Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography
This article was originally published in the July 2017 edition of 605 Magazine. 

There is a familiar scene that happens in some fast-paced workplaces. So familiar in fact, the scene has been rendered anew in many contexts in innumerable films and TV shows. We all know it: A worker enters a bustling, loud workplace, and there awaiting her/him is their assistant/co-worker, and without so much as a “hello” or a “good morning” the assistant/co-worker begins rattling off the duties of the day, the schedule therein, whilst walking quickly with them back to their office so as to not waste anytime to actually stop and have a face-to-face conversation. At the end of the scene, predictably, there is either someone waiting on the phone to talk to one of them or someone is actually waiting in the office to speak. So, without a “goodbye” or “thank you for the information” both workers dive right into work with a mind burdened with all the duties of the day without another glance at each other. End scene. Seem familiar? We’ve all seen this in the movies, right?

I was watching a movie the other day with one of these scenes in it, and I started to laugh awkwardly because I recognized that type of interaction on a personal level. Perhaps, this scene is a little too familiar to me, just maybe in a different “workplace” context.

Imagine for a moment, if you will, a spouse returns home and as they enter said home, it is loud -- obnoxiously so at times -- and they see their spouse scurrying about busy in both mind and duty. With an ever so brief “hello” and maybe even a passing kiss “hello” one spouse begins to rattle of the happenings of the day, while walking with them into the house so as to not waste any time, and oh, by the way, the children are waiting to play with you! The other spouse, accepts the charge to play, takes the children and both spouses dive into the duties of the moment until they all reunite at the dinner table. At the dinner table, both try painstakingly to get the children adequately fed. Then one cleans the kitchen while the other begins the marathon act of bedtime prep for the little ones. At the end of the night, both fall into bed exhausted from the myriad of responsibilities and massive blessings that is child-raising. End scene.

Ok, now does this “workplace” scenario sound familiar?

And if children aren’t in the picture yet or perhaps they are already grown, perhaps replace that scene with other responsibilities or duties that tend to sneakily creep up and begin to quietly nudge marital zeal aside.

Last weekend, my husband and I went to a wedding. Just the two of us, away from the children for exactly a 24-hour trip. (By the way, my 25-year-old self is rolling her eyes at me to the fact that I’m calling 24-hours a “trip”. Also, my 25-year old self probably deserves a good slap of reality.) We took a quick flight with one bag each, we got into the car without having to install any obnoxious car seats, and I — get ready for it — actually read a magazine. I kept looking around my person thinking, I’ve forgotten something. For certain, I’ve forgotten something. Who travels this light anymore?

At the wedding itself, the best man speech referenced the fact that during the young couple’s vows, so many “older” — I resented this label, but I’ve since found it in my heart to forgive him  — couples could be seen grabbing each other’s hands, looking sweetly into each other’s eyes and remembering their own vows they said so many years ago. That’s the magic of a wedding, he said, it reminds everyone of not only the importance and gravity of, but the insuppressible joy of marriage. I laughed during his speech, because it was so true: There we were exhausted from the travel, exhausted from the prep just to get out of the house, but during the vows, the exhaustion evaporated as we realized, we were there together. That in and of itself was such a feat. We were doing something that had nothing to do with the children. We were on our own for 24 hours. We squeezed each other’s hand with a knowing look that said: Oh! There you are! By the way, those vows? I remember and still mean them.

Since we returned from our “trip”, we’ve been trying hard to not play the characters in a crazed, busied workplace scene out of a movie. Wedding season has reminded us as well as our young daughter who always seems to stop and smell the flowers, to stop and recognize each other amongst the chaos. Everyone keeps telling us these years with young children go by so fast. Enjoy them while they are young, enjoy them all you can, they say. And while I have taken fast to that advice, I think it’s also safe to say, perhaps it’s even better advice to say: Don’t forget or lose your spouse in the busy workplace in the meantime.

​

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography
This article was originally published in the June 2017 edition of 605 Magazine.

To anyone that has any contact with children as well as any sort of vehicular transport of them, they know, there is indeed a darkside to this whole “begetting” of children situation. That darkside being, of course, carseats.

Carseats! How I loathe and love you all at the same time. You protect my children from harm and for that I am forever and ever grateful. But why do you have to be so puzzling, beefy, and impossible to move? Even the ones that advertise themselves as “easy to install” and “tighten with a click” are simply liars. Liars. There is a reason there are several places you can go and have your work as a parent checked when it comes to car seat install; any type of academic prowess has no meaning or bearing on your ability to install the seats. I have seen highly intelligent grown men and women (who shall remain nameless) reduced to tantrums and lament trying to install a tiny car seat. Was that a click? Is that the click we are supposed to hear? Listen! Did it click? Is this moving side-to-side more than a quarter of an inch? How much is a quarter of an inch? Is this thing level? Wait. Was that the click?

You guys know what I’m talking about.  

And that is why once my husband installs the bulky seats, I vow to never move them. They become permanent fixtures in my vehicle much like the straw wrapper trash that is perpetually strewn about. Wanna carpool? Nope. Because that would mean I would have to move my car seats and that would take approximately one decade to remove and reinstall, and even then I am not 100% confident they would be installed right.

Last week, however, I was forced to do this very thing. I had purchased a large mirror for our house and I was so excited to get the mirror home. My husband (wisely) advised me to just pay the delivery fee to get the mirror moved, but brilliant me, balked at the idea and proudly said, “No! WE can do it, Jon.” Which is just really just code for, “YOU can do it, Jon.” With a sigh, he acquiesced and asked me to clean out the car, including the car seats, to make room for the mirror and so he could quickly run to the store and pick it up since he was short on time. I happily agreed.

At first, I felt victorious. I cleaned out the whole car first and then started in on removing the car seats. I unhooked all the straps, pressed all the right buttons and out they came. But what awaited me when I looked under the seats once they were removed … dear reader, I was not prepared. You see, often times, when there is crying or screaming in the backseat, I put the fire out by merely throwing a snack back there. In fact, currently I keep a Costco-sized behemoth jar of animal crackers in the passenger seat and pass a handful back if/when all hell breaks loose in the backseat. I always thought it was a genius move, until the moment I removed the car seats. In that moment, I questioned every parenting decision I’ve ever made, because what I found was truly heinous: A mountain of undeniable moldy, moldy snack remnants. Crumbs of every shape and color. Debris of all kinds. A science project of disgusting.

I wanted to take a picture to show my husband, but then I quickly realized that was a bad move. Why would I ever want concrete evidence this ever happened on my watch? So, instead, I quickly got to work (unfortunately, without a much-needed HazMat suit) and cleaned, bleached, and destroyed all the evidence. I took all the covers off the seats and washed them on the “sanitize” cycle on our washer and dryer and pretended it all never happened.

But for some reason, I just cannot forget. I cannot forget the filth that was residing just out of sight, but ever so close to my children on a daily basis. If only I would have moved the car seats every once in awhile, I would have seen the build up and removed it before it had a chance to decay and mold. If only I wasn’t so overwhelmed, intimidated, and fearful of the monstrosities that are car seats in this 21st Century, I would have peered back there and solved the problem before it began. But, alas, such was not the case. For months and months, I drove around with a clean exterior, but unbeknownst to me a rotting, disgusting interior.

The more I thought about it, the more this whole debacle became such a metaphor for so many things for me as it relates to life in general. I can so easily become overwhelmed by a problem or issue and just throw quick, easy fixes at it. But if I do the hard work now, wrestle the issue or situation out of the way, and clean up the debris and decay it hides in its shadow — it won’t have time to fester. And thus, I won’t have such a vile, gag-inducing, noxious mess to clean up down the line.

I’ve started checking my car seats once a week. It hasn’t been easy. Me and the convoluted straps and buckles of the labyrinth of car seat engineering have become one. I’ve even washed the car seat covers twice since. And you know what? No one else has noticed. No one can see a change. But, I can. I know there is no longer decomposing debris in my car; in my life anymore and that peace of mind is so worth all the unnoticed heavy (car seat) lifting.

​

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography
This article was originally published in the May 2017 edition of 605 Magazine.

“Mommy, what does “fat” mean?”

I was walking up the stairs — embarrassingly out of breath — carrying my son, when my daughter shouted the pensive question from the bottom of the stairs.

“What?!” I asked taken aback. We had just gotten done playing legos, jumping on a trampoline, playing house and generally destroying the play room. Where did this come from? We don’t even use the words fat and skinny around her, so this question felt deep left field.

“What does FAT mean?” She repeated. “And, Mommy … am I fat?”

I had just arrived at the top of the stairs and suddenly felt like I was going to fall back and topple right back on down them. I couldn’t believe the innocent, searching words I was just served up by my five-year-old daughter and knew I needed to catch my breath and focus.

Don’t be an idiot, Tracy. One side of my brain said. Don’t make this a big deal or an after-school special, she’s only five. Just breeze past it. But the other side of my brain, the brain that is always looking for those pure gold teaching moments said, Take your time with this one. Talk it through.

For many mothers or even fathers, this type of conversation might not cause any triggers at all. Perhaps they’ve always had healthy role models, never saw food as the enemy, have always exercised in moderation for health benefits only and maybe even have the metabolism of the likes of Jesus. (If this is you, I hope you’re eating a deep personal pan pepperoni pizza RIGHT NOW). Whatever the case, body image, eating, or self confidence have never really been a hang up to them. And then there are some people that have visited the other camp. The camp that has, in fact, experienced some sort of distorted idea of themselves and perhaps tried to compensate for it via eating, not eating, exercising, and/or everything in-between.

I am a woman that has visited that other camp.

I had just graduated college in Southern California and I was living in Los Angeles at the time. All around me eating disorders ran rampant. So rampant in fact, I didn’t even notice when it was happening around me anymore. It was said that 1 in 3 women at my college had some shape or form of a disorder and I had just grown eerily accustomed to it. Whenever I heard about an eating disorder, I just didn’t understand it at all and went back to eating my waffle. (I know, I was super compassionate back then.)

Then, I remember the exact moment I, myself, started thinking about calories and as it related to my self-confidence. I was sitting at an amazing Mexican food joint in West Hollywood and all our orders came out at the same time. I looked across the table and all of my girlfriends had ordered salads; dressing on the side, no cheese, hold the tortilla strips. Basically, you know, prison food. I looked down at my plate and there sat the most beautiful giant enchilada topped with a dazzling layer of cheese, smothered in some sort of enchanting hot cream sauce with a side of glorious rice. Basically, you know, heaven. I picked up my fork to dive in and out of nowhere I was suddenly self-conscious. I felt guilty even. And in that moment I allowed a sneaky lie from hell to creep into my soul and firmly plant itself: You are not beautiful if you eat that, it whispered. And I listened. I scraped the cream and cheese off, peeled back the tortilla and sadly ate just the chicken. And that’s how it all began. I still think about the tragedy of wasting that beautiful enchilada to this day.

After that moment, I found myself planning what I was going to eat days beforehand; scouring menus before I went to a restaurant. Always counting calories. Working out at all hours of the day. It became a sort of a game, until of course it wasn’t anymore. After awhile, I began avoiding places where I didn’t have control over what was going to be served. I had “safe foods” and “safe restaurants” where I would order the same thing over and over. The “game” of counting calories and burning them off began to consume my thought life. At one point I looked in the mirror and couldn’t remember a time where I wasn’t thinking about calories, exercising, and the number on the scale. It was owning me. Food became my enemy and I could barely recognize myself.

Long story short, for more reasons than one, I had to get out of LA. So, I did what everyone should do in their 20’s: I moved to Colorado. It was there that I began to find healing from my very unhealthy thought patterns and habits. In Colorado, I found myself surrounded by healthy people with healthy habits. Everyone I met there ate carbs?! We hiked, skied, biked, ran, and laughed not to hastily, erratically burn calories but for fun?! I did some counseling. I played in the healing shadow of the mountains. I prayed a lot. I admitted my struggle to a few close friends and family and one day, months and months later, I noticed, my thoughts were clear. I found joy in eating healthy, nutrient rich foods and also found joy in eating tacos and donuts. I found a beautiful balance. I couldn’t believe it — I was completely free — and it was only then did I really realize the true weight of the bondage I had been carrying.

Fast forward almost 10 years later and there I was staring my five-year-old beautiful daughter in the face as she asks me the meaning of “fat.” I am so thankful because I know I’m prepared for this moment. I’m ready to tell her what “fat” means, but as I opened my mouth to talk, she interrupts me.

“Mommy, like, P-H, phat! That phat? Like what Lady Glitter Sparkles calls King Gristle in the movie “Trolls”?”

I laughed and quickly told her that “P-H, phat” means “super groovy” or “super cool”. (Obviously, I am so HIP. Also, when did I turn 70-years-old with this vernacular?). She gave me a weird look and said, “Ohhhhh, PHAT!” And off she ran …

“But wait! There is another kind of faaaaa …” I trailed off as she disappeared.

Dangitt! I was so ready. I was ready to tell her how perfect her body is; how God created her legs to run and jump and explore, how He created her mouth to speak and sing beautiful love into the world, how her arms are the perfect shape and size to give great big bear hugs, how the food she eats fuels her body to go change the world around her. I was so ready to tell her all of it. But, I smiled as I realized ... there’s so much time to tell her; so much time to show her.

So, I guess I’m off the hook … for now. I’ll guess I’ll just save my after school special for another day, or I guess, for this column.

​

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography 
This article was originally published in the April 2017 edition of 605 Magazine.

India.

It started calling to me a couple of years ago. And at first, I didn’t listen. In fact, I balked at the idea of ever -- I mean EVER -- traveling to India. Too extreme! I scolded myself. This is just another one of your crazy ideas like that time you tried to pretend you didn’t like bread. Move along, Self. Forget about India. And eat some bread why don’t ya.

But unlike some of my other wacky ideas of years past, my heart couldn’t seem to forget.

India just kept right on calling. A dear friend of mine had been before on a service trip and she encouraged me in my newfound interest in India. A man, from India, came and spoke at our church about his family in India and his story gripped my heart. During my son’s health scare last year, many of his doctors were from, yes, India. People would send me unprovoked, random articles about India. I started to crave Indian food. I was, or at least I felt like I was, being bombarded with all things India.

After a while, I sat up straight and started to pay attention. Why was India calling? It seemed so random considering the fact I never had any interest in visiting India prior to this time. And within a few months I seemingly got my answer: My same dear friend that had been to India before was going again on a service trip for 10 days and she was taking a group of girlfriends with her. Would I like to go? She asked.

Would I like to go? The question haunted me for weeks. And while my heart said an unequivocal “yes”, my mind and my circumstances said; “Girlfriend! Have you lost your dang mind?” We were, at the time, in the midst of selling our house, a building project, packing, moving, and generally just trying to stay afloat. I stay at home with my two small children and we have no other childcare in place so me being gone for 10 days just didn’t make sense. Not to mention, I had no desire to leave my kids or my husband for that long. So, I listened to my mind and my circumstances. No, I can’t go to India, I settled with myself. Maybe some other time.

But then came an informational meeting about the trip and I weirdly found myself going. I reasoned that I would just go and listen to the mission of the trip. Just listen. But at the end of the meeting, I found a passion that started as a spark a couple of years ago was now raging into a full-blown inferno. I left the meeting with an inflamed purpose and found my heart saying, How could I NOT go?

But there were so many obstacles to overcome. How would I pay for it? Who would watch my kids? Who would get our house ready for showings in my absence? Who would make house-building decisions? Isn’t it selfish to leave my family for that long? And, what was my husband going to say? I fully anticipated him trying to talk me out of it. If I’m honest, a part of me wanted him to do that very thing. Then, I would be off the hook; I would have an excuse. But instead, he looked me straight in the eye and said:

“GO. Follow your passion. It’s never going to be a good time, so if not now, when?”

I cried. Because I knew he was right. We are not guaranteed tomorrow and if we don’t go where we are called today, follow our passions today, will we ever?

So, I dusted off my passport. I joined five other brave women – some of them young mothers as well – and we made the journey (understatement of the year) around the world to India. And all of those insurmountable circumstances? They melted away. In our absence, people rallied around our families; and my mother dropped everything and came and stayed with our children for a week. I missed my children so bad it hurt, but it opened up incredible conversations with my daughter and illustrated to her that our hearts, our compassion, and our purpose do not always stay contained within the doorframes of our comfortable home.
​
I’m saying all of this to say, Lord knows, not everyone is called to India. But yet we all have an “India” in our life; something that is calling us, lovingly nagging at us, gripping our hearts. Possibly something we have shelved because of life’s circumstances or impossibilities. I have so many of these things sitting on this proverbial shelf. But my pilgrimage to India taught me, among countless other beautiful life truths, when it comes to callings, passions, and purpose, we can’t afford to ignore these things any longer.

Because … if not now, when?



​

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography 
This article was originally published in the March 2017 edition of 605 Magazine. 

Whew, it’s getting ugly out there.

And for once, I’m not even talking about the weather. I’m talking about modern day human discourse. As in, the manner in which we communicate with one another. Maybe it has always been this ugly, but now instead of just thinking bad, mean, or sarcastic thoughts, a lot of us suddenly have cyber courage. That is, every little thought we have seems to somehow catapult their way out of our minds, making their way like rushing torpedoes into our ferociously typing fingers and BOOM!: Our most retched thoughts are splattered across the interwebs for all to see.

I took a break from social media and the news for awhile because of this negativity phenomenon. Sometimes it’s hard to find north when all you hear is noise. So, I pressed pause on the noise. I started reading real paper things again (gasp!). Books, magazines, the paper, essays; basically anything that didn’t have a “comment” section. Because as we all know, reading the comments section of pretty much anything online these days feels like you’ve swiftly been transported to the bowels of hell based on some of the exchanges  you see between people.

So, I lived outside of the internet for awhile.

And I started thinking about real life. The life that happens outside of the internet and the comment sections. I started thinking about everyone being so seemingly angry at one another. Everyone so convinced they are right about everything. Seems like no one is willing to listen anymore, but yet everyone sure is willing to talk.

In all of this, my biggest worry has been, how do I go about teaching my kids to be slow to speak and quick to listen in a world that is doing the exact opposite? How do I mimic this to them when even I suddenly have an urge to hop right on up on a proverbial soap box and shout some things and then quickly drop the mic and run away and hide?

I was so deep in thought about all of this last week while I was leaving a meeting, and I made a turn onto a street I’ve probably driven on a thousand times. But, all of a sudden, people started honking at me. Startled, I looked around and realized … I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street in downtown Sioux Falls.

True story, dear reader. I was one of those people. Driving the wrong way on a street. I should have been on Argus 911. “Idiot woman wreaking havoc in Downtown driving wrong way on 10th Street.” Maybe I was on Argus 911. I don’t know. But I will tell you: I’ve never, ever, ever in my life done anything like that. I pride myself on being a good driver and an impeccable parallel parker to boot (a skill acquired out of necessity going to college on a mountainside with limited parking and being perpetually tardy to, well, everything). But on that day, I was not a good driver. I was a distracted, deep in thought, driver. So, if you saw me that day driving the wrong way, I’m sorry. It’s OK if you judged me. It’s OK if you honked and even maybe if you gave me the bird. I deserved it.

But in all of the chaos that I caused driving the wrong way, there was one lady who saw me and didn’t seem to judge me. She didn’t get angry. She just honked to get my attention while laughing and threw up her hands in the air and shrugged her shoulders as if to say: It’s OK! You’re going to be OK! Just turn around. I’m not even mad! Just turn around, we will all be OK.

So, I did. I turned around. Her nonchalant response gave me the courage to not freeze in fear in the middle of the road while cars were whirling at me. I quickly backed up and got myself out of ongoing traffic. I got back on the other road and started to drive away – albeit heart all aflutter – and I started going the right direction this time. I saw the lady again as I drove off and she waved and smiled. I sheepishly waved back in an extremely apologetic “Oops!”

I couldn’t get that woman or her reaction out of my head as I drove home to pick up my children. I kept going over and over it in my head until I realized why that woman’s reaction so impacted me: In a moment that was entirely my fault, in a moment where she was very justified in getting angry or belittling me, she instead chose to show me grace.

GRACE.

That’s it, guys. That is what is missing in the comment sections. That is what is missing in our modern day discourse with one another. Grace. Unmerited mercy. Unmerited kindness. And, that is the how, the what, and the why we can show our kids in the face of the ugliness going on out there. No shouting, no bird-giving whilst driving, no belittling. Just grace. Even when we think or know people are dead wrong, going the wrong direction, headed the wrong direction, or faced the wrong direction...

Just grace.

​

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography 
Originally published in the February 2017 edition of 605 Magazine. 

If there is one thing being a parent has taught me so far — in my measly almost six years of experience —  it is this: Just as we cannot create a human on our own, we cannot raise, let alone prosper, a human on our own. No parent, single or married, can wholly shoulder the tremendous honor and responsibility of helping shape a life. No way. We need some major reinforcements. We need sage advice from those that have been there, raised that. We need friends and family to help love our child. Sometimes we need teams of medical professionals to care for our child. Other times we just need someone to bring us a (or several) glazed donut(s) and watch us, without judgment, as we eat our feelings.

But moral of this story, parents and future parents? As trite as it sounds, we can’t do it alone.

I’ve been thinking about this truth lately, and I was reminded of a time a few years ago when I saw in action the validity of this “it takes a village” mindset.

My husband and I were relatively new to the Sioux Falls scene and we randomly saw an advertisement for the Sioux Empire Home Show. Trapped by the frigid temps and with nothing really else to do, we packed up our young daughter and off we went to look at things that we couldn’t buy nor knew nothing about. But, regardless, we were out of the house in February: VICTORY.

When we arrived at the convention center, we purchased tickets and we were given a plastic bag, which we learned later was for all the samples, trinkets, candy, etc. you can collect at the various booths along the way. A goody bag, if you will. Our daughter, probably around three-years-old at the time, was riding face-forward in her stroller and really perked up when she saw there was potential for candy consumption.

As we walked through the giant conventional hall, we were overwhelmed and in awe of all things home this “Home Show” boasted. Not knowing quite where to start, we went with a crowd favorite and where all roads should start and end: The concession stand. We bought some sort of unhealthy carb and gave it to our daughter in hopes of distracting her from the fact that she would be bored out of her mind in approximately seven seconds. Content for now with her carb, we pushed her in the stroller as my husband and I delightfully wandered the aisles of the show.
At one point, we stopped to look at kitchen sinks. As we were talking and admiring, out of the corner of my eye I saw a man looking at us and waving from across the aisle a little way down. I waved a casual wave back, and looked away.

Sidenote confession: I am horrific at remembering names and faces. Horrific. My husband, however, is the exact opposite. He never forgets a face or a name and we would be hard pressed to go anywhere without him recognizing someone.

So, as I saw this man out the corner of my eye and he really seemed to know us as he was waving and smiling a little more frantically now, I began to silently panic. Who is he? I have no idea who he is. Have I forgotten that I met him? Mayday! Mayday! He’s closing in on us!

Trying not to make eye contact with the man, I sharply nudged my husband. “Jon, do you know this guy?” I said between clenched teeth. My husband looked up and surprised at how fast he was coming at us, said “No, do you?”

Breathless, the man arrived at our scene and before I could get out my best awkward “Hello!?” greeting, he pointed at my daughter sitting in the front of the stroller while we were standing behind her. “Your daughter ... Your daughter put a plastic bag over her head!”

What?!

SO not what I was expecting.

I ran to the front of the stroller and there she was, our three-year-old giggling … With a plastic bag over her head. Panicked, I ripped the bag off her head and she burst into laughter. I sighed a big sigh of relief, hugged her obnoxiously, and begin to tell her the danger of plastic bags. “Oh no! You could suffocate, honey! We cannot put plastic bags over our heads! Where did you get this plastic bag?!” She pointed to a table near her where there were other Goody Bags like the one we were carrying around. I sighed. We were standing two-feet away. We had maybe looked away for mere seconds, but in that timeframe she had grabbed a bag, and put it over her head as a joke. You know those warnings explicitly written on plastic bags to KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN? Yes, those warnings are apparently for us.

I’m pretty sure our “Parents of the Year” trophy was revoked that day.

I stood up and profusely thanked the man. He laughed and said, “Don’t worry! I have kids, too. Can you believe the stuff they do?” He was a stranger. He didn’t have to notice my daughter. He didn’t have to come running down the huge aisle to warn us. But he did. He was part of our village that day.
​
As parents, we can do our most very best. We can be the most vigilant parent on earth. We can hover until we can hover no more. But, at some point along the way, we will need help. Sometimes it will come in the form of a stranger running down an aisle to warn idiot parents their child has a bag on their head, or it may come as advice, it may come as someone simply listening, or, help may come, again, in the form of a gifted glazed donut. But most times, I’m realizing, help comes when we realize we as parents can’t do it all and just ask for help. Recognizing that we simply, for the sake of our children, cannot make this journey alone.

Image Credit: Crista Ballard Photography 
Originally published in the November 2016 edition of 605 Magazine.

I’ve always thought it quite odd whenever I have heard someone say “If only I could be a fly on the wall …” This particular turn of phrase usually means the speaker wants to covertly eavesdrop on an event or conversation by becoming a fly. But, I’m always wondering; Why would you want to be a fly? Why not some other small, more cleanly, less-demonic creature? I hate flies. I find them to be useless, disgusting, vexing creatures. And so it comes as ironic that I learned a valuable life lesson via a poor fly a few weeks ago.

It all began when my husband sweetly asked months in advance if it would work for our schedule if he took a much-deserved four-day trip away. With naive enthusiasm and what would turn out to be false confidence in my heart, I flippantly said "Of course!"

As the four-day trip approached－as with most things on my calendar and basically tasks and events in general －I completely forgot about it. So it came as a shock when two days before, my husband gently reminded me. I gave him a blank stare. What trip? I vaguely remembered something about him going away, but that must have been a joke, right? Ok, husband, you got me! Big “LOL”! But as I quickly checked my calendar there it was: “Jon Away” with the menacing all-day banner spanning Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Uh-oh. Who agreed to this, again?

I feel like I should pause here and say, I am an independent woman, gosh darnit! I know I can care for my children AND not burn the house down for a long weekend. But for some reason, four days suddenly felt incredibly daunting. Nonetheless, I set out planning what I hoped would be one grand adventure for our four-day time together. On the first day, we went to an idyllic apple orchard, we baked, we napped, both the kids and I were filled with glee and I felt like, Boy, oh Boy, I am an amazing mother.

And just like anything else in life, pride truly does cometh before the fall.

The disasters started small. While out to eat, my toddler took one of his new tennis shoes off and threw it out of the car. I searched everywhere for a half hour－only to find it after getting on my stomach in the dirty parking lot and crawling underneath a parked car to retrieve it. No big deal. So, I had tar on my shirt? Survivable.

That same night, my daughter suddenly had a weird rash on her leg. And while rashes usually make me hyperventilate into a brown bag, I confidently breezed past it.

Next, I got a phone call from our realtor that we would be having a house showing the next day for our house that is (STILL) on the market. Again, I was optimistic. I could easily clean the whole house while everyone slept at night.

Except … no one slept. For some reason, my brag-worthy heavy sleeping children chose this weekend to sleep regress. The house was in shambles. And 30 minutes before the showing, I heard the unmistakable sound of my dog throwing up. Finding that extremely odd as he never does that, I quickly mopped up the mess only to walk in the living room to catch my daughter accidently spilling her chocolate milk all over the living room carpet. Now, at defcon 5, I was manically scrubbing the carpet and out of desperation I sequestered the children in my daughter's room, the last room to be cleaned.

As I entered her room, both children were sweetly playing and I began to do my speedy vacuum routine. I opened the curtains and raised the blinds and aghast in disgust, I noticed a dead fly on the window sill. I quickly turned back to grab the attachment to vacuum up the deceased little spawn of satan, and just as I had my back to it, my toddler son suddenly was standing at the window. As I walked toward him I noticed him pick up something and－like he does with everything－put it in his mouth. Not registering what just happened, I went to suck up the fly and … it wasn’t there. Confused, I looked everywhere and then in slow motion with horror music playing in my head, I realized what happened. I glanced at my smiling son and I knew.

Oh, Lord Jesus, take the Wheel.
He. Just. Ate. A. Dead. Fly. I repeat, a dead fly.

Horrified, nauseated, and frozen in terror, I screamed dramatically “Nooooooo!!!” But it was too late, my son smiled at me as if nothing horrific just transpired and nonchalantly went back to what he believed was a run-of-the-mill Friday.

The day and honestly the whole weekend went on with more disasters that I do not have room to document here. By the end of the four-day adventure, I submit to you, dear reader, I felt like I was failing at life. How could I not? My children were literally eating dead flies.

But the valuable lesson I learned was this: As a parent, not everyday is going to be a stroll through an idyllic apple orchard.  I’m going to have “my kids are eating flies” type days. All I can do, honestly, in that moment is, admit defeat. Call it. Laugh it off, clean my window sill, buy a fly swatter, and start over the next day.

​(And never agree to your husband going away on a four-day trip. Ever.)

​

 "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” - Jesus 

Ok, guys. I'm just going to address the (GOP) elephant in the room. Donald Trump is our President Elect. And to me, in my relatively small circle of Christian friends, it feels like the wheels are coming off within a lot of our own Christian communities. In fact, they have been coming off for awhile, but this is kind of the straw that broke the camel's back and has really revealed to our culture how seemingly confused and divided is our Christian community.

The admonishment by Jesus to "love one another" and "by this everyone will know that you are my disciples if you love one another" was made in regard to loving each other, that is, brothers and sisters of the Christian faith.

So, you can keep your answers to yourself here, but how do you think we are doing right now? How do you think our country/world thinks we are doing with this whole "loving each other"? Do you think people not of the faith are around saying; "Wow! I am REALLY seeing and feeling the love from those Jesus people!" 

Just based on social media feeds, Christian publications, and admittedly even the rumination of my own heart, I'm going to have say: NOPE. 

I deleted all of my social media accounts months before the election because at that point already, my heart couldn't take it. There was so much negativity. So much anger. And now after the election, out of sick curiosity, I logged onto my husband's account and what I found was abhorrent. And, Christians, the ugly postings? The angry words? It was us. A lot of it was us.

So much of what I read was divisive language. So much of it tore each other down. It may have been thinly veiled, but it was there: If you didn't vote like me, brother or sister, we must love a different Jesus because just HELLO?! 

Many of us that were not in the Trump camp look at the exit polls and point to other Christians and say, "IT'S YOUR FAULT!" And those of us that were in the Trump camp shout back to those other Christians, "YAH, NO THANKS TO YOU!" 

There's a lot of shouting going on. 

And I'm here to say: Can we just cool it? First of all, if the election told us anything at the very surface level, it is the media cannot be trusted nor can pollsters or their polls. So, why are we clinging to stats and figures and news reports? And then, on a grander scale, even after the election, why are we clinging so tightly to our favorite candidates as if our salvation depended on it?

"Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the LORD."

One of things that just keeps running through my mind as I'm writing this are some of the descriptions and names of God He has given us about Himself:

Prince of Peace. King of Kings. Savior. Redeemer. Friend. Father. Healer.

Do any of those names describe or encompass Donald J. Trump or Hillary R. Clinton? Would either of those two people bring peace, salvation, or unconditional love to all of us? I think you're all (hopefully) with me on this one and shaking your head 'no'. So, then why oh, Christian are our words, our postings, our conversations with one another saying otherwise?! Some of us are acting like Hillary Clinton was the answer to all our problems and are crying, mourning her loss. Some are acting like Donald Trump is our knight in shining armor in to swoop American off its feet and woo her back to her alleged youthful beauty.

But, instead of posting how "sad" we are because of the election results or "disappointed" or "fearful", why not use words of Godly power to unify, strengthen, and bring the GOOD NEWS of Jesus in the face of all of this uncertainty and hurt?

Instead of boasting of a Trump win and boasting in how he is going to "make America great again" can we boast in the power of only Jesus to bring rest and peace to a struggling people? Because nothing can make our country great again or even greater than it ever has been than by turning ourselves away from just mere allegiance to security and country and toward our undivided allegiance toward God.

“When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command locusts to devour the land or send a plague among my people,  if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.  Now my eyes will be open and my ears attentive to the prayers offered in this place." 

You guys. This is our time, as a church, as a people to be who God has asked us to be: To let our light therefore shine before men through true repentance and prayer. This is our time to not show a divided people, but a people so united in our love for Jesus Christ that people can't help be drawn to it as the culture/kingdom they worship falls into chaos. We should be utterly amped at this opportunity -- when people across BOTH (immense emphasis on both) aisles are trying to label each of us by race, religion, sexuality -- to show without fear and hesitation the love and promise of salvation that is available to ALL of us. Because who is the ONE ruler in all of history who said under Him there is zero labels and really meant it? Nationality, religion, gender, born or unborn ... All of them ONE under Him? Jesus. Jesus said that. I guess if we're going to shout, let's shout that truth by simply living it.

"Nevertheless I have this against you, that you have left your first love ..."
-Jesus 

True revival is stirring in my heart, brother and sister, and I believe God is stirring the same in yours. He is calling us back to our first love, not our favorite candidate for President, and He is calling us in a renewed call to love God with all our hearts, souls, minds, and strength. God often uses times of struggle, times of doubt, to bring clear our need for Him. 

"Some trust in chariots, and some in horses;
But we will remember the name of the Lord our God."

Can we recognize that even though we live in a shining superpower of the world with a sterling democratic republic that we still need Him? Obviously, we need Him to heal our land. But first, we need to individually be changed from within; redirect our hearts, repent, and forsake all other idols that we have put before Him -- country, politics, even our own churches, our own families, our own children, our own selves -- and simply go back to our first love: Jesus. Then, we can love one another purely. Then, they will know we are His. Then, healing can come to our land.

The real responsibility is with me and you. Not the president. Not the government. Me and you. 

Will you join me in revival?