Browsing Category

Lessons

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
Boundaries, Brave, Courage, Crazy Cycle, Forgivness, Lessons, Pause

Practice the Pause

For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.”  1 Cor 14:33

Disorder = chaos, mess, confusion, disarray, shambles, discombobulation.

I cannot breathe during times of chaos.  I can function, because I am a mom, thus giving up the option of bailing during messy times.  I am a functioning champ on auto-pilot during times of disorder, but I cannot breathe.  As it turns out, breathing is necessary to live peacefully.

To invite peace into your life, you must step off the Crazy Cycle. And make a conscious decision to not participate in the games anymore.  I’ve gotten off of the Crazy ride before, but didn’t step away – thinking that was enough.  But, the cars on the Ferris Wheel continued to bump the backside of my head on each turn of the ride.  I’ve never been accused of being a fast learner.  Friend, don’t just stand beside the exit sign, walk away.

Walking away is always sad. Especially if you are accustomed and conditioned to the chaos.

Walking away takes bravery and courage. Walking away isn’t giving up, it is setting boundaries.  Boundaries are healthy, with perimeters that can bring peace towards a situation that hasn’t been resolved.

A friend lovingly referred me to the book, “Keep your Love On!” by Danny Silk.  In it he states, “If you cannot set boundaries with “consumers” (of your time and energy), you are going to be exploited.”  Ring a bell?  The wrapped package for me ended with “The more you respect the value of your own life by cultivating your garden, the more you will create an atmosphere of respect around you.”  Respect doesn’t look like selfish agendas or manipulation.  For the love of yourself, your family, and your sanity – respect your values.

I’ve learned the long, dusty way, that my words are safer if I keep them.  When I hold on to them, they can’t be twisted and turned into something they weren’t used for.  Miscommunication is one thing, but taking words and turning them to fit into your agenda is a whole ‘nother ballgame.  It’s mean and spiteful.  I’ve been guilty of doing it myself, until I recognized this behavior and knew better.

We’ve all been in conflict and used a line, spoken out of context, against another.  Almost as a tag line, a defensive one.  “I mean, and then they said this…”, said with a sad look, expecting to invoke sympathy.   Just stop.  Own your part. Get off the wheel.  Go lick your wounds in your own corner, with your safe people.  Then get up, and move on.  Walk towards peace.  Forgive.  Forgive when it’s hard.  Forgive if it’s only for your own peace of mind.

I wish passive aggressive would be recognized and treated like the plague.  I recognized how passive aggressive I am with my sarcasm only when I married someone who doesn’t own a passive aggressive bone. In his whole, handsome body.  Black and white with no passive gray.  I love the black and white, it is safe, I know where everything stands.  While I appreciate his black and white, I don’t live there, I reside a lot in the shades between.  Not just the short, gray side, but the whole rainbow side.  We balance each other.

Learning to separate passive aggressive from my sarcasm has been more difficult than learning the Chinese language.  I’m still progressing.  I reach for sarcasm more than chocolate somedays.  This is more of a confession than a proud stance.  Sarcasm is a love language of mine that keeps the world at bay, it is a much-needed buffer.  Hubs doesn’t speak this love language, and sometimes that requires a translator for us to communicate.

Pause. That’s the key.  Not your circus, not your monkeys?  Pause.  When the monkeys belong to you?  Take one-hot-minute to pause, to gather and ground yourself before you reply.  Otherwise you are going to do what you have always done, thus another round on the Crazy Cycle Ferris Wheel.  And those rounds are enough to make anyone nauseous.

Practice the pause. Learn to love the pause.  Allow yourself to grow within the pause.  Breathe in the peace, and exhale the chaos. Chaos will eat you alive, it will block your view of the beauty that this life is filled with.  Pause and breathe.  I love the thought that deep breaths are like little love notes to your body.  Pause to send your body affirmations of love and peace.

“Loving yourself through the process of owning your story is the bravest thing you’ll ever do.”  Brene Brown

You are valued my friend.

You are so brave.

And everyone deserves to have their boundaries respected.

Now, kindly follow the exit signs on your right, and get your butt off the Crazy Cycle Ferris Wheel.  We hoped you enjoyed your ride.

*Piece by Stefan Sagmeister: The Happy Show

 

September 19, 2017 by
Friendship, Laughter, Lessons

Lighten up and Laugh more

Life has been so sad lately, I need a laugh break.  If you could benefit from one as well, I invite you to read on.

One of my favorite qualities in a person is the ability to laugh at oneself.  Life is more doable when taken lightly.

I’ve had so many embarrassing moments in my life that I sometimes wonder if I accidently picked up an extra serving, meant for another.   I’m usually the first one to rat myself out, and haven’t decided if this is a good quality or not.  I’ve been in conversations before, halfway through my story, only to realize the person hearing it has a look of horror on their face.

Whoops.

Retreat and wrap it up. I apparently got lost on my way to the sharing circle. Embarrassing stories are to be saved for back porch nights with the inner circle.  When someone shares an embarrassing moment with me, it seals the deal of my love for them. I don’t mean a “Oh my, I burped out loud – clutch my pearls” story, let’s dive in deep my friend.  Dish it out in a safe place.  Shame cannot survive being spoken.

I’d love to share one with you now, it’s actually my favorite.one.ever.  Only it isn’t mine, but I tell it with FULL permission rights.  This gracious friend was brave enough to offer the use of her real name.  Probably due to the fact of threatening her for years that this story is going in a future book.  I’m sharing it here because it deserves a shrine, and I don’t feel that she tells it with as much gusto as it deserves.  She skips some important moments, and this story has earned a space of its own.

Pull up a chair my friend, join me on this back porch.  Chances are, if you have spent any time with me at ALL, you know what story I’m about to tell.   I can’t image any men who would read my blog, but if you are lost and ended up here, feel free to sit this one out.

I was a fresh eighteen years old, and walked into my first day on the job at Bourland Dry Cleaners in Willow Park, Texas.  It was a drop off/pick up location, so the only other employee was the gal training me.  She was a year older and less than thrilled to welcome me.  With her 5-inch-long, dark brown nails, she taught me how to tag and bag clothes. In future days, she taught me how to smoke skinny cigarettes and drink.  We saved our money and chipped in for a mini fridge for the store, to ensure that her beer and my wine coolers stayed cold.  In the distant, more settled days, she taught me how to cook, take care of a baby, and be a homemaker.  You can see where I simply had to have her in my friend barn.

Our job didn’t require matching attire. We just felt the need to go above and beyond. Bless.

Vanessa was in cosmetology school in the mornings, and worked at the cleaners in the afternoons.  Due to many-a-late nights, she missed a lot of school.  Like most of it.  Luckily for the majority of population, she didn’t make a career out of doing hair.  The person in charge of the school finally cracked down and told her that she wouldn’t complete the course if she missed one more day.

With two weeks of school left, Vanessa told me that afternoon that she couldn’t go out after work until the semester was over.  Secretly, I was thankful.  I had gone from living on the shoulder of the life’s highway – straight to the fast lane, and welcomed a rest.  The very next morning, Vanessa woke up rested with full nights sleep, only sick as a dog.  A virus had hit her full force.  Fully recommitted to the trade of making ladies beautiful, she got dressed and headed to class.

The accident occurred on the backroads.  Please don’t be alarmed, this was no car accident, more of a virus-natured one.  I should mention that this was 1997, so clearly, she was dressed in a plaid mini skirt, tights, and loafers.  Who wasn’t after Clueless hit the big screen?   Vanessa had a decision to make – go home and change, or press on. The decision was simple, she was no beauty school dropout.

Always a survivor, she remembered that Koryn, a friend from high school, lived just up ahead.  Koryn had a large family and a welcoming house, everyone was always coming and going.  Desperate, Vanessa pulled in the driveway and ran into the house at 7:30 am. She made a beeline for the restroom to use the facilities and clean herself up.  She went to the extreme of washing her unmentionables in the sink and even blow-drying them, cutting no corners on a quick sanitation job.

When the twenty minute clean-up mission was complete, she walked to Koryn’s room to explain that she needed to avoid using the wash cloth on the side of the tub.  Upon entering her friend’s room, she found a strange man lying in Koryn’s bed.  Realizing she didn’t have time to find a family member, Vanessa figured it best to contact them after school.  She had some hair to color and cut, perhaps even perm.

A few months passed and poor Koryn never received that warning call.  One night, while out in Fort Worth, we ran into Vanessa’s high school friend.  Nessa immediately and apologetically started relaying the story to her.  Koryn listened in horror, her face scrunching up in disgust and disbelief.  I felt so sorry for the poor girl, and replied by making faces of sympathy back at her.  I was silently hoping she hadn’t used that washcloth to cleanse her face.  When my dear friend got done with her story of admission, Koryn replied with, “Vanessa, we haven’t lived there in like a year.”

Howling would be the best description of my laughter.  For once, Vanessa was stunned into silence.

Here is where I could be cheesy, and insert a classic lesson in this story.  One like, “Always know what road you are on” or “Be present on your journey”, or an obvious one, “Know whose bathroom you are in”, or for the homeowner, “Know who is in your bathroom”.   But, wouldn’t you agree, this story needs nothing.

There isn’t a lesson to be learned, other than be sure to find laughter on this journey of life.

Give yourself permission to lighten up and laugh.  Life will take care of handing us the heavy stuff from time to time.  Most importantly, surround yourself with the funniest of friends.

My dear Vanessa, who Hubs has nicknamed Trouble #1

*To wrap this story up in a nice little bow, years later Vanessa found out who the new homeowners were.  Three single, handsome guys in their twenties.  As luck would have it, we ran into one of them a decade later, and I got to witness Vanessa telling him the story.  The best part was watching his brain scan his past calendars to see if he was the one home from work that day. Greatness.

**Disclaimer – By request, no names were changed for protection in this story. We could all learn from her transparency. For all you other friends, your stories are still safe with me.  In the vault, unless you give me written permission to take them out.

Laughing…even in Vermont

 

September 4, 2017 by
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