The Scariest Thing I Have Ever Done

I thought learning to ride a bike was frightening.
Sleeping in a shack in the middle of nowhere, Mexico? Put me on edge.
I was nervous every single time I had to speak in front of hundreds of people,
and I kept my parents on speed dial every time they left the house.

Starting relationships, ending relationships, going to college, getting in car accidents,
giving up my job, hospitalized for pneumonia, being a missionary, leaving my family...
shook me.

But the scariest thing I have ever done?


These tiny little hearts, minds, bodies entrusted to my care don't come with manuals.
There's no auto-pilot, return policy, or warranty. It feels so risky; all too dangerous
to let the DNA masterpieces of yourself, your spouse, run around in this big, wide world.

The sirens go off.
A tornado of "what ifs" blows straight through the very core of my being.

The other day a doctor was explaining to me how as mothers we uniquely store the DNA of
all the children we bear within our liver (so whimsical) and in our brains. Perhaps shedding
light on that connection, that intuition, we feel towards our kids: "I just KNOW they
are sad, happy, hungry, upset, sick, at peace..." We just know what they need.

So my liver, or possibly my brain, tells me that I don't want to mess it up.
I don't want to miss something or make a mistake.
In a nutshell, I want to be Jesus to my children.

I run, non-stop, doing all the things, all day long. I pad their lives with all the good
I can possibly muster to fit into a 24 hour day and then beat myself up as I fall asleep
at night for not BEING more. Who wouldn't wanna be me? I cry because I'm scared I'm
failing. I panic because if I really am failing -- then who in the world is going to pick up
where I leave off? Because I've made myself Jesus for my children, and we all know that
Jesus is the last stop.

I'd like to say that I've come around, been reformed, got baptized in the Church of
Surrender all to Jesus, but I can't. I am, however, TRYING. Because the "Hi, my name is
Brittany and I have a degree in Theology" side knows that playing with fire is safer
than playing God. But my heart? My heart is freaking out and praying, "are you sure?"

WHAT IF I screw it all up? WHAT IF something goes wrong? WHAT IF I sin and
fall and bleed this ugly humanity all over these tiny lives I'd die to protect?

And then there's WHAT IF I LET GO?

WHAT IF I do my very best? WHAT IF I do less and be more? WHAT IF I
open up my clenched fists and hand it all over? WHAT IF I quit masquerading as Jesus for my kids and let Him do His job?

And just be me?


I can hear the "all clear" siren ringing now. The tornado is passing.
I've checked myself into that Church of Surrender all to Jesus and the very rain that has
pelted down, bruising my skin, my heart, my soul, is what is going to baptize me anew --

because I don't have time for motherhood to be scary.

I Struggle With Anxiety

His cheeks were red, his brilliant, hazel eyes were laughing, and the chill of the
snow was radiating from his entire being. He was wearing winter from head to toe.

"Hurry! Put on your shoes and coat! It's glorious!
Go stand out there in the falling snow and talk to God!"

I just blinked at my husband, "are you for real?"

Child-like excitement buzzed in my chest as I slipped on my boots, mittens, scarf
to go play in the snow with it's Maker; to go BE, to go EXPERIENCE, something other than

myself.

I am my own worst enemy. Have been for as long as I can remember. The voices spin webs
of confusion, fear - and before I know it I've worked myself into an imaginary, sometimes not,
crisis situation. Panic. A struggle to breathe. Just breathe.

I romped through the snow, softly singing, "let it rain down... open the flood gates of heaven,"
as fluffy white flurries rushed to kiss away the tear drops frosting on my cheeks. Sometimes you can
just feel God. Sometimes He just shows up in radiant glory and says, "Hey, I've got you."

Those are crushing words to someone who tells herself, "I've got myself". Day after day, month
after month, year after year; thousands of minutes spent on a messed up theology. "Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned..." I've been holding it together all my life because I bought the lie from a dirty
dealing demon that if I fall apart, my world will go up in a puff of smoke. To hell with it.

"Do you pray?" someone asked me this week.
"Yes," I replied - a little confused as to how this applied to my visit with the allergist.
"Fox hole prayers. In and out. Lip service. Never long enough to let Him change you," he chimed.
I could feel my eyebrows begin to furrow and a lump of "he's right" come up into my throat.

The next day I walked into a counselor's office for the first time in my life.
"Why don't you trust God?" "What happens if YOU let go?" "Things are out of YOUR control and
THAT freaks you out." I just stared back at him, trying to keep eye contact in my guilt, feeling
overwhelmed by the truth of the matter, the core of my heart.

And I feel God pull back another layer, stoke the fire, and order a deeper refinement this time.
Gold. We are all meant to be pure gold.

I told my husband that I've been read like a book twice this week.
I thought I was more mysterious than that, but apparently not. Must work on that.

"I am anxious and worried," has fallen from my lips one too many times in the past few months.
Today I was challenged to say instead, "I am prayerful and active." Anxiety, has no place here.
Children of God are not children of darkness, but of light. Even in the darkest night, the enemy has no
place unless we give it to him.

This is a process. Life in general, I suppose. We all have "things".
But I think the trick to surviving this valley of tears is to truly realize once and for all
that there is a God and all of "it" - all the "things" - is the great RESCUE plan to pull us into Eternity.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms;
if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and
prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.
You know the way to the place where I am going.” - John 14:1-4

My Son Stutters

I've hesitated over sharing this for so many months that I have lost count. It's one of
those things that just leaves your momma heart aching so badly that you don't want to speak
it out loud for fear that it will all suddenly become really real. Permanent. Forever.

Not my son.


How many nights have I stood at his bed rail while he sleeps watching his gentle breath, in and out,
wondering what those big, round, chocolate eyes veiled in slumber are seeing, dreaming? I've put my
hand on his head, his heart - letting every ounce of whatever grace is given to me as a mother
pour over him as I beg God, almost demanding, for an answer. Can You hear me?

The bonds of motherhood run strong, and I bear the weight of his cross as if it were my own.
I've lived out in my imagination every possible scenario and outcome for his life -- all laced
with fear and anxiety, rejection and misunderstanding -- potential crushed under the weight
of not being able to connect well in a world full of words.

The kids at the playground are impatient with him as their tiny attention spans cannot bear to
wait for the words to form and flow. I've seen them walk away. I've heard him mocked.

And my heart gets a real good glimpse at what it was like for the Blessed Mother to watch her
Son save the world. All you parents see. You know there's not anything within your power that
you would not do to breathe life and peace and joy into your child - even if it meant giving
up your own. It's a rugged, primal kind of love; welling up from the wild fierceness
that courses through our blood. Anything. Name it. I am yours.

I like to think that God is especially tender towards mothers. So I have asked and asked and asked
one more time, just in case I didn't hear the answer or missed some vital instruction.

Waking up one morning, about a week before Christmas, I looked at my husband and just said,

"I know what it is."

He asked me how I knew, but all I could do was shake my head, "I don't know, but I do."

If there were pieces to this puzzle, they all came together that day as I cleared my pantry of corn products.
Checking, reading labels - deep sighing - packing up everything with a trace to give away.

With each day off a major allergen, the stuttering has diminished; the frustration on his face melting
away with the excitement of being able to communicate more clearly. Words flowing where words have
not flowed before. I now watch my son happily chatter away with complete strangers, something he
avoided before, and light up as he tells his story. I light up as he tells his story.

Call it intuition. Call it the result of research. But I'm calling it a miracle.
I'm calling it for how I see it -- and that's God answering a mother's prayer.
Thank you. A million times over.

Today is better than yesterday, and I hope that this journey continues to bring healing into
my son's life. It just blows my mind that God turns His eyes towards us... at all. Here we are
in our pathetic, sinful state and He just pours life and peace and joy onto His children.

It's a rugged, primal kind of love.
Anything. Name it. I am yours.





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When you have no "word of the year"

The other night I cornered my husband,

"Soooo... there's this THING. It's called 'word. of. the. year.' -- all the coolest
bloggers are doing it, and I want to know what YOUR word would be. Just one word."

Inner monologue: PLEASE be a good word so that I can be a copycat. I'll say that I've
been so deeply inspired and post it for all the world to see. As mine. All mine. One word.

Well, this story pretty ends with my husband pensively thinking for a moment and then uttering
with Nathan-like wisdom: "QUADRUPLE." It then was followed by a short story on how it applies
to this scripture passage that has moved him... beautiful. But dang it. That can't be my word.
No one would believe me.

I ran some of my own ideas past him: COURAGE. RETREAT.

To which he just shook his head and told me that what I really meant to say was "TRUST."
That my word of the year should be "TRUST." That I have "TRUST" issues and should just face
the TRUTH and accept "TRUST." Sigh.

He reads me like a book. A beautiful, annoying gift. Such an oxymoron.

But maybe you are struggling too? Maybe the future looks too hard to predict and no word
from Webster is going to do that uncertainty any kind of justice. That's how I feel.

And that rings of fear. Thus COURAGE. And I need to re-group with Jesus about that. Thus RETREAT.
And my husband is always right - because after it all goes up, it comes down to TRUST.

My word last year was "LIFE" -- and God SO delivered on that. Like whoa. And there has been such
reward in what felt like a pact or promise between me and the Almighty. Call her Bella.
Last year was so easy.

And now, all I know is that THIS IS THE YEAR to dig down deep and uproot anxiety, fear, and
distrustfulness in all of its tangled mess. THIS IS THE YEAR to choose more live social interaction
over social media, to remember and celebrate the art of connection as I once knew it.

This is the first baby I have nursed since purchasing a smart phone. How easy it is to sit down
during feedings, get settled, and then scroll away our precious time by staring at the screen instead
of those sparkling blue eyes that look up--- that wait--- connection.

It's going to take courage, retreat, and trust.
It's not a "word of the year", but a lifestyle chant.
My fire is blazing, 2015.


Happy New Year, my friends.
What's on your heart?