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Courage

Courage, Family, Gifts, Lessons

The Gift Closet

Everyone is gifted.  But most people never open their package.

With three sets of grandparents, I hit the lottery with all of them.  One couple were sweetly named Tootie and Pippi, a gift from our oldest cousin.  We learned not to get tongue tied while calling for them, their names weren’t near as endearing when spoken wrong.

I spent only a few Christmas and family gatherings with my biological dad’s family, for several reasons that are neither here or there.  When I was twelve, he died suddenly from a massive heart attack, taking any and all of our future time along with him.  My poor grandparents were devastated, and grieved until they joined him.  After his funeral, we all converged back to the family home in Claude, Texas.  Because love requires we gather.  When we arrived at the pink brick house, my cousins were persistent in requesting that our grandmother show me “my closet”.

My cousin Monica and I, Christmas 1978

My precious grandmother and cousins lead me to the hall closet.  Inside, on the side wall, were stacks of wrapped presents with my name written on them.  Presents for every birthday and Christmas I didn’t join the family.  The feeling of being remembered still overwhelms me.  While the rest of the family consoled each other, I sat in the living room floor and opened presents.

Socks and underwear for every year of growth, nightgowns with past-favorite cartoon characters on them, stacks of bracelets in every color, stuffed animals, strawberry shortcake dolls, care bears, a cabbage patch doll, and various other gifts.  Presents that I never knew existed.  Presents that would have remained unopened had I not shown up.

The Pritchett side of the family is a large one, filled with lots of cousins, aunts, and uncles.  I never figured that I was missed at the family gatherings, as the house was always maxed out with people. Truthfully, most of those years, I was too young to even realize I was missing out.  My life was full of beloved family members from the other sides as well.  Yet, my grandparents felt the void, and prepared my gifts alongside the other cousins, in hopes that I would be there. Year after year.

I never thought about how my grandmother must have felt after Christmas until now.  I wonder if she waited until the decorations were being put up to add my presents to the others in the closet.  I wonder if our Creator feels the same way about the growing stack of unopened gifts we haven’t tapped into.


I can’t help but imagine that God has a closet of goodness for us, just waiting for us to show up for.  Answered prayers and gifts that require time spent in His presence to open and develop.  Gifts tied with gorgeous bows, waiting for our arms and hearts.  How many unopened and untapped gifts are waiting with your name on it?

Perhaps we purposely or unconsciously avoid the gift closet, due to fear of the responsibility of a gift.  How many times have we been given grace that we continually refuse to accept or believe deep down that we haven’t earned yet?  How frustrating for the Gift Giver.  How sad for the Gift Giver to open the closet, and add yet another, unopened box to the stack.

As a parent myself, I delight in watching my boys open gifts chosen just for them.  Some they have asked for, and some are specifically chosen.  Nothing random. I can only imagine the divine joy our Creator has when sitting back, watching us open and then use our perfectly chosen gifts.

My friend Casey is blessed with long, slender legs. She jokes that when torsos were being handed out, she missed the class, along with future make-up days for all torsos.  I think torsos are overrated when you can have legs.  We don’t choose the vessel we’ve been given, but we choose what we pour out and what we keep inside.  We can replenish and sharpen our talents and gifts on each visit to the gift closet.  We can show up and sit in the presence of the Gift Giver, hands out and hearts open.

Get ready to receive my friend.  There are piles of goodness with your name written on the tag.

 

 

August 24, 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
Courage, Fear, Hope, Lessons, Renewed

The Root of my Rot

That was the title of my devotional this week.  If more chapters were named this, I might catch a stronger hint.

How we react is a crucial gauge of what’s really going on inside us.

Eww.  Do we have to gauge our insides?  Can’t we just glide by, covering it all with concealer like I do the dark circles under my eyes?

One of my favorite bible verses, “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

The renewing of our mind is a refreshing thought for my soul.  I visualize it like the alt-control-delete button combination.  A soft reset.  God knows my heart is for him, yet he also knows that gut rot sets in from time to time.

I don’t need a whole revival, just a soft reset.

Renew my mind, and my spirit will follow.

Most times, the smallest event can create a nasty case of rot for this mind.  A memory resurfacing, seeing or reading something on social media that leads to a series of eye rolls, hearing a tidbit of a situation that I deem as unfair, getting my feelings hurt and reliving it until pain sets in really, really deep.  I seem to be an Olympic gold medalist in this category.  Glory be.

There I am, walking along, life is bright…

And then, I’ll catch it – the dreaded root rot.

When the feeling of ick is recognized, a mental walk backwards is neccesary to figure out where the rot found its way in.  Usually, it is a teeny-tiny trigger that has caused the wave of irritations.  In the past, I would see a photo of a party on social media and feel a little sting of being left out.  Nowadays, I silently give thanks that I didn’t have to add something else to our crazy calendar (or sometimes, that I didn’t have to leave the comfort of my back porch and yoga pants. Priorities. I’ve got strict ones.) and simply appreciate the gift of a gathering with friends.  Even without me.

If you’ll notice, the ego is usually smack dab in the middle of the issue.  That dumb ol’ ego.  It lives right in the middle of the rot, keeping it all swampy and stagnant.

A little rot can spread fast and furiously if not dealt with swiftly and seriously. It’s crucial to pay attention to our reactions.  When people or issues or situations bump into our happy, it’s not wrong to feel annoyed.  But if that annoyance leads to a reaction out of proportion to the issue at hand, we can bank on the fact that this eruption has the root of rot.  – Lysa TerKeurst

Once, we came home to our house being sparkling and clean.  That one day.

We sang and danced in the living room, smiling while we enjoyed our gleaming home.

Then, we discovered that every time we walked through the kitchen, a whiff of the worst smell would fill our noses.  We checked the trash, the disposal, the cabinets, and wondered if a poor varmint had fallen in a wall and died.  After a few days of searching, we finally figured out the culprit was the beautiful plant sitting on the corner bar.

Seriously?  It’s so pretty on the surface; the leaves are green and shiny, it is watered sufficiently, we enjoy it’s beauty everyday…how did it get root rot right in front of our eyes?  Baffled, I threw the entire thing out.   Rot, beauty, and all.  I’m not perfect, or forgiving apparently.  I simply cannot deal with bad smells.  Lucky for me, I have three teenage boys who keep my odor-searches on point.

How many times do we disguise our rotten thoughts with a pretty surface?  Kidding ourselves that a pretty exterior can smother the smell of rot, even to our own noses.  Similar to not showering at the gym and just throwing on an extra layer of deodorant and dry shampoo, you know this trick.  How freeing would it be to rid ourselves of the ick?  We have the opportunity to renew our mind daily.  Hourly if needed.  The chance to clean out the root of our rot.  Don’t let it simmer loved one.  Release it and move on, and on the days that it resurfaces or slimes its way back in….Rinse and repeat.

*Unglued Devotional by Lysa TerKeurst.

* Photo by Tumbling Sparrow

 

July 19, 2017 by
Courage, Family, Fear, Lessons

Heights, Fear, and Altitude Tourettes

Heights terrify me.

Just the vision of someone standing on the balcony of a high rise will make my knees go numb.

One of our family’s favorite vacations to take is our annual ski trip.  I am a skier that adores the gentleness of a green, can endure the challenge of a blue, but typically aim to stay away from double black diamonds. Like always.

When we had just barely been a blended family for a few months, we headed to the mountains together with some friends.  After a few days of teaching two of our boys to ski and reminding the third, we were feeling good about ourselves.  “Look at us, what an athletic family.”   Pride always before the fall.

(The photo my friend texted to me on our drive to the ski resort, she was in the car behind us as we were exiting the Eisenhower Tunnel. She knows me well.)

My husband who is a natural at everything, had made several runs from the extreme tip of the mountain on his own.  He kept commenting on how beautiful it was up there, and suggested our entire group of eleven head up the lift, to the highest point of the mountain range.  Never mind the fact we had five kids with us who had only been skiing for two days.  In their life.  When I mentioned this, it was answered with, “There is a green all the way down, it doubles as the road in the summer months.”

Upward our optimistic gang went.  Not fully understanding that there were zero signs pointing out the easiest way down from this height.  People who ski in the clouds don’t look for the path of least resistance.

It started on the ski lift headed up the mountain, I could feel the wave of fear headed for me.  I shared this with my husband, however, I don’t think he fully understood the monster that was about to take over his wife’s body.  A common newlywed mistake.  Upon exiting the ski lift, I’m fairly certain we could see Mexico from that height. Terror took over my entire body, common sense completely left my brain, and everything I had ever learned about anything went fuzzy.  I knew with certainty that one of us was going to fall off this mountain, it was up to me to keep that from happening.  Panicked, I started shouting instructions, “Amy, you help the older kids!  Mason, watch out for your brothers!  Kyle, take care of the Littles!  Chad, do NOT leave my side!  No one fall off the mountain!”  I’ve been accused of sometimes being a little spicy, but there was zero sass in my instructions.  It was pure survival mode.

Back home, when the kids were in kindergarten, there is a rule for walking down the hallway in a line. The cuties are to keep their hands behind their back, holding their “leopard tail”. That’s what my friend Amy says we looked like skiing down the “green”, dodging the moguls and double blacks.  A kindergarten class getting off the ski lift with their psychotic teacher screaming, “Do not fall off the mountain!”  Every time Amy looked back to check on me with her saucer-sized, blue eyes, she was expressing genuine concern for my fear.  Only behind that, I could see the laughter that was building, waiting to happen once I was in a place to join her.

My husband is an extremely patient man, but somewhere on our slow descent, the well of patience went temporarily dry.  Poor fella, he kept wondering where his cool wife went and I was like, “Look dude, she’s gone, but Crazy-Eyed McPhearson is here to make sure no one plummets to the ground, got it?  Now, hold my leopard tail and SLOW DOWN.  Everyone put your skis in a pizza wedge!”

He claims it took us three hours to get the mountain, which is a total exaggeration.  It took us two and a half.  When we got to the point that the trees were blocking the view of Texas, my knees thawed and I skied normally.  My fear was gone because the view was different.  Sometimes we need to change our scenery to dilute our fear.

When we shift our surroundings a bit we can then realize that fear is such a liar.

Or as the Hubs would say, “Get out of your own way and POINT YOUR SKIES DOWNHILL!”

By the time we got to the bottom, our group had mostly separated, Hubs and I were mad at each other, Amy and I were crying with uncontrollable laughter, and we all suffered from PTSD. I faced the fear and skied through it.  Frozen.  Slow.  But still moving.

Our group that almost didn’t make it in 2015

 Our trips to the mountains have since been gloriously perfect, even with the sore muscles. The boys race each other down, with their Sherpa app on.  I ski behind them, aiming to keep them in sight.  I push past my fear of heights and speed simply because I want to be with them.  I want to have fun experiences with them.   Most of the time this means I must ski faster than I wish but, it is worth it.  These memories are some of my favorites.

One of the greatest inventions is the ski mask.  Not to just keep heat in, but to keep others from hearing the language coming out of my mouth as I “self talk” my way down the slope.  Without the ski mask on, my fellow skiers would suspect that I had Tourettes syndrome.  And they would be right.  Altitude touretts.  It’s a real thing for me.  Only oxygen at the base of the mountain will cure it.   As my friend Bambi says, “Sometimes cussing is effective”.  I have to agree.  I ski better when I can safely express my fear and frustrations in a self-environment.

Those little darlings of mine are always waiting for me at the bottom, a sight that always makes me smile beneath my ski mask. They never need to know what has been said underneath it, they only need to know their Momma will do whatever it takes to spend time with them.

Even through moments of panic, altitude tourettes, exhaustion, and sore muscles.

2016

2017

June 12, 2017 by