Jesus doesn't say "hot mess"

"Who are YOU?"

I just blinked back tears and shook my head, "I can't answer that."


It was the kind of interview that one should ace. The most elementary of questions, and I'm scanning
the room with jetty eyes hoping the answer will suddenly pop out of the wallpaper or something. I mean
I could have given the rote litany of my achievements, college GPA, all the titles associated with my
life: child of God, wife, momma, blogger, ministry director, missionary, blah blah blah. A resume that
can stand on it's own. But me? I'm just falling over. Because I can't answer that question.

I've spent most of my life running. Literally. I'm not a runner, but on a bad day I can break out my
tennis shoes and run a mile flat to feel pain, to feel alive, to feel like I'm getting away from whatever it is that haunts me. And then there are all the less actual parts of my life that keep me waking up every morning, putting on "my face" whether I have somewhere to be or not, going and doing A, B, C...
D, E, F, G... because if I can just keep up this fugitive act!

I will not become that.
Whatever it is that I'm so afraid of.

And in the process I've lost sight of who I really am.

Is this midlife crisis material or what? Because I don't know. It's scary as heck, but also exciting.
It's so easy to spend all the time giving and giving in the name of Jesus -- taking care of my family,
husband, children, my people -- but when you run me through a scanner? You'll see the façade.

You'll see that it's easier to DO than to be. It's easier to RUN than to stay. It's easier to IGNORE
than address. It's easier to PRETEND than admit. I'm fine. Oh I'm fine. I'm really fine.

I AM NOT FINE. And that's ok.

Growing up is amazing. Can't wait to see what another ten years does for me!
It's humbling. I am not invincible. You all knew that, but I didn't.

I mean, I went to Target the other day commando. I was wearing sweats of course, but not being
"totally put together" is a big step for me. And let me tell you, it was FREEING! I also haven't
vacuumed my house in over a week, and I quit apologizing for still being in bed when my husband
comes to kiss me goodbye before work. Beds get made if they get made. Laundry gets done if it gets
done. And I have a hair appointment next week...

Hahaha. It's not THAT bad of a midlife crisis.

Running has done the complete opposite of what I imagined it could do for me. Instead of liberating
me from all my problems, it has literally chained me in a room with all the issues piled up because
I'm a professional when it comes to pretending everything is ok. But I'm done. SO done.

I've stood and I've fought and I've let this whole wide world break against me.
Let me say that again, against ME. I know what you're thinking. Doesn't she know Jesus?!
Why yes, I do, but I like to put Him out of a job a lot -- and for that I'm truly sorry.

If you run into me in public, you have the right to wonder if I'm wearing any underwear at all.
I'd say it's safe to assume that if you come over for a visit it's no longer ok to eat anything
off my floors. It's not about GIVING UP -- it's about giving it all up to the God who made me and
knows me and loves me and wants me to be happy in this life and the next.

I'm surrendering my orange fugitive kicks and laying down my arms.

I just want to be able to answer the question.

"Who are you?"

Not what is expected. Not what is to be avoided.

If you stood before Jesus today what would He speak over you?
Who would He say you are? I don't think "hot mess" is part of His vocabulary.
Could be wrong. But I'm thinking He would have praises to sing -- ones that you and I can't even
see ourselves. Let THAT be our song today as we dance IN our underwear.

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.

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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