bible bag since that meeting. The list resembles questions that perhaps a kindergartener might ask. I got down to the basics and worked my way up.  He patiently answered my queries, never making me feel guilty for my doubt.  One answer he gave calmed my qualms and infused my faith, “I don’t know, but I’m kinda glad I can’t fully explain God and his mysteries.”  He went on to explain if God was a force that could be explained completely, then we would be able to put him in a box.  If we could understand everything about Him then we would know as much or more than He does.  Who wants to learn from someone that knows less than you do? Who wants a Creator who can be bottled like a genie?

Not this girl.  As much as I loved dreaming of Jeannie and her master, I want a larger, most divine Master Designer. With this in mind, I think I’m okay with not having all the answers.  I’m content being a small part of this grand plan.  Even on the days that I collect more questions than answers, I believe that God is okay with my questions, frustrations, and sorrows.  Even my anger.  I’ve even been known to throw up a prayer asking Him to please help me find my lost keys (aka short, black socks).  He is gracious enough answer without an eye roll, and will gently lead me to exactly where I left them.  Usually in the car.

He can handle it.  Because I am conversing with Him.  Talking and listening, giving and receiving.  It’s a relationship.  He can handle our words and labels, as long as He gets to hear our sweet voices and have our hearts.  Call Him what you will, just call Him beloved.

 

 

 

October 2, 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