Potty Talk

*** A bit of entertaining encouragement I discovered in the 2015 SAHM archives. Pardon the length. There were a LOT of skips to the loo, my darlings.

“YAY!!!” Cheerful applause echoes from the hall bathroom. Privacy is overrated. The toddler had triumphed yet again at the toilet, and we had cause to celebrate! Asa was the 7th child - and possibly/hopefully the last - to potty train under my watch care.

In response to the many questions I receive: Yes, it does seem to get easier.

I'm not sure if girls are easier than boys.

Yes, every child is different . . . every potty training experience is different.

I trained Landen by myself. The onset was effortless in an instant. He was in the bath. Supper had settled, and he had a need. I opted to set him on the potty instead of strapping a diaper on. He delivered. He purposed in his heart that this newfound method was preferable. And so it was: Landen's #2 training.

Oddly, the typical first phase of training took years for Landen. He had a small bladder and though he controlled it all day, he couldn't remain dry all night until he was in elementary school. We knew it wasn't willful disobedience. We allowed no drinks after 6pm. We even woke him to empty his bladder on our way to bed. The only thing that worked was patience and growth.

As in most things, Luke's experience was directly opposite of Landen's. He was "tee-tee trained" by two years old, but poo was another story - a private, sordid tale of dark corners and stinky rebellion. We would constantly and consistently allow him to sit and try. Yet he demanded to wait. He had self-control. It was just aligned with the wrong method. Typically, we would find him behind a recliner, grunting through a red-faced scowl. Those few months were honestly worse than the many years we waited with Landen.

I don't really remember any drama associated with Ardyn's potty training. For a week, she ran around naked, back and forth from her potty chair to whatever struck her fancy in the following moment. With only the usual fanfare, she accomplished that week's goal, and Voila'!

I give all credit for Ashlin's successful training to Luke. His three favorite things are challenges, rewards, and being the boss. We set the timer for 20 minutes, and when it chimed, he hollered, "C'mon Ash-Bash!!! Go Go Go!!! Let's try to tee-tee and then we can have a skittle!" She was completely trained within the first big bag of skittles.

I had similar assistance with Mari Alice. But by eighteen months, she was articulate and believed she could train herself. She seemed bothered that we offered supervision. She just wanted to do it herself. She verbally walked herself through the process . . . "Tee-tee, plop, wipe, flush-wid-thumb, gittup on stool and washa hands with soap!" We had a LOT of torn toilet paper on the floor, a LOT of over-squirted soap on the counter, and ALWAYS drips of water down the hallway. And sometimes she would forget to go. Out of all the kids, she cried the most.

With Giz, it was a team effort. This time I offered fruit snacks - equal reward for trainer AND escort. I had folks hurdling sofas to take her to the potty. And since everyone seemed to have personal investment and confidence in her faithfulness, she was the youngest Johnson to wear underwear into public. *Super-safe, control-freak, crisis-averter Momma has been known to stick a diaper on a kid for a grocery morning . . . just because. By 26 months, Little Miss had been into town SEVERAL times in big girl panties. Freedom and victory all around.

"No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it." – Hebrews 12:11

· The easiest thing in life would be to just live in diapers. Gross, but easy.

· Disciplined living is hard work. Unpleasant at times, but progress is peace.

· Sometimes it just takes time. You can do all the right things, but patience is the discipline.

· Self-control is a powerful tool. Make sure it's aimed in the right direction.

· For some who are willing to throw aside all that entangles, and just enjoy the adventure, training comes happily and with ease.

· If you have someone committed to live the process with you, moment by moment, you are almost guaranteed solid success.

· If you demand to go it alone, the road may be long, difficult, lonely, and sad.

· Submitting to the wisdom and discipline of others who've gone before can be sweet success.

· When you take the time to invest in the lives of others, there is shared confidence and great reward.

· Privacy is overrated. Triumph in the tiny things is still cause for celebration!

House and Keeping

He sipped the coffee I had handed him as we stood at the bay window of my new-to-me kitchen, marveling together over the enormous potential of such a big back yard. He had been my father-in-law for twelve years, and now that we were homeowners, he was insistent on building us a swing set for our four kids.

He stared at the pipe he had welded together that morning, “Let me tellya, Girl, this’ll be sturdy. Them kids won’t be able to tear nothin’ apart. I measured ‘n’ there's just enough room for me to put hooks for four swings! Ain’t none of them’ll have to share or take turns. Every kid can have their own swing. That’s how their PaPaw’s making it!”

I silently sipped my decaf and nervously smiled. How could I tell him what only Philip and I knew?

Four swings would be quite sufficient for about seven and a half more months. Oh boy. Or girl.

He finished the massive swing set, sunk it in about 4 feet of concrete (I'll tell you how I know that in just a minute), and then returned to his home.

A couple of months later when we shared our news of expectancy, the first thing he thought of was that swing set. “This ain't no problem! I'll come over and weld a piece off the end to hold another swing!”

Three years later, when we announced yet, another child, he decided he couldn't keep up. He made a joke about how if we were “gonna keep at it”, we'd just have to make the teenagers give the babies a turn, and that was that.

We lived in the house with the swing set for the rest of PaPaw’s life. For hours and hours, year after year, we enjoyed countless squeals to “push me higher!” Preschoolers slowly built their confidence while teens dared to leap midswing–until the toddlers grew into preteens and the teens to adults with kids of their own.

When we sold that house it was simply not an option to leave the swing set. So we endeavored to dig up the sturdy legs and haul it with a trailer down the highway to our new home. We labored diligently against PaPaw's deep-seated assumption that we would swing there til Jesus came back. So. Much. Concrete.

Determination, sweat, and teamwork … and a little bit more determination were all we needed. God bless PaPaw was all our weary souls could say.

We set the swings in the backyard of our new house and they served us well for years. When we moved this last time, it was thankfully just up a grassy hill past the line of trees. A mercifully brief tractor ride delivered the frame to our new backyard and all was well.

We cleaned it up, settled the legs in a conservative amount of concrete and [finally] painted over the raw red iron with industrial-strength, high-gloss black paint and ordered new heavy-duty swings to last the next twenty years.

Home is where the swingset is.

Simple, strong, secure and ready for a packet of great-grandkids PaPaw could have only imagined.

Preservation can be a pain. Restoration is hard work. But honor and legacy … worthy and worth the effort. Not only are we keeping memories alive, we're making new ones all the more.

Thank You, God, for Fred Johnson. For the life he lived and the love he shared. For the gifts both tangible and intangible that he left behind.

*excessive concrete notwithstanding.

Field of Dreams

Since the tickets were a birthday gift, we weren't sure exactly what to expect. We could tell by the row and seat numbers that we would be sitting pretty close to home plate, so we were super excited for the 1:30 first pitch.

While Philip checked locations for parking options, I made sure to read up on guidelines and restrictions concerning food and handbags. We decided to grab a couple sausage biscuits from a drive through and quickly eat them in the rented parking spot before walking to the stadium toting our carefully packed almonds and cashews. Our plan was to splurge for a refillable souvenir cup in order to remain hydrated without spending a fortune.

Tons of energy were spent toward ensuring we had what we would need. You know: "So we can relax and enjoy the game."

Once we arrived at our seats and sat down, an usher greeted us. "May I interest you in a beer or soda?" Philip and I replied with a tidy, unified, "No, thanks." After a few seconds of pause, the usher said, "You don't even know what your ticket includes, do you?"

He proceeded to escort us down a private staircase which opened into an enormous restaurant housing a grand buffet of roast beef, coconut-crusted talapia, arugula salad, cheese cake, made-to-order crepes, and a full service of unlimited beverages. He clarified that we were welcome to come and go as we please throughout the entire game. Additionally, we had the option of simply requesting items to be brought to our seats. Back on our row just behind the on-deck circle, a server passed by our aisle every few minutes offering more drinks and snacks.

Everything we needed was already provided - more than we could have ever consumed.

I must have looked ridiculous arriving to my plush seat with our regulation tote of assorted tree nuts. And those sausage biscuits gobbled down in the front seat of our car? Also ridiculous.

So because the Rangers are intermittently terrible, I had time to listen to what God was saying to me. How often do I scrounge and scarf to supply my perceived needs? So much energy is spent hashing out the guidelines - I scurry and skimp and cram stuff into compartments of my life hoping my provisions are compliant and sufficient. In the scope of eternity, my anxious posture is ridiculous.

God promises to meet our needs, not according to limitations and regulations, but according to his riches! He has unlimited nourishment, boundless access and extravagant grace, and it is mine. I didn't pay for it. It is simply a marvelous gift.

Wisdom, joy and peace come as I stop worrying about what I'll eat or drink (or where I'll park) like it depends on me, and begin again to walk humbly and confidently into His invitations fully aware that everything I need is ready to go.

Will I need to offer forgiveness? Got it. How will that work out? No idea, but He has a way. What if someone needs my patience? Not a problem. How will we be able to serve that person when we're already weary? He is able. Will there be enough? Always. The answer is yes and amen.

Do I need to worry about __________? Not at all. It has been taken care of.

You know what we can do? Receive it and enjoy.

Philippians 4:19 "And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus."

Joining the Club

After watching him for decades as he consistently enjoys his own recreation (while "providing meat for the family"), I am finally wising up.

He is a hunter. In every season, he anticipates his next excursion and prepares. He chats and strategizes. He gears up and heads out. He can be gone for the day or the weekend.

Sometimes he returns with nothing outward to show for his absence. Other times he comes in with harvest tales, renewed wholeness, and the promise of a hundred and fifty pounds of frozen [expensive] meat to arrive neatly packaged and labeled with his initials.

Wisdom ... choosing rhythms of re-creation ... a change of pace and scenery in which to find provision, fresh perspective and rest.

And so.

I hunt dove … true story …

and grass-fed cattle.

Figurative peace and actual beef. Of course I never have to fire a shot. The whole operation is clean, understated, and wonderfully time consuming.

I intentionally set aside a day or a weekend and I quietly anticipate the goodness until I boldly depart.

My favorite hunting spots:

A conference. Any conference. I love a good framework of well-organized, informative sessions where everyone sits in climate-controlled comfort doing more listening than talking. I love it.

A concert. Assigned seats in a darkened room where it's too loud for small talk. Deal.

A casual stroll. Where gentle movement is the destination and the revelation runs wild.

A cottage. Clean and cozy space where there are no responsibilities and ample freedom to gather and share my thoughts.

A car. I love a good road-trip. Cue the audio books, shuffle through new music, or just ride in silence letting the road noise drown out any anxious thoughts so the dreams pipe through the daytime loud and clear.

A cause. If I am thriving in my real life, then I prefer to vacate with a purpose. I volunteer. I'm addicted. Homeschool conventions, women's conferences, advocating for orphans at concerts … I love how helpful teamwork behind the scenes improves everyone's experience. It's also interesting that sacrifice grants access before the crowds and beyond the curtains.

My favorite supplies:

Fancy snacks. The kind I would never buy as part of a click list or on a normal Tuesday.

Fuss-free clothing. Comfort and monochromatic dependability are key.

Fine point pens and a college ruled spiral. At all times. Lists or lyrics, sketches or scripture doodles … the possibilities are endless and the end result is scribbled joy. Flip the page: another marvelous fresh start promising even more joy.

I love the pursuit of peace … my version of a dove hunt. And I love the flexibility of hunting grass-fed beef … hunt year round, anywhere you like (I'm looking at you, sandy beach), and rock the solo trip, bring a buddy, or pack the full band.

I typically return with nothing outward to show for my unusual exodus, but I have tales of beauty and renewed wholeness … and the eventual bounty of a [comparably priced] side of beef neatly packaged and ready for my sharpied initials.

Who’s in? I’m not opposed to getting geared up and decked out and recording some slow-paced, watch and wait, whisper-videos … just not in the woods.

All the love,

cdj

PS. As much as I've been hunting over the past few years, there has always been plenty of venison in our freezer, so I've not yet had to place an order with the ranch. We've got a good thing going.

Not Anxious ... to Share

I guess it is time to talk about it.

The first attack.

It was a quiet Friday in the office. No events, no deadlines, just jeans and a team birthday outing for lunch. Best case scenario … more than a year ago.

I remember feeling “off”. I sat alone at my desk, silently trying to self-assess. I couldn't decide if I was nauseated or needed to eat. I wasn't sure if I was hot or cold, but I felt sweaty. My hands were tingling and my head was spinning. Did I need a walk or to lie down? Did I need a drink or to go to the restroom? Was it my heart or all in my head?

Choosing another hour or so of denial, I faked it through lunch and conversations, light-headed with a heaviness in my chest. Taking things as easily as I could, I made it through.

Because my heart was racing and I could barely stand, I agreed to go to the clinic. I wanted to go home but was afraid to drive. I called my daughter to see if she could meet me. My blood pressure and heart rate were both high and I was encouraged to go the ER.

I remember feeling a measure of peace as I settled into the waiting room chair. If I was going to die, this would be the least chaotic, most appropriate place filled with capable personnel. I was calming into a sense of semi-safety. 

All vitals were normal, and each test and scan came back surprisingly negative. “So. I'm not gonna die, but I am possibly crazy. Cool, cool.” The intravenous muscle relaxers smoothed my thoughts into a blurry blend of relief, confusion, concern and embarrassment. 

“Are you under a lot of stress, Mrs. Johnson?”

My brain: um … no. Not at all. I just returned from a relaxing week at the beach, everything at home is happy and handled, and there are no important events or deadlines on the horizon.

My heart: um … not really. Family is good. Work is good. I love Jesus and He loves me. I feel fine, I think.

My body: um … are you friggin kidding me?!? I am NOT ok. I haven't been ok in a LONG time. I am sick of being ignored. I am freaking out, ok??

Dis-integration. 

I was discharged with a protocol referral to a cardiologist, advice to see my counselor, and a prescription for seven little pills with no refills available. 

Over the next couple of days, I downloaded a yoga app and made an appointment for a chair massage. I quietly got some sunshine. I cancelled commitments, and cleared the calendar … except for counseling appointments and the all-important chat with the vascular dude which had been “prioritized” three months out.

The day after the panic attack, I was rested and refreshed, driving my teenager to get her dress altered. I felt ok. I stayed in my comfy clothes and wouldn't need to interact with anyone. Just driving slow and smiling … then dropping her off. 

On the drive home, my phone buzzed. I glanced to see that it was a group text related to some volunteer ministry matters. Instantly, my chest seized up and both my hands went numb. I turned the phone over in an effort to reject and reverse what had just happened.

Perhaps this was the beginning to a problematic and nervy new normal.

As my family, close friends, and my counselor helped me unpack possible contributors to my sudden spin-out, I realized that while there were certainly a number of external contributors, there was also a troubling track record of internal personal neglect.

We identified recent stresses that I had underestimated. In the year leading up to the episode, we had moved into a rent house, and had begun building a house. We had faced multiple medical procedures, dreadful upheaval within our church, and persistent overwhelm with certain aspects of work. This was all manageable and to be expected (so I thought) but somehow collectively more weighty in this particular season.

“Johnsons have grit” provided a sense of stamina that kept overriding the caution flags … so in the midst of what I would have described as fine and relatively normal, my body was registering every jolt of nervous energy.

Noticing my tendency to gloss over the rough patches, I had to confess, that in many ways, this may have been a long time coming. I had no idea how consistently and chronically I ignored my body's signals and needs. All in the name of a productive pace and putting others’ needs ahead of my own, I had established a muffled habit of muting my own cries for attention. 

I was neither a maid nor a martyr. I was simply a mother who desperately wanted to care for her family well. Sometimes I did, and sometimes I did not. There was often a lot going on. And something as basic as eating, drinking, sleeping or using the restroom could be postponed if someone younger than I had coincidentally comparable needs.

“I'm thirsty. Oh, let me help him with this really quickly … [an hour passes] … I'm super thirsty.”

“I need to go to the restroom … not an option at the moment … oh, ok … I can wait.” 

“I'm sleepy. I need to give her a bath and I really wanted to chill for a bit and finish that chapter …”

All the perpetual setting aside had stealthily dulled my ability to perceive the presence and importance of my own body cues.

“I feel very sad about that … there is no time to process that … move along.”

“Every time that person approaches me, I feel instantly on edge … be kind … move along.”

“I did not sleep well [again] … have some coffee … move along.”

My body evidently had become embittered in the relentless neglect. It had endured the repetitive full force of multi-facted frenzie until one quiet, calm, unappointed Friday morning, when my system short-circuited and spontaneously spun out.

I share this because I suspect I am not the only one who has been pounced upon by her own panic.

I have spent a year and a half listening to my body. This task has proved unfamiliar, annoying and exhausting at times. Often, I honestly have no idea what I actually need. But I must faithfully attend to this.

Like a mother caring for a crying infant. This startled upset … what does it mean? What does she need? When clarity evades, the best approach is awareness, discernment, and courage. Calm confidence and a patient willingness to trouble-shoot and try various forms of relief and provision … this is the key.

Listening and responding to my internal signals is the wise and necessary course of action. Anything else is ignorance and abuse.

Externally, I've taken steps to minimize unnecessary or unreasonable stressors. I give every day an appropriate margin within which to properly process natural pressures. 

And I keep moving along. Johnsons do have grit. By God's grace, I am developing gentle, compassionate determination that soothes and settles whatever comes my way. 

And if anxiety flares unexpected and brash, I can quickly and calmly remind my senses of the current reality. I measure my breathing, slow and sure. I recite the things I can see and touch and hear. I implore my body to experience the truth.  Because I am listening and I am good … mind, heart, and body.

Integrated health.

Goals.

Old Made New

March 23 (my sister-in-law, Kathy's birthday) is always followed by March 24 (the day my dad died). Every time this has happened over the last 30 years, the recurring and anticipated grief is mercifully offset with celebration.

This evening I find that my thoughts are filled with the customary balancing act of grief and gladness. Kathy and Dad are celebrating together this year … like the first March that we knew her. But the rest of us are here juggling loss, gratitude, sadness and hope which feels like a massive case of cosmic FOMO.

I don't want to miss out. I don't want to be left and alone. And the truth is: I am not. How merciful that this dragged-out life is but a mist. Reality is yet to come. God has made it possible to enjoy real togetherness forever. It is coming soon.

I have found God to be particularly kind in times of deep grief. With tender attentiveness to how He wired me, He paves a path for me to walk and then gently lines out the steps that we then take together.

Six months before my dad passed away, Philip and I were visiting my great aunt and uncle's farm as a fun and affordable get-away. We hiked and paddled canoes by day and chatted with relatives around a fire pit in the evenings. We heard stories and looked through photo albums. It was perfect. Until I suddenly felt a heaviness come over me … weeping … barely able to put words to the pounce of my sorrow. I remember telling Philip, “I guess I never really thought about living without my parents … statistically, they will die before me, and I just hadn't thought about how terrible that would be.” My husband of less than a year tenderly gave me space to sit in the sadness. It lasted almost three days.

The morning my dad died, I was driving across town to my parents’ house. My mind was a whirlwind of sinking thoughts and escalating to-do lists. Gripping the steering wheel, wondering if I was about to lose my actual grip, I heard the Lord whisper, “You are good for three days.” And by His mercies, I was.

I fielded phone calls all day Friday. I listened patiently as grown men, trained as ministers cried in disbelief into the telephone. I calmly shared the facts over and over, coming closer to the terms with each repetition. I employed sherriff departments and the red cross to get my husband and brothers notified and headed home. I planned the memorial service, I took a suit and bowtie to the funeral home, found my aunt a ride from the airport, and made arrangements for our whole family to travel to Arkansas for the burial.

My mom was silenced in her shock, my seven-year-old brother was quietly and politely shuffled from one person and distraction to another while my husband and two older brothers were broken … audibly, miserably broken.

And I was good. Sincerely, miraculously coherent, decisive, and good for all of three days. Then Sunday night, as if the sun was setting on my headstart, I lay on my parents’ sofa, staring at the ruffled glass shades of the ceiling fan lights and the sparkly shadows of popcorn plaster. I breathed a sigh of exhaustion and as I closed my eyes, warm tears escaped down my temples past my ears and onto the couch cushion. And I was free to resume my grief in real time.

On the night before dad died, we had a family celebration for Kathy's 19th birthday. This was way before my brother, Josh, had the good sense to marry her and make her officially part of our family. I loved Kathy like a sister and, in Josh's absence, I convinced her to drive with me out to our parents’ house to eat cake with my mom and dad and 2nd grade brother for her birthday.

I was twenty-three that year when Kathy and I began traveling in a vocal ensemble. We often found ourselves sharing a full-size bed in host homes. I loved to follow her lead as we would meet new friends throughout the weekend. She had a way of setting things at ease with her kindness, laughter and humility. Her big brown eyes and resting smile invited people to vulnerability and connection. What a fantastic listener she was!

She was brave and could be bluntly honest. Never mean, but rarely fake. She was not afraid of an unpopular opinion. She admitted when she didn't like something. We liked to banter about which vocalist in TRUTH had the better voice. She was the first to point out unpleasant attitudes or odors. When group teasing took a twist, she would gently rebuke, “That's not sweet. Quit it.”

And she was never afraid to ask for affection. Pulling up her sleeve, she would turn her palm up and request, “Scratch my arm real lightly, would ya?” In the middle of a conversation she might turn her back slightly and declare, “I wouldn't be mad at all if you wanted to scratch my back.” She was literally the cutest thing.

Last spring, the week before Kathy passed away, I was headed south for a work trip, grateful for the chance to extend my travels and spend time at my brother's house. After seven years of battling cancer, Kathy was on hospice at home.

With lots on my mind and several miles to go, I wanted to refresh my playlist. My thoughts and emotions were all over the place and I couldn't land in a genre. I searched “Dolly Parton duets” and discovered a vast and varied collection of harmonious tunes. First track: You Can't Make Old Friends.

“How will I sing when you're gone… Who'll join in on those harmonies when I call your name?”

I started crying and I couldn't stop.

In the confines of the cruise-controlled car, I felt the privacy and permission, if not a divine invitation, to do some ugly-cry hard grieving.

State Highway 79 South became Memory Lane and I felt the Lord so near as I thanked Him over and over for the countless good times Kathy and I had shared. For how He had made her, for how she measured her life according to His goodness, and for what a treasure her friendship and faithfulness was to me.

Though Kathy always made me feel special, I knew the truth. It wasn't just me. She had a supernatural ability to befriend and love people in ways that made each person feel valuable and enjoyed. So I thanked Him for that too … the idea that thousands of people were sad about her impending death meant that thousands of people had been prioritized by her as she pointed them to her priority, her good friend, Jesus.

By the time I arrived and walked upstairs, my sadness had stablized and my heart was filled with grateful hope. And by some miraculous tailor-made gift, while their home had been literally filled with friends and family for weeks on end, the seventy-two hours I was there, no one came. We sat in the cool quiet, her bedside fan oscillating to flutter the colorful wings of a paper butterfly someone had drawn for her. We talked. We rested. We laughed. We whispered our shared concern for my brother. We prayed.

The morning I left to travel home, I squeezed her hand and with purposeful dismissal of what seemed inevitable, I smiled and said, “I'll see you again really soon!” Her face lit up with pure peace and hope-based joy. “Yes! Yes! I believe it! I love you so much!”

So tonight, I think of March 23, 1995, when we ate burgers and toasted sparkling cider in Kathy's honor.

I'm remembering how close I felt to her in our first months of friendship and I wonder if Kenny and Dolly may have gotten it wrong … maybe you can make old friends.

I'm re-collecting the gift that my final interaction with my dad was a celebration and I'm living in expectation that we'll resume the celebration in real time very soon.

I believe it.

All Good Things

I said goodbye to an old friend today.

A few months ago, I admitted that it was, sadly, probably time to break up (for lack of a better term). But I have been dragging my feet … not wanting to give up what feels so comfortable but has become, for more than one reason, unwise and honestly inappropriate.

Today was the tipping point. I am so sad.

A decade of togetherness we've faithfully shared … millions of steps, thousands of meals, sunday school, baby showers, and basketball games.

Flexible and forgiving, not fancy or fussy … practically a perfect fit for me in my life through countless seasons. Through thick and thin, if you will.

I can not overstate the affection I possess deep in my soul for this verified G.O.A.T. pair of black slacks.

But I had to do what I had to do.

Threadbare does not begin to adequately describe these trousers. The knees and hips have shown visible signs of frayed stress for FAR too long.

Realizing just how perfect these pants were for me, I had tried to use the brand and style code to order replacements. But due to their, um, “vintage” origins, my searches turned up nothing. Over the last couple of years, I have shopped and tried on and ordered and received SEVERAL pair of inferior pants … too long, too fitted, too weird.

My beloved broken-in britches continued to be the choice. [I am both shocked and relieved that there hasn't been an intervention!]

Last week, I pulled them out of the washer, and as I hung them over a hanger, I noticed a hole. An actual hole. The stitching that has endured years of deep knee bends, camping out in an office chair, and scooping up little kids simply couldn’t hold it together a moment longer.

I am not kidding you. I was about to disassemble that pair of pants and take them to a steamstress and commission her to produce a pair just like them. But then I decided to look on Amazon one more time and pay special attention to the inseam length.

By George. Eureka.

My highest hopes were confirmed when I opened the mail today, so I now have the courage to confidently bid farewell. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And good buy!

“Never underestimate the beauty and power of a well-established rut.”

Having Been Raised

Her mom struggled with perfectionism.

She was isolated and insecure but determined to do her best.

His momma consistently watched over him with the utmost care and concern.

She was clumsily processing terrible grief.

Her mom was grateful and energized and close to the Lord.

She had so much help and support.

Her momma battled depression and didn't know how to ask for help.

She had a breakdown and had to work the steps of recovery.

His mother was brave as she battled the overwhelm.

She was creative, industrious, and somewhat distracted, but generally active and fun.

Her mom was patient and impatient in equal measure.

She was there for her.

His momma seemed far away even when she sat nearby.

Her mother hurt her feelings.

His mom helped him believe he could do anything he set his mind to.

All these varied maternal experiences … the good, the bad, the cute and the ugly … in each of these circumstances … that mother was me.

I have so much compassion for her.

Flawed, fearful, intermittently fun.

Never fully knowing how to assess her best efforts, never fully capable of letting things go.

Faithful nonetheless.

By God's mercy, she has never given up.

In reality, I have been growing up with these children of mine the whole time. The way I am growing up alongside my own mom.

Spanning the seasons, weathering the wounds and wonder of it all, we blossom and fall away in divine development … discovering and embodying more and more of who we are each meant to be.

It is humbling to need and offer forgiveness with such relentless frequency.

It is fortifying as well.

Transformational.

Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. Colossians 3:1-2

Unmerited

You know that person you try to avoid? In the name of peace, of course, you steer clear.

The one who makes you uneasy, who makes life not easy? Maybe they are careless or cruel, or for whatever reason, unbearable.

I wonder if you could close your eyes and thank God for them.

This is not easy.

But can you breathe in and thank the Creator - who gives you both breath - for His image they bear just by being here?

Can you thank Him for being available to them the way He is available to you?

Can you exhale and linger in the whispered truth that God made both of you, and He has a plan for each of you, and He loves you both?

Are you able to see God's kindness in it all?

Can you ask Him to give you gratitude for this person - a real supernatural thankfulness, the likes of which you cannot acquire on your own?

We can believe God and watch ... while gratitude affects our attitude and His love has room to work ... putting away fear and miraculously making up for a mess of sin.

Thank You, God, for ___________.

Pep Talks & Permission Slips: Wedding Gowns

1. You probably can't go wrong.

2. Your beauty has little to do with this garment that moth and rust will surely destroy.

3. Any dress could be manipulated for posed photos ... which one could you comfortably wear for hours with freedom to move and hug and dance and sit and rest and dance some more?

4. If two dresses hold equal potential to meet the needs of the day and one is less expensive, choose financial margin.

5. If one feels to align with your real self but costs more, consider the value of authentic comfort.

6. You certainly cannot go wrong.

7. If there is someone whose eye and heart you trust ... like you love the way they dress and decorate and are devoted to Jesus... maybe ask for their feedback.

8. This dress is intended to align, support, and showcase your purity and grace.

9. Pray and ask the Lord to reframe this decision in the clarity of His goodness and the realistic scope of eternity.

10. I promise you can't go wrong.

All the love, cdj 🤍

[In honor of our 31st wedding anniversary]

Absolved

When did everyone start saying “Time is a thief?" Where does it come from?

I see it tagged with hashes marking kid photos, engagement pics, and family-filled group shots.

What exactly is being thieved, and why is time the primary suspect?

I do not understand.

Time is a natural resource and a power tool for growth and forgiveness. Time is life and love and space to learn. Time is a GIFT.

DIstraction is a highjacker. I'll give you that.

Laziness is a cheat.

Foolishness is a swindler.

Death is a dang liar and a thief.

But time? Time is a trustworthy measure for everything passed.

Not only is time generously filled with opportunity, but it can still be amply filled to the brim with intentional rhythms of diligence and rest.

Time is a commodity known for its equity and commonality and yet mysteriously laced with individualized freedom and the privilege of perspective.

For the dad battling cancer … time with his kids is an answer to prayer.

For the marriage in a strain … time to seek and find resolution is a gift.

For the mom watching her daughter walk down the aisle … time shapes the moment into a prism of beauty and joy.

To that which is unaffordable … time speaks possibility. To the heartaches in our past … time softens the edges. To our dreams for the future … time offers hope.

Time is a gift.

If you miss your kids being little, then maybe just say that. But surely you wouldn't trade their childhood for the glorious adventure that maturity brings!

Babies are scruptious. Toddlers are a blast. Children are the most entertaining people in the world. Young adults are smart, hilarious, and complex.

But raising humans is about seeds and nourishment; identity, shoots and shade; blossoming bounty and maturation. All of these gifts occur in and with TIME.

The precision and fullness of God-ordained time.

No thievery.

Just. Honest. Gain.

A rich gift to be invested and enjoyed.

Somebody make a hashtag for that.

Please.

Christmas Village

The welcome … staggered arrivals, happy hugs, and a mix of mingling and making sure supper is ready for go. Coats and shoes are shed at the door as children and adults warm up to the relaxed beauty and invitational charm all around.

Teens toss around enthusiastic topics and adults offer affirmation and kind solidarity, while children explore with curiosity all things bright and merry.

Tiny hands gently touch the shimmery ornaments hanging from the lowest branches of the twinkling tree. Small socked feet pause in front of mesmerizing flames that fill the stone fireplace with a mysterious blend of danger and loveliness. Plush snowmen are relocated to a playful heap in front of the couch.

And from that spontaneous spot on the floor, she sees it. Spread across the entire bottom shelf of the sofa table, the most colorful collection of ceramic pieces … people, cottages, animals, trees and a church … rests amid pillowy batting and lights.

Kneeling closer, little fingers move two of the figurines to walk a path together, chatting about pets and how pretty everything looked.

“Don't touch!” Guests startle the child with warnings of fragility and the fear of breakage. “Set it down. It is just for decoration.”

The host gently intervenes, “Please let her play with it! I have it there to be enjoyed. My girls have played with it for years. If something breaks, I'll just fix it!”

Wondering if this is a hospitable bluff, ultimately submitting to the confidence and kindness overflowing from her offer of freedom, the nervous onlookers quiet down to resume their clusters of chattiness.

As the little girl continues to happily engage with the snowy scene, one of the delicate, scarved carolers tumbles to the tile floor … and literally loses her head.

In the abrupt silence of darting eyes and I-told-you-so's, the preschooler, clutching the decapitated singer and her earmuffed head, locks eyes with the busy host.

“Oh, did she fall? Bring her here. I have special glue that will fix her right up!”

The dramatic pause of surprising calmness is followed by a circled prayer and delicious meal, and as folks clean their plates and clear their places, the host quietly returns to the table with the broken figurine and a tiny tube of glue. The preschooler, eager to be a part of the restoration, slides onto the edge of the seat so she could see. “Can I do it? Can I help you fix her?”

“No, Honey. This glue is really messy and strong … I don't want your fingers to be stuck together. I've done this before many times. I'll get her good as new and you can sit here beside me and watch.”

Position.

Apply.

Reposition.

Hold & wait.

In the stillness, grace abounds.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

I don't know what or who in your real-life village is broken today.

But I do know that there is Someone to whom all this belongs.

He is wise and kind and has invited us to interact and find joy. He is not afraid.

Whatever is broken, He can make it right. Humbly, with calm confidence in His freedom and goodness, take it to Him.

Sit as close as you can.

Accept that there is nothing you can do to really fix this …

Except to watch and wait as He tenderly, patiently works to mend and amend … making all things new in His time.

This shared, restoration experience can equip and inform your interactions moving forward …

Gentleness. Gratitude.

Courage and Kindness.

Peace and Hospitality.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[Jesus says,] “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”

John 10:10

Surrogates & Heirlooms

Delicate saucers with dainty white flowers painted along a sterling trim…

These beauties were passed down to me from my grandmother. But just the saucers and dessert plates. No one knows or can remember how the cups were lost, broken or misplaced.

For years, I have dutifully kept up with the eight saucers and eight dessert plates, carrying them with me to wherever it is I call home. And yet, not once have I used them …

After our move this summer, I felt a fresh compulsion to right this wrong.

I whispered my sad state of affairs to a friend who is tender toward all things old and keeps a watchful eye for valuable beauty. Recognizing the pattern name, she assured me she would be on the lookout.

A week later, a box arrived in the mail containing five carefully wrapped Noritake - Pamela tea cups complete with a note pledging a continued quest for another three.

This is not my grandmother’s china. I know that. But the intentional grace that led these cups to my home is just as meaningful as the gift of inheritance.

Adding these dishes doesn't take away from the value of my grandmother's china … on the contrary, adding these cups redeems the purpose of the saucers and the usefulness of the plates.

Though incomplete and imbalanced, it is good enough for now. I can certainly begin to serve small settings of coffee, and that makes me happy.

This story is not over, and, best of all, I am not alone in this hope-filled, grateful, patient pursuit.

Occupation

Making conversation, a friend asks one of my daughters, “I haven't seen much of your mom lately. Is she doing ok?”

“Um, yeah. She's good. Just kinda busy, you know.”

“Busy? With what?”

“Uh … well, she has a kid finishing up elementary, a kid finishing up junior high, one finishing high school, another graduating college and moving into an apartment, one who is expecting a baby, another who is getting settled in a new town, and one who is parenting the three grandkids she loves. Plus she and dad are building a house and she has spent most of the last year serving on the pastor search committee. So … just a little busy, I guess.”

Bless.

Do you know what blesses me most about hearing this encounter retold? 

●Someone misses me. I have been strictly conserving social energies these past several months, so I have skipped out on several group gatherings, and it is kind of nice to be missed.

●When my daughter gave a defense for what was occupying my time, she never even mentioned my pesky full-time job. Ha! In the reflexes of her mind, my work is further down the list of prioritized attention … well below my family … so that feels sweet and even surprising maybe.

●While attention (to details like food, transportation, and wardrobe) and attendance (at tournaments and award assemblies and milestones of every kind) fill a lot of my time, it is the task of attentiveness (in prayer, conversations, thoughts, and trust) that stretches and consumes me. Sure, the physical, mental, and emotional energies invested are substantial. But the spiritual effort it takes to simultaneously stay alert and be at rest … is its own full-time job.

●Amid the points of saturation, I hear from friends who are praying with me and for me, and this is the richest of blessings. Provision and protection, power and peace … plenty to go around simply because someone loves us enough to pray. This phenomenon fills me with gratitude and an eagerness to pray for others in the same way.

"Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Ready or Not

Seek, and you will find.

Look for an excuse to stay away from church, and you'll surely find it.

Expect to be hurt (again) by people at church, and it will indeed happen.

Keep a watchful eye out for hypocrisy and pride, and you'll discover that both run rampant toward ruin. 

Likewise …

Look for blessings, and they will no doubt emerge.

Anticipate a certain amount of healing, and you will find mercy measured as miracles.

Watch for humility and integrity, and you'll discover that both surge quietly below the surface, alive and well.

Seek, and you will find.

Observation

These women who had spent the past few years literally following Jesus … traveling with him, learning from Him, serving Him … can you imagine?

They lived the last week of His life trying to keep up with all the ups and down, twists and turns … faced with the full gamut of emotions, processing their faith in real time amid the mystery and the urgency.

They had watched in horror for hours as Jesus was beaten and mocked and crucified. Their wringing hands numb in the heart-racing buzz of fight or flight …

Surrounded in the unexplainable darkness by a dreadful surge of screaming … bellowed commands, wails of soul-level sadness, and the hiss of deranged heckling …

With every sobbing gasp, they breathed in the stench of destruction and tasted their own tears.

All of their senses overwhelmed with fear and sorrow.

And what happens next? What on earth can they do? What must they do?

Rest.

They go home and rest.

A required rhythm of Sabbath, established centuries before, is a perplexing provision of peace.

Present peace.

Ushered in by quiet obedience.

Silently sending a cease and desist to the world.

Space.

To be filled with wholeness and surrender.

For the holy purpose of revival and faith enough to re-engage to see the story through.

Luke 23:56

This solitary verse in the Gospels that documents the day between Christ's death and resurrection speaks volumes to my sometimes burdened, fearful, hurried heart.

Lord, let us find our hope and rest in You.

Pep Talks & Permission Slips

PEP TALKS & PERMISSIONS SLIPS

To all my friends who are graduating soon: I’m sorry.

On behalf of all the people at church and friends at the ballpark and relatives near and far, I’m sorry.

We don't mean to put you on the spot when we ask about your post-graduation plans. Truly. We’re just excited, and the first curiosity that pops out of our mouths is “What are your plans for after graduation?” And then you either get an anxious lump in your throat, or you rattle off your best answer for the 87th time that week.

Obviously if you recently landed an amazing internship in Colorado or accepted a nursing job in the NICU of Houston’s finest, you don't mind repeating your definitively good news.

But for those who aren't sure yet, here are a few sentences to consider having locked and loaded. The secret is to be gracious, give an honest answer, and then volley the attention back to the other person.

When a curious community member asks “So … what are your plans after graduation?”

●Aw, thanks for asking! I’m really focused on finishing strong, but I have a ton of options, so that's good. What was your favorite part of school?

●Oh, wow. You are kind to ask. I have applied to a few places, and I've got a little time to let things fall into place. Tell me about your first job.

●It is great to see you! I have lots of decisions to make, that's for sure. What wisdom can you share based on the last big decision you had to make?

To all my friends who care about people who are graduating soon: we can do better.

While this is an exciting time, it is also pressurized with expectations plus fear of the unknown and of failure, so maybe we can lighten up on the solid-plan talk and aim for a meaningful interaction where we've given the gift of interest and encouragement.

Perhaps have a couple sentences loaded for the road. Be gentle, watch their eyes and really listen to them, and affirm whenever possible.

When you spot a senior …

●Are you feeling more nervous or excited about graduating? That’s understandable! I'm [your age] years old, and I’m still learning how to navigate change. I believe God has good things in store for you!

●What’s been the best part of this semester? Where do you see yourself in five years? Sounds like you have some good ideas! You’re making memories and doing great!

●To you, does it feel like graduating is approaching slowly or quickly? What are your top options for what comes next? From what I can tell, you are [brave, patient, smart, wise, persistent, observant, thoughtful, etc]. I certainly believe you have what it takes.

Earlier this week I found myself in a crowd of graduating seniors. When my questions about plans seemed to fall flat or frustrating, I started experimenting with different wording. Gratefully, I soon began stumbling into some really significant and fun interactions.

Pep Talk: We can all be better prepared to foster meaningful conversations.

Permission Slip: We are free to NOT know what comes next.

All the love,

cdj

The One Where We Cry

There has never been a time she was not my friend. However, she and I walk through our separate adult lives sharing coincidental assumptions about the other one’s potentially packed agenda. One day she messages me, “I’d love to chat sometime soon.”

A couple of days later, I am traveling alone, so I call. The second sentence in, she volleys an innocent “How are you?” and as I’m considering how deep we wanna go, how quickly, my auto-reply of “I’m good!” is followed by an involuntary disclaimer, “ … yeah, I’m good, I guess.” And she just lovingly laughs. And then I laugh, mildly embarrassed by this surprising transparency which is clearly audible despite the hundreds of miles.

We talk for more than an hour. None of it small. We share our grief, share the humorous sides of life, and acknowledge the perpetual struggle. We crack up a bunch and break down a tiny bit too. We find comfort as we admit and admonish that the best we can offer is bound to be enough. Most importantly, we are not alone.

This is strangely similar to my experience with grief. It reaches out. I can stay busy and ignore the opportunity, or I can choose to return the call, willing to take some time, knowing full well there is no sense in pretending.

Notifications ping and sting without relent … reminders that we live in a broken mess of a world

His dad is dying. I remember how sad I was when my dad died. I feel a fresh version of it.

Her child is very sick. The uncertainty and fear resonate deep within. Grave concerns scream powerlessness. It’s all so hard.

Their marriage is strained, flustered and frayed. I've been there. But for grace I could be there again. The damage of discord lands heavy on my heart.

She stops responding to messages with no explanation. The fracture or fade of friendship is heart-breaking. I wonder how often I choose the easy route. I wonder who feels hurt by me. I am filled with feelings of rejection and remorse.

He makes terrible choices for all to see. I despise the clutches of sin. I rehearse the gossip and the judgement swirling at a close distance. In sadness and frustration, I want to strangle it. I want to make things right from every direction, but I can't. So I cry.

I see someone do the thing I thought I could. An opportunity or ability has been lost and discontentment must be laid to rest.

He stands at her side as she delivers her third stillborn baby. What on earth is there to do or say or think? Numbed in the excruciating sorrow.

I randomly realize ten years have passed since she died of cancer. She was such a sweet friend. I miss her comedic charm and the way she wielded wisdom to affect change and inspire. I recall how much there is to be thankful for and revisit the dreadful ache of silent separation.

Pain points.

Inevitable pain points us toward surrender. Surrendered grief bids us to empathize. Empathy compels us to pray, and prayer persuades us to reflect.

As our own sadness resurfaces, we can mirror the posture of our Savior.

Grief in all its forms and to every degree of severity can draw us closer into companionship with Christ. We find friendship with the One who claims to bear our sorrows, the One who is close to the broken-hearted and blesses those who mourn. We offer Him brokenness and He proves to be more than enough. Most importantly, we discover the comforting peace of communion. We are not alone.

When sorrow summons, resist the urge to ignore or redirect it. Perhaps we can engage grief like we would a childhood friend. We may not encounter her every day, but when we do connect, we will not shy away or fake an okay because the deep familiarity and time-tested comradery open a wide, welcoming door to true honesty [about the world and our place in it] as well as the tender-hearted, raw vulnerability necessary for real life and ministry.

More Than You Know

When Ardyn was two, it was her part time job to attend little league games. More evenings than not, she was at the ballpark watching both brothers bat and throw and run and score. She tolerated my steady supply of apple slices and pretzel sticks when what she really “needed” was a couple ring-pops.

Besides spectating and snacking, there was the very serious task of keeping a watchful eye on her “baby thith-tuh” Ashlin who was strapped into an infant carrier. With all these responsibilities, it is a wonder she found any time to play.

But one particular night between games, she joined a group of boys her age to roll cars in the dirt beside the dugout. After just a few minutes, she came running to the bleachers crying. Evidently one of the boys had thrown a car and hit her in the stomach.

She seemed to be in just as much shock as she was pain. She had played cars with her brothers and they had never hurt her. Did these kids not know or care that she was a princess? Had they no regard for royalty??

We got her dusted off, settled down and finally made it home safely for baths and bed. But around two o’clock a.m. she cried out for me, frantic and distraught. Kneeling at her bed, I wiped teary strands of hair away from her flushed face. Apparently traumatized by the evening’s events, she dramatically sobbed, “They hit me in my belly!! …and Jesus, too!!”

*May it be known: we are joint-heirs over here, people. You do it to us? You do it to Him too.

***

I found this little memory earlier this week written in an old spiral I had boxed up years ago. I shared the scribbled journal page with Ardyn and we both got a good laugh. She has always had confidence in her core valuability, and I must have said it a thousand times, “Jesus is with you wherever you go.”

Several hours later she and I found ourselves in the midst of a tender conversation with some friends. We were talking about the challenges of caring for the physical needs of terminally ill loved ones … how grace propels sacrifice and increases capacity and sustains strength in unbelievable ways. One woman humbly confessed, “I just did what I could …”

I caught Ardyn’s eye across the table and with a soft smile of revelation, she silently mouthed the truth, “...and Jesus too.”

Emmanuel. God with us.

Whether we feel bullied or burdened, He is with us and His grace is sufficient. He sees it all and never leaves. He promises peace and power as His presence somehow makes the impossible possible.

God loves you …

and Jesus too.

Convicted at Christmas

December 1999 was one of the happiest seasons despite our dire financial status. We were four humans stretching out one entry- level income.

Our house was decorated with warm and minimal holiday charm, and we enjoyed a flow of friends stopping by, keeping things merry and bright. Our taught and tiny budget didn’t allow for many gifts for our own children, let alone reciprocating gestures for all our visitors. But I wanted to do something.

I decided to buy two boxes of candy canes at the dollar store. The boys were weeks from turning two and four years old respectively, so they were very eager to help me hang the striped canes along the branches of the twinkling tree in our living room.

I huddled the boys up and explained, “These are gifts for our guests. You may not take them for yourselves. But any time there is a visitor in our home, you are completely welcome to take one off the tree and offer it to them with a hug and a ‘Merry Christmas’.”

I went on to clarify that if they had taken one and eaten it before our little talk, that would have been considered childishness. But because they were now aware of the deal, taking one would be foolish, and foolishness requires punishment. “If you take a candy cane off the tree for yourself, you’ll get a spanking. Understand?”

Understood. Great talk. Reindeer on three. Go team.

My 23-month-old left that meeting, walked immediately to the Christmas tree and took TWO candy canes, then walked directly to the sofa and laid over the cushion, ready to receive his punishment.

Lord, have mercy. I guess he thought it over, and with a miniature cost-to-benefit analysis, decided, "fair enough!"

I’ve always told that candy cane story in an effort to shed good-humored light on the very real challenges of raising a strong- willed child. *Twenty years later, with rows of poinsettias lining the stage, that blue-eyed, keen negotiator walked to receive his BBA. Thank the Lord!

But recently I shared it in a group, and, as usual, we all got a good laugh. Then it was time to close our meeting in prayer, and my friend began, "God, thank you for sending your Son to make a way for us. Forgive us for all the times we take the candy canes off the tree..."

As he continued to pray, I blinked warm tears away as a lump of conviction settled in my throat. Of all the times I’ve flippantly shared that Christmas memory, not until that day had it flipped to expose my own struggle.

Truthfully, God gives me instructions every day through his Word and by his Spirit. He has guidelines and commands and preferences for me, and these are rooted in love and appropriated generosity. And I am well aware that there are sure and undesirable consequences associated with defiance. As I look toward His face, I listen and nod in agreement, and in the next moments I’m willfully acting against His best plan. "I can handle it. I really would rather just [fill in the blank]... it all seems pretty doable. Fair enough."

God, have mercy.

It is not "fair enough" at all. Fair would mean I pay the price for my selfish ways.

“For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Romans 6:23

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Romans 5:8

The surrendered life is gloriously unfair. Thank the Lord!

Sing it o’er and o’er again: Christ receiveth sinful men,

Make the message clear and plain: Christ receiveth sinful men.