OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

I Instagrammed this last Thursday.

That is my signature.

On a final contract with Broadman & Holman Publishers.

On its way to Lifeway Christian Resources.

And just like that, it’s official. I am writing a book.

Actually, I lied. I’m not writing a book; I’m writing THREE books.

I’ve alluded to these books for a while now, as this process has already been a long one, but now that the ~~blood~~ ink is on the page, I’m coming out of the closet. A lot of you suspected I was in there, and you were right. I am coming out of the first-time-author closet.

The books are based on last year’s “Ten Things I Want To Tell Teenage Girls,” and they are fun.

That’s the thing about stepping into the publishing world upside down and backwards (I’ll share this story with you eventually): I get to write my fun book first.

If I had started with a manuscript, you can bet your ever-lovin’ mind that it would not have been about teenage girls. But since I didn’t start with a manuscript (I started with a blog post that mounted into a tidal wave which I am gratefully choosing to ride), I get to do my cheeky, sassy, hyperbolic, “lets have a conversation about vapor-thin American Eagle tanks and Facebook statuses more dramatic and narcissistic than Lady Macbeth and the implications both of those things have on womanhood – real, strong, noble womanhood” book first.

It is so. much. fun.

Here’s what you need to know:

- The first book is written to you, my peers: teachers, youth leaders, moms & dads, aunts & uncles – people who happen to be influencers of teenage girls. People who have had it “up to here.” People who read the post and immediately sent it to the teenager in their life. People who said,

“I wish someone had told me this 20 years ago!”

“This is what I’ve been trying to tell my teenager for YEARS.”

“This isn’t just for teenage girls; this is the best advice I’ve read for women anywhere!”

“This should be mandatory reading for all high school students.”

You loved it, you shared it, you get a book.

- The second book is written TO teenage girls. For the girls who read the post and said,

“I am a teenage girl and this is SO TRUE.”

“I am a teenage girl and I cried when I read this; it is exactly what I needed to hear.”

“I am a teenage girl and I hate your guts, shut up, you don’t know me!”

It touched a nerve. You loved it, you hated it, you hated me. You get a book.

- The third book is for everyone who said, “What about the boys?”

They get a book, too. Dan is writing that one with me/for me. So maybe I should say, “If we don’t kill each other in the process of attempting to complete a project together as a married couple, then you get a book.”

- There are stories.
Stories about my impulse purchase of neon purple leggings, my first trip to the tanning bed, and a subsequent trip to a tanning bed in which my friend, Nicole, and I almost attacked an elderly man with a hot curling iron.

Stories about the time I gave flirting lessons to girls on my dorm, about a completely mortifying rebound relationship of mine, and about the time I got a phone call from my child’s teacher to tell me that my firstborn had run from the school bathroom, naked, in front of 17 of her peers.

There are lots of fun stories.

- The tentative release date for all three books is summer 2014.

So GET EXCITED. There are big things ahead, and big things here in the process.

So much love,
Kate

The Pregnant Sadist

Next week I enter “the home stretch.”

For those of you who have not been 36 weeks pregnant before, the “home stretch” is the time when kind, nurturing mothers turn into sadists.

At 36 weeks, it is not enough for my husband to be kind to me. It is not enough for him to be patient and “understanding.” It is not even enough for him to bring me dinner and rub my back. No,

I want him to KNOW.

When Dan tells me that I’m awesome for carrying this baby, I want him to know just exactly how right he is.

It would bring me great, immeasurable joy for Dan to feel my pain.

(Did you think I was kidding? Because I’m talking about actual sadism here.)

Now – I don’t want him to experience the home stretch symptoms all at once – that’s too easy, like diving into the deep end of a cold pool. I want to introduce each malady separately, to give him a minute to “appreciate” each one.

I would start with fatigue. Third trimester fatigue. A fatigue that no long day at work, no string of sleepless nights could ever match. A fatigue that clouds your head and your eyes so thickly that you have to lean on the walls to remain upright – flopping back and forth between furniture and major appliances just to keep from breaking your nose when you do a narcoleptic face-plant into the living room floor. And mid-yawn, just when he’s thinking, “Sweet Lord, I’ve never been this tired in my life…,” BAM! I’m going to hit him with the pelvic pressure.

You know, the hip-widening. When you feel like your hip bones are grinding against each other as if they are being forced apart by an unyielding foreign object – which they are. When his hazy brain wraps itself around the sensation of grinding bones and the suspicion that all his organs are about to fall out of his pelvic floor, I’ll add the back pain.

The lower back pain that aches whether you sit, stand, squat, lie down, or hang by your toes. The kind that is only alleviated by floating in a large body of water, because that is the only way to lighten the 30lb load hanging off the front of your torso, dangling by your back muscles all day long.

Once he’s wrapped his mind around the fatigue, the hip-widening, and the lower back ache, I would like for his sciatic nerve to shoot a lightning bolt down his leg once every hour or so – just to keep him on his toes. I would also introduce intermittent punches to his bladder and imaginary cervix at this time. I would be even happier if he peed himself a little bit.

Now that all of that is going on, I would like for the lower right quadrant of his abdomen to become completely numb, like a dead foot that won’t wake up no matter how creatively he tries to contort himself to restore circulation. This way his entire torso, back-to-front, top-to-bottom, would be in a total state of disaster.

You see how much he would miss if I just flipped a “symptoms on” switch? He would just think his abdomen was wigging out. Yes, it is much better this way.

Next, I would like for him to experience one minute of false labor. I think a single, 60-second contraction should do it. I want him to feel like everything from his ribs down to his man-parts is seizing up. A strange sensation at first, then uncomfortable, then worrisome, then “WHAT THE…I CAN’T WALK!”

At this point he’s probably forgotten about the fatigue, but is very confused about what is happening to his body. With all the leg/pelvic/lower back/abdominal pain he probably suspects he has a large tumor growing right between his hips (interestingly, right about where a uterus would be).

Next I would like to introduce swelling. I would like for his hands and feet to become white-hot and itchy, and for his skin to feel so tight that he is actually afraid that it might split open – like in that disturbing scene from Seven.

After the swelling, I would introduce the heartburn. It should be incessant, as if his stomach were being forced back up his esophagus by an unyielding foreign object, which it is. I would like for a little bit of lunch/gastric acid to make it all the way into his mouth every time he leans forward or bends over, angering the foreign object.

Okay, so we have fatigue, hip-widening, lower back pain, shooting sciatic nerve, bladder punches, numb torso, a mild contraction, swelling in the extremities, and persistent heartburn. I think all we’re missing is a wicked, wicked Charlie Horse.

One so fierce that he can SEE THE MUSCLE crumpling up underneath his skin like a fleshy sink hole. I would like for him to claw the sheets and scream a little bit, and I would like his calf to be sore for at least 3 days. It should be the worst muscle contraction ever – except for uterine contractions, which won’t arrive for another 4 weeks.

At this point I’d like for him to be crying, and when he tries to explain his frustration to someone, I hope they tell him,

“Poor thing, you’re so emotional right now.”

I hope this ENRAGES HIM. Unfortunately he’ll be so emotional that he won’t be able to punch them, he’ll just burst into tears afresh.

I think that should about cover it!

Pregnant women in the home stretch, does that not sound like your wildest dream come true?!?

Here’s the best part. Right as he’s maneuvering himself onto the couch to turn on ESPN – as he’s trying to figure out a way to lie on his left side and simultaneously prop up his heartburn-y chest and his swollen feet – right as he’s beginning to close his exhausted eyes, wishing he could take something stronger than a Tylenol, I would like to come into the room and say,

“Hey, honey! Here are the kids! They’re really excited to play with you ALL DAY LONG. Madeline wants you to get out her play-doh, but you have to make sure Sam doesn’t get it and carry it into the living room because that will make Madeline scream, plus the play-doh will get smushed into the carpet and won’t ever come out. They’re both a little grumpy because they need to eat, but there’s plenty of stuff in the fridge for lunch! You’ll figure something out! There’s a load of laundry that needs to move from the washer to the dryer, but you’ll have to fold the stuff in the dryer first. Welp, I’m off to work! Oh, and don’t forget to make tea for our small group tonight!

Okay, bye!”

I am smiling a big Grinch-smile just thinking about it.

You all pray for my husband over the next 4 weeks, he’s living with a pregnant sadist.

**I would like to be clear: Dan has never spoken the above paragraph to me. In fact, he LEFT DURING THE SUPERBOWL to go bring me a milkshake. This post isn’t about a state of affairs, it’s about the crazy sadism that sneaks into every single mother in the history of ever at 36 weeks pregnant. It’s about the common experience – the phenomenon. Also, my husband rocks. Thanks, Mgmt.**

Ophthalmologist

I’m 27 years old, I have a college education, I’ve been raising a daughter who sees a dozen vision specialists every year, and I JUST NOW learned how to spell the word “ophthalmologist.” There is an extra “h” in there, and an “l.” For the longest time I could remember one superfluous letter, but two was too much. NO MORE! I must be growing up.

This morning Madeline had her yearly check-up, and today was the first time I didn’t go with her. There were lots of reasons, including Sam’s schedule, writing work, rush hour in ATL, and more. It was the best of all our options, but there have been lots of Mom-tears over the last 48 hours.

I got up at 5:20.

I’m sorry, did that not resonate with you?

I GOT UP AT 5:20. That is how much I love my child.

Madeline was in remarkably good spirits considering I normally have to lure her out of her bed with breakfast foods. A trail of little zucchini muffins all the way from her bedside into the living room, like Hansel and Gretel. Madeline does a lot of things well; waking up is not one of them.

I put her in her Light Up The Darkness shirt, because it brought me joy. It brought Madeline joy too, until she got in the car and realized that her shirt did not actually light up the darkness.

Dan put me on speakerphone when the doctor came in, and I went crazy-mom. I asked every question that Dan had already asked and gave him way too much information/opinion/commentary about the size, shape, color, distance, contrast, and velocity of every single object Madeline appeared to have noticed in the last 365 days.

I birthed her; such is my right.

This was the first check up where Madeline was verbal enough and cooperative enough to give us some solid information. As in, “Yes I can see that letter.” This was the first check up where they were able to check each eye individually. It was the first check-up without me. The first check-up that we did not have to man-handle her little head into that giant machine with the chin-rest. Big day.

Madeline was chipper, enthusiastic, vocal, and cooperative. She is the best.

Her greatest disappointment of the day was not the early rising, the drive, or even the eye drops; it was that her class was learning about spiders today, as this is “creepy crawly insect” week at school, and she had to miss it. She requested that I go to the library and get “a really good book about spiders” while she was at her appointment. I will oblige. Because I love my child.

Here are some quick thoughts about vision loss today:

1. It’s okay with me if Madeline never sees any better than she can right now. That’s called peace, and it’s amazing.

2. Madeline continues to blow everyone’s socks off with how well she uses her functional vision. No vision teacher or doctor has ever interacted with her and not left astounded.

3. I wish that you could know how it feels for me to sing the words to Amazing Grace. I wish that you could feel the anguish and joy of “was blind but now I see.” Or to read Psalm 139: “The night will shine like the day for darkness is as light to You.” Or 1 Peter 2:9: “…That you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.” Or any one of the hundred other references in scripture to our lost-in-the-sin-sick-darkness and to God’s bright and morning star, light-of-the-worldness.

Everybody can experience God’s bright rescue – Dan and I don’t have any advantage in that department. You certainly don’t need a child with vision loss to feel the deep, deep darkness in your soul or to see it in the world.

But - we do have the great privilege of seeing blindness, literally, every day. We get to see how it affects everything. We understand the fullness of joy we would experience if our daughter’s vision were completely restored – if she could see like we can see; we can access that emotion easily. I was thinking about this just the other day, about how badly I want to be there when Madeline sees, fully, for the first time. I want to watch her face. That thought/emotion is never far beneath the surface.

Because of our understanding of literal blindness, we are able to translate that insight and emotion to spiritual blindness. We can apply what we know (feelings of grief, loss, anger, injustice, hopelessness, desperation, dependence, need for healing) to our own spiritual condition. Like copy/paste. When God says that our eyes are blinded by sin and mortal-humanness, that we live in darkness – we are fortunate enough to understand the level of lostness and need that He’s getting at. I get what what happen if Madeline wandered out of the yard; I have to push the thought out of my mind often because the fear is not healthy. It would be dangerous for any child, but magnified for my darling. She could not see roads, cars, ditches or ant hills. Unlike most school-age children, she could not find her way home.

Oh, we understand fully, the depth and desperation of our need.

And therefore, we are able to understand the sweetness of The Light.

This is why I cannot read a single verse or sing a single stanza about God opening the eyes of the blind, or delivering us from darkness to light, without crying. I never have to pause and imagine what that would feel like – I already know.

The Light feels like – like joy so full it makes your ribs ache. Like a thousand tongues to sing a thousand praises would never be enough. Like body-rocking-sobs. Like relief so big that your knees give out and you fall on your face because you can’t stand up under the goodness of it.

It feels like glory.

It feels like salvation- because that’s exactly what it is.

“You are a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness and into his marvelous light…once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found; was blind, but now I see.”

I Was There

Today was the fourth and final celebration of Madeline’s fifth birthday: the school party.

You must know that Madeline’s school is militant about what kinds of foods parents are allowed to bring to a party. They pass out a supplemental nutrition form in the beginning of the year, which parents must turn in and receive approval for at least a week in advance. Foods with any amount of fat or sugar get the axe. Cupcakes and ice cream need not apply.

This is an actual excerpt from the “suggested food for a birthday party” list:

Small deli wraps or sandwiches
Whole grain or fruit muffins
Vegetable sticks with dip
Sugar-free Jello snacks
Sugar-free Angel Food Cake with fruit
Yogurt
Milk

Thanks a lot, Michelle Obama.

I was requesting permission to bring in little bags of 99% fat free Kettle Corn and cups of mandarin oranges when I found a note in Madeline’s folder which read:

We will be having our Christmas party on Monday, December 17. If you would like to bring something for the class, feel free to do so. This is one of the few days a year that we are allowed to have sweets. We have 10 boys and 7 girls in our class.

You better believe I wrote a note to the teacher and hitched Madeline’s shindig to that party faster than you can say “cupcakes.”

(Although, I was not allowed to MAKE CUPCAKES without going through 14,596 miles of red tape. I had to buy cupcakes that had a list of ingredients on the package, which is incidentally less healthy, more expensive, and also tastes gross – but whatever.)

Things got interesting when, 45 minutes before I had to BE at school, I impulsively decided to make cupcake toppers. These were not just Christmas party cupcakes, these were “Celebrating Madeline Who, Five Years Ago, Was Born With Sparkle In Her Veins” cupcakes, and I could not have them getting lumped in with the Cheetos and Christmas cookies.

Nevermind that I hadn’t showered or eaten, and, like Sam, was still in my pajamas. Where there’s a will there’s a way, and I have nothing if I don’t have will.

I parked Sam in his high chair munching a piece of toast and watching Veggie Tales Christmas movies and got busy.

I traced lumpy circles around my pepper shaker with a broken red crayon. I cut out my circles, hot glued toothpicks to the backs of them, and then tried to write on the fronts with a Crayola marker – over the toothpick bumps. So classy.

I am so sorry for the people that had to witness me running into Madeline’s school in the nick of time. Picture this:

A very large pregnant woman who has not showered or brushed her hair in two days and is not wearing even the tiniest smidge of makeup. She is wearing the same outfit that she has been wearing for the last two, now three, days (and this is not an exaggeration). She has shoved two containers of store-bought cupcakes sideways into a bag which is slung over her shoulder, smashing all the icing, and she is carrying a baby on one hip. The baby and the cupcakes are bumping along as she runs, panting, through the rain without an umbrella.

And so – I arrived to Madeline’s Christmas/Birthday party looking like a drowned rat. A very pregnant drowned rat.

But I was there.

And when I walked in, my baby girl lit up and shouted, “MOM!!!!”

In that moment I felt no shame, no embarrassment, and no regret because I chose what mattered; I chose to be there. I chose last-minute cupcake toppers over makeup. I chose being on time over being late, and I’d do it a hundred times over. This is what ultimately matters to our kids, this is what they’ll remember, whether or not we were there.

I am not a perfect mother, but I am a present mother, and at Madeline’s class Christmas party – I was there.

I would be happy if today were exactly how Madeline remembered me forever: big, tired, a total mess, but there for her – on time and with cupcakes.

Sam

I’ve never written out a love letter to Sam, not in the way I’ve done for Madeline in the past.

The reason is, I was afraid that it would seem like he is my favorite. I was afraid that if I was honest about how much I love him, it would make everyone question the love I have for my husband, for Madeline, for Jesus.

The thing is, when I think about how much I love Sam, the only words I can access are “favorite,” and “best.” If there were better words, words that could somehow simultaneously express how much I love Jesus and Dan and Madeline, I would use those words. But I can’t think of any.

And today I decided that it would be an absolute shame, disgrace, failure in parenting if I never articulated how much I love my son just because it would sound too outlandish. The love I have for him IS outlandish, and he should know that. When I die, whenever that may be, I want him to have a written record, along with a giant box full of pictures, to remind him of just how madly and crazily in love with him I was.

So this is my love letter to my second child, my first son, Sam.

Sam, you are my best.

I tell you a hundred times every day, “You are it for me. You have ruined me. I am done.”

Sam, you changed everything.

You changed how I feel about having boys. I wasn’t sure about boys. I’d heard rumors about how much they love their mothers, how they are easier. But I also know boys. I know wild, rough and tumble, off-the-wall, uncontainable, uncontrollable boys that make babysitters call parents who are out on dates and say, “YOU HAVE TO COME GET THIS BOY.” And, to be honest, I was nervous about changing diapers and circumcision and everything happening down there.

But you changed everything. You ruined me. Now I want only boys, boys forever. But that’s not even true – I want only Sams, Sams forever. I’ve wanted to freeze you at every stage of life, so that I could keep infant Sam, 4-month-Sam, 7-month, 10-month, and 14-month Sams. You have always been perfect, and I cannot let you go.

You are the dangerous kind of baby, the kind of baby that makes me think that I could have a dozen more babies without batting an eyelash. But it’s a gamble, because the next one might not be so easy. Exhibit A: Your Sister. She is also my favorite person and makes me crazy with love, but she is the most spirited creature I’ve ever been in contact with. Wild mustangs are a distant second. Gamble is not the right word, because if we have another Madeline, we win – but in the event that your little brother inherits her spirited gene, I’m going to need more coffee.

The precious thing is, she loves you will all of that spirit. She cheers for you, loudly, every day. “SAM LEARNED HOW TO SAY BYEEEEE!!!!! YAAAAAYYYYY SAMMMM!!!!” She laughs at you and disobeys me constantly to do dangerous and unmannerly things that make you laugh. She, too, is addicted to your giggle. She, too, would do anything for it. Anything for you. She kisses you every night and tells you that she loves you. Last night you leaned out of my arms into a very impressive back-bend and giggled as she kissed you all over your face and head. You laughed and laughed together; she told how how cute you were, and you leaned further and further back for more kisses.

You changed how I feel about staying at home. I want to be around you all the time; I have to tear myself away from you. You are my best buddy. Not my “buddy” as a term of endearment, but my buddy as in the person I want to be around the most. We understand each other. There is a knowing between us – a secret language. We laugh together, like friends. I think that you have an old soul, and that our souls have been friends who love each other for a long time.

You are so affectionate it slays me. You toddle up to me and lay your head on my knee, wrap your arms around my thigh, and pat me – a little Sam-hug. You do this a couple times an hour, like you notice me sitting there and want to remind me every 20 minutes that you love me and that you’re my best. You climb up into my lap a lot, because you’d prefer to be there than anywhere else. I know that this will change, I’ve heard it does, as you become more adventurous, and that’s why I want to freeze you. Because I might actually die inside the day you stop climbing into my lap for no reason.

I cannot keep my hands off of you. I can’t stop combing your hair, squishing your arms, grabbing your fingers. I can’t stop stroking your cheek and your back. I can’t stop munching your toes and nibbling your ear lobes. I can’t stop tickling you or hugging you or kissing you. You are the softest, sweetest, most beautiful boy that has ever been. I cannot have you falling in love with another woman. I absolutely cannot have it. I am going to have to pray really hard about this for a lot of years in order to make peace with it. But not yet. I can’t even pray about it yet. Maybe next year, but probably not then either.

I have dozens and dozens of pictures of the two of us with our faces smashed up against each other. None of them are particularly flattering, because I take them with my phone, but it’s the closest thing I have to freezing you. I’m very serious about this freezing thing.

I can’t remember ever having loved ANYTHING this much, ever. I know I must have, because I love Jesus more than anything, and I love your Daddy so much it’s made me do more than a few crazy things in my life, and your sister – your sister made me a mommy and I have letter after letter about how desperately I love her. But when I’m around you, I can’t love anything more than I love you. You are a heart-stealer.

You are my buddy. My darling. My best.

You are it for me. My favorite person.

I am so, so, so, so, so thankful that I had a boy.
I am so, so, so, so, so thankful that I had a Sam.

I love you with my whole heart, forever. I will never stop loving you.
Mom

Live Second, Day 2: “Reckless”

On the second day of my Live Second journey I read a story about a woman weeping at Jesus’s feet. It reminded me of the time that my boyfriend (future husband) dumped me and I accidentally blew snot rockets onto the carpet of a church sanctuary – in front of other people.

In Luke chapter 7, a woman came to Jesus in the most desperate state of need. Recklessly.

She barged into a dinner party without regard for the people around her.
She wept openly without regard for her own dignity.
She gave lavishly without regard for the cost.

We, as people, act recklessly when we come to the point where “nothing matters more than this.” We drive recklessly when nothing matters more than getting there. We share recklessly when nothing matters more than being heard. We behave recklessly when nothing matters more than being noticed. We give recklessly when nothing matters more than love.

To this woman, nothing mattered more than getting close to Jesus. Nothing mattered more than his forgiveness. So she came – recklessly.

________________________________________

When I was a junior in college, the man to whom I am now married dumped me. I told Dan that I never wanted to see him or speak to him again. (I keep insisting that I was not dramatic and people keep not believing me.) The truth is, I knew that I loved him and that I would never, ever get over him if he kept on smiling at me. A few days later, when I was still feeling very raw and tender like my skin was on inside out, I was in the campus bookstore when Dan walked in.

I did the mature thing. I hid.

I stood in a corner, touching the spines of books I wasn’t reading because my eyes were clenched so tightly. Then, because he is a miscreant and a rule-breaker and for an entire year his ambition in life was to torture me, he approached my turned back AND SPOKE TO ME.

“Hey.”

After a minute of awkward, robotic, small talk, I felt my eyelids reach their tipping point: the point when spillage is inevitable. I excused myself and managed to power-walk to the door of the bookstore before the first ugly-crying gasp-noise escaped my lips.

I did not walk, I did not run. I did a weird half-walk, half-run shuffle towards the nearest exit and arranged my hair to hang in front of my face to cover the torrents of mascara. Between the hair, the shuffle, and the ugly-cry choking noises, I very closely resembled Quasimodo. This is exactly the impression you want to make on your ex whom you still love. (He married me eventually, didn’t he?)

I run-shuffled up 4 flights of stairs to a tiny white chapel nestled between a bunch of dormitories: the prayer chapel. An ancient one-room building with green carpet and a dozen pews on either side of a slender aisle. It was almost always deserted. I run-shuffled up the walk, flung the doors open and what do you know: NOT DESERTED. Every eye in the place landed on me: sweaty (four flights of stairs!), snotty, mascara-y, with swollen eyes and wild, cave-woman hair. Awesome.

But I did. not. care. I wasn’t coming for privacy, I was coming to pray – recklessly. It didn’t matter that there were people there, it didn’t matter how lame “I saw my ex-boyfriend” sounded: nothing mattered more than getting close to Jesus.

I wedged myself on the ground between two pews, drew my knees up to my chest and sobbed. This is what I said:

“Jesus, please, please hold me. Please, please, please, please hold me. I know you are not a feeling, but please let me feel you. If you don’t, that’s okay. But please, please, please hold me.”

Those were the only words I had, and they were the only words I needed.

What I know is that when we come to Jesus desperately, he comes for us right back. We see it all over scripture; when the father runs to meet his prodigal son. When a barren Hannah prays so desperately for a son that everyone in the church thinks she’s drunk – and God gives her a baby. When a man fights so hard to get to Jesus that his friends cut a hole in somebody’s roof and lower him down over the crowd – the first century version of helicoptering in – and God heals him. God is moved by our recklessness; He has compassion on our desperate state; He delights to save.

Here is why this matters for you.

When you get to a point when nothing matters more than God’s forgiveness – you have it. [1 John 1:9]

When you get to a point when nothing matters more than God’s presence – He’s there. [James 4:8] [Jeremiah 29:13]

When you are humble enough, desperate enough, to say, like the sinful woman in Luke 7, “I’ll do whatever I have to do, endure whatever I have to endure, sacrifice whatever I have to sacrifice, because nothing matters more than getting close to Jesus,” He meets you exactly where you are, full of compassion and tenderness ready to hold, heal, and forgive.

I know this because when I was twenty-years-old, weeping and dribbling snot all over the carpet of a crowded church, desperate to be held, Jesus said to me,

“Listen to me, you descendants of Jacob,
all the remnant of the people of Israel,
you whom I have upheld since your birth,
and have carried since you were born.
Even to your old age and gray hairs
I am he, I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
[Isaiah 46: 3-4]

If you need to come, come recklessly. It only ever turns out great.

________________________________________________

Read Live Second, Day 1 here.
Visit the blog here.
And buy the book, which debuted YESTERDAY, here.

Woman vs. Kitchen: A New Venture

(source)

One time, I set a kitchen towel on fire while making pasta.

Yes, pasta. The easiest food in culinary history (besides Pop-tarts).

Boil water.
Add pasta.
Pour out water.
Voila.

Somewhere in there I managed to drag a totally unnecessary kitchen towel over a burner and LEAVE IT THERE LONG ENOUGH for it to catch on fire. To my everlasting shame, there were three witnesses.

“Hate” is not a strong enough word to describe the way I feel about cooking.

Loathe, detest, abhor – all are too tame to describe the feeling I get inside when it’s 4:00pm and I need a dinner plan. Or when it’s 4:00pm and I HAVE a dinner plan which means I have to spend precious, valuable moments of my life dicing things.

Here is a short list of things I’d rather do than cook:

Vacuum, dust, mop, fold laundry
Scrub toilets
Change diapers
Go to the dentist (for a root canal)
Go to the doctor (to get weighed, or to get shots. Or to get weighed AND get shots.)
Balance my checkbook
Watch Thomas the Train for the FIVE MILLIONTH TIME
Run

I have a friend who watches Julie & Julia every single month and swoons when Julie says,

“I love that after a day when nothing is sure… you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. It’s such a comfort.” [Julie & Julia]

My friend ACTUALLY gets teary-eyed. (It is a wonder our friendship has lasted this long.)

Let me be clear: mixing egg yolks is NOT A COMFORT. Chinese take-out is a comfort.

I know I can’t be the only one. I can’t be the only person who decides what’s for dinner based on how many dishes it will require me to wash.

I cannot be the only one who searches through online recipe databases and thinks:

“Brown the meat…” Nope, not that one!
“Mince 4 cloves fresh garlic…” Not happening!
“1 Tablespoon coconut oil…” HA HA HA! Next!

My cooking aversion boils down to a very basic business principle: There is simply not a high enough return on investment. If I’m going to plan a meal, buy the ingredients, thaw meat, dice and sautée veggies – if I’m going to mix, drain, and simmer things – if I’m going to pre-heat and tinfoil and bake things – if I’m going to wash cutting boards, knives, pots, pans, mixing bowls, plates and silverware then FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, it had better be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. It should be rapturous, because otherwise, I’d like my two hours and my clean kitchen back please.

But because I have not won any lotteries lately (which would afford me the privilege of hiring a personal chef) I have to cook. As such, I’ve developed a loaded arsenal of recipes and coping mechanisms that work for me – that work for my family. Over the next several months, I’ll be sharing my secret arsenal on a sweet blogging community called Fancy Little Things, for those of you who, like me, are just trying not to throw temper tantrums in the kitchen.

Here is what you can expect to find there.

Humor. At least if you consider the mental image of a grown woman waving a flaming kitchen towel over her head and shouting “Fire! Fire! Fire!” funny.
Health. I don’t care for processed foods, AND I’ve got 3 kids’ worth of baby weight to kick, so any recipe that we rely on regularly will have at least a moderate amount of nutritional value.
Simplicity. You will recognize the names of every single ingredient and know where to find them in a grocery store. You will not have to let anything refrigerate overnight or marinate – at all. You will not have to make your own sauces out of ¼ tsp. of 12 different spices. Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.
Deliciousness. Because I want cooking to be WORTH IT, I don’t do bland. And the meals in my rotation have received the picky-child-stamp of approval.
Dish Count. At the end of every post, I’ll tell you exactly how many dishes you’ll have to wash. This is deal-maker/deal-breaker information, I know.

And I promise that if I set anything else on fire, I’ll get my husband to snap a picture with his right hand as he wields the fire extinguisher with his left. He’s got skills.

My segment on Fancy Little Things will be called Woman vs. Kitchen, and my first post/recipe goes up on December 15th.

I hope you’ll read, participate, and share along with me for the next couple of months. We’ll be like a team. No, A BATTALION! A battalion of people surviving the kitchen and swapping hilarious pictures of flaming towels (and chickens and casseroles and crock-pots) along the way.

(In the meantime, Fancy Little Things has a huge variety of blog features in addition to community groups and a small business/blogging directory. There is style, photography, gluten-free cooking, DIYs, a marriage segment, and a faith segment, among others. Basically all the delightful domesticity you don’t find here. If that sounds like your cup of tea, you should go check it out!)

Tiny Home

(s0urce)

This is a love letter to my tiny house.

It’s not 500 sq. feet-NYC-apartment-tiny, but it’s pretty darn small for married-with-three-kids, which is exactly what I’ll be in three months. How small?

-I don’t allow people in my kitchen while I’m cooking, because the presence of one other body (even Sam, who is exactly 34 inches tall and weighs 25lbs soaking wet), makes it impossible for me to turn around.

-When we moved in, I gave away our coffee table because, were a moderately-sized coffee table placed in my living room, nobody with chubby calves could walk around it.

-I have no pantry, and (outside of the bedrooms) a single, small closet.

I also have no plans to move.

Because I LOVE my little house.

The tiny house makes me do what’s good for me – the things I know I should be doing all the time, but sometimes need a little kick in the pants about.

The tiny house forces me to stop keeping everything “just in case.” The tiny house makes me purge my closet: no “when I lose 5 lbs” pieces around here. When a new piece comes in, an old one goes out – one for one.

The tiny house makes me use the library instead of amassing books I read 7 years ago, started, or intend to start.

The tiny house makes me give away the toys my children are finished with, and keep the ones they love now.

The tiny house is easy to clean. Well, actually it’s really hard to clean if you can’t let go of the stuff (because then it’s overflowing and toys are everywhere ALL OF THE TIME). But once you learn to let a couple of things go – things like coffee tables – it’s magical. You flop all the toys into their respective bins, sweep one floor, and wipe 3 square feet of counter space and BAM! Martha freaking Stewart lives here. The tiny house helps me to keep a clean space all the time, not just when someone is coming over.

The tiny house is easy to decorate. A couple of shelves, a couple of frames, a couple of vases with flowers. I went shopping on Black Friday and for the first time, didn’t want to buy something for my home. Christmas decorating took 20 minutes.

The tiny house makes me practice what I preach – I’ve been vocal about challenging the assumption of “need.” About living sacrificially to better care for those living in poverty, in our back yards and in the third world. The tiny house challenges my assumptions about what I need. A room for each child. A linen closet. A coffee table. A food processor. An office. A guest room. A pantry. Extra blankets, extra towels, extra dishes – all superfluous.

The tiny house is cozy. A single candle fills it with scent (this month it’s frasier fir). The floor plan is open; the living room, a hub. The cat lives outside now, and comes in to eat and snuggle. He makes it feel warm, somehow – maybe it’s the fur.

Suddenly, because of the tiny house, our home is clean*, our home is simple, our home is put-together. We are physically close, physically warm, and I’m more content than I have ever been.

If you’ve been struggling with wanting more space, maybe take a deep breath and start trying to love your tiny home. Your tiny home will love you for it – and pay you back for your efforts a hundred times over.

*Except for the colossal, embarrassing explosion of clothing in my bedroom, which is top secret and nobody knows about except for me, my husband, the grad student who watches our kids, and now you.

I Dub Thee…

We knight each other in this house.

I’m not really sure when it started, but I love it.

The other day, as I was getting everybody out of the car I said to Madeline,

“Please close the van door and go hang your book-bag up on its hook. You’ll be Madeline the Helpful.”

Her response was more than I could have hoped for. She perked up and proclaimed,

“Yes! I am Madeline the Helpful!
And Madeline the Door-Closer!
And Madeline the In-a-New-Van-er.
Madeline the Tough!
Madeline the Fun!
Madeline the Useful!
Madeline the Curious!
Madeline the Bird-watcher!
Madeline the Chick-Fil-A-Eater!
Madeline the School-goer!
Madeline the Learn about God-er!
Madeline the Sam-dimpler!
Madeline the Music-lover!
And Madeline the GROWER!”

(I grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted down as many as I could, but I couldn’t write shorthand as fast as she was prattling away. I think my favorite is Madeline the Sam-dimpler; she delights in making her brother show off his dimple.)

It’s a sweet, playful way to celebrate the best in each other. But I’ve also found that it adds a shade of nobility, officiality, if you will. It says more than “you helped;” it says, “you are helpful.”

Dan and I are not a “schmoopsy-poo, honey-bear” kind of couple. I’ve never even referred to him as “hubs,”or “hubby.” But there is one particular term of endearment he uses that makes my heart want to explode with love for him.

Every time I call him on the phone, my picture appears with the name,

“Kathryn the Brave”

He dubbed me thus during the first year of our marriage. I was pregnant with my first surprise baby, surrounded by cardboard boxes filled with all our earthly possessions, having just moved into a tiny apartment in a new state where Dan was literally the only person I knew. Not long after that we found out that our beautiful surprise baby girl was blind. It was a big year. A tough year.

There were so many days that I thought, “I just want someone to recognize that what I’m doing is hard. I just want someone to tell me I’m brave.” When things were really scary and unknown and new and mostly dark, Dan saw bravery in me, and he dubbed me. Kathryn the Brave.

I still want to cultivate a strong, quiet bravery in my life. A spirit that, when confronted with something hard or daunting, takes a deep breath and presses on. I want to have the courage to be kind, the courage to forgive, the courage to be patient, the courage to trust, the courage to just. keep. going.

I don’t know who in your life needs knighting – a child who needs to be “My Child the Helpful;” a spouse who needs to be “My Husband the Faithful” or “My Wife the Gracious;” or maybe it’s “My Mother the Wise” or “My Friend the Kind” – but whoever it is, I encourage you to knight somebody today.

It’s sweet and playful and memorable; and it might just bring out the best in them.

Time Heals Nothing

(source)

I am thinking today about healing and growth, two of the most beautiful things our world can know and, not coincidentally, two of the most painful.

I saw this clever illustration today and instead of appreciating it, everything in my gut wrenched and shouted,

“That’s not true!”

If you’ve heard it and believed it, you must know that it’s a lie.

Time does not heal all wounds.
Time does not heal any wounds.

That’s why people carry grudges to their graves. Why people spend thousands of dollars on therapy every year. Why bitterness and resentment and contempt kill marriages every day. Because time doesn’t do squat.

It can sometimes feel like time is the magical wound-eraser, but only because in time, the real healers can do their work. Consider:

Time doesn’t heal wounds; forgiveness heals wounds. And forgiveness takes time.
Time doesn’t heal wounds; perspective heals wounds. And perspective takes time.
Time doesn’t heal wounds; maturity and grace heal wounds. And maturity and grace take time.

Ultimately, time doesn’t heal wounds; Jesus heals wounds. And never, ever in my experience has Jesus tapped me with a magic wand and erased my emotion – my hurt – my humanness. He wouldn’t take that from us; it’s too valuable to our human experience. T0o crucial in our understanding of who He is: a God who loves, rejoices, weeps and hurts. What He has done – is heal me. He has worked forgiveness into my heart – into places so hurt and hardened that only He could do it. And it took time. He has carried me minute by minute, dispensing peace in the exact measure of my need, over time.

There is a great line from an early episode of House (which I’ve always loved because of the writers’ wit and fearlessness in discussing philosophical concepts). A patient named Eve tells Dr. House, “Time changes everything,” and House responds,

“That’s what people say; it’s not true. Doing things changes things. Not doing things leaves things exactly as they were.”

If you need healing, get busy. Get busy praying. Get busy crying, feeling, growing, forgiving, begging for grace.

Healing and growth are not instantaneous – none of the best things are. But neither are they guaranteed with time – none of the best things are.

So can we please stop perpetuating this lie of a proverb? Time doesn’t heal wounds; it doesn’t have that kind of power. But God does.

Hallelujah.

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Kate Conner