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Brave, Character, Courage, Courage, Faith, Family, Fear, Grace, Hope, Lessons, Love, Parenting

The journey to a different pasture

I have hesitated in sharing the following writing for almost two years. One reason is respecting the privacy of my child and protecting the safe space to let him grow and mature. Another reason being I didn’t want to give a tiny handful of people the satisfaction of getting a glimpse into our lives. For now, that pride has been worked through and has been replaced by a healthier pride.  A mother’s pride. Continue Reading

Courage, Faith, Fear

When you bite off more than you can chew…Chew it.

I seem to work in a pattern of taking on task bigger than myself.  This comes from a good place, usually my heart says, “Let’s do this!” when my head is taking realistic measurements and reminding me of my limitations. Yet, I trust my heart more times than my head for the basic reason of it operating from faith over fear.

This week was supposed to be a normal one, however by 10 a.m. on Monday I saw a post from a friend that her mom was being sent home on hospice, and three texts from other friends asking for prayers for they were all climbing a different mountain.  My heart hurt for all of them, and I yearned to take their pain away.  I kept uttering the same prayer for each one, over and over, “May we come to You from a place of FAITH and not false fear.”  I couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness, so I finally stopped my day and sat down with my Gratitude Journal.  This is something I normally do at night, right before bed –  but I needed an attitude shift, and they say it’s impossible to be grateful and anxious at the same time.  Usually, this is a really simple task – today I got to #4 before I just sat and stared.

That’s what fear does, it reminds us the size of our mountains and blocks the view of our blessings.  When faith is handing us our climbing gear and slapping us on the rear in encouragement that all things are possible.  Even this mountain.

A few months ago, I was headed to Fort Worth to see some friends for the weekend.  I was meeting them downtown, so I left the house dressed cute for the evening.  Meaning I had heels on – high ones.  As I left our neighborhood to head north, I had to hit the breaks to avoid hitting a huge bull in the middle of the road.  He was at the top of the hill, a blind hill if you are traveling from the other direction, so I was fearful for those people.  I knew who Mr. Bull most likely belonged to, so I quickly turned into their driveway and drove down to their house.  This isn’t a neighbor we know outside of the polite, drive by wave.  It’s an elderly couple who we have admired, simply based on how hard they work to keep their farm pristine.

So, down the driveway I went, parking just short of running over the sweet little man, sitting in his lawn chair.

“Hi Sir, I think you have a bull that got out!”

“Huh?”

“Your bull?  He is out in the road!”

“Huh?”

After a few more repeats of this, he got out of his chair and walked to meet me.  I pointed to the red bull in the road, he said, “Oh goodness!  My wife must have left the gate open when she got the mail.”  As he jumped into his golf cart, I hollered, “Do you need me to help get him back in?” He waved at me to follow him.  Once we got back to the road, I pulled to the top of the hill, put my hazards on, and got out to coral the bull back in the gate.  In my heels.  The owner of Mr. Bull told me to stand at the gate, he was going to run him directly towards me, and if I could just usher him to turn left, into the gate, that would be great.

Not a single thought went into me saying yes, my mission was clear.  Save all the travelers on Robin Road and direct Mr. Bull in turning left.  Nothing else – like death –  crossed my mind until all 1500 lbs of irritated Mr. Bull was trotting towards me, standing in my high heels and my red shirt.  I knew I should have worn the green one.  I threw up a prayer to my Grandpa Mason – who was most likely shaking his head and chuckling at me from heaven, but he handled his fair share of livestock when he was on earth, so I was counting on some direction from him.   I planted my heels, and started swinging my hands together, ending the move in the direction of where Mr. Bull needed to end his jog.  Clearly, being a cheerleader prepared me for this moment.  As he got closer, he also got bigger…and bigger, snot was slinging out of his nose as he ran.  He was making a bee line straight for my red blouse, so I quickly added a “Yaw-yaw” noise to my arm movements.

When I was young, I loved trying on my mom’s high heels and seeing how fast I could run in them.  That memory came to mind as I was watching Mr. Bull run at me, did I still have that talent?  Just as I was about to test my speed, Ol’ Red turned left, into the gate.  Thank goodness, he understood what “YAW” meant.  As the old man drove by in his golf cart, he paused and said, “Little Missy, thank you for stopping and helping me get him back in.  We just bought him, and I’d hate for someone to have hit a $2,500 investment.  Thanks for your help, glad you knew how to handle cattle.” And sped off to close the gate.

Yep me too.  Glad I could put my cowgirl talent to use for you sir.

Basically what I saw running towards me.

My friend Amy’s favorite saying is. “When you bite off more than you can chew, Chew it.”

Sometimes you have to do just that, chomp away.  When our faith is bigger than our feet, we simply need to widen our stance to hold our balance. When our mountains (or snotty bulls) seem to take up our entire vision, and fear is knocking on the door – that is precisely the moment to lean into the faith that caused us to take such a big bite in the first place.

Bob Goff says that most of our decisions are driven by either love or fear.  Figure out who’s doing the talking, then decide what you’ll do.

Lean into love beloved.

Stare the Bull in the eye, smile a little, and chomp on that faith.

For any cowgirl gigs you need help with, feel free to contact me anytime.  I just hope I’m not busy washing my hair that day.

No bull.

 

 

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

 

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