This weekend I started reading the gospel of Luke in The Message and I’ve really been stuck on one section in chapter one (verses 23 – 24):

“When the course of his priestly assignment was completed, he went back home. It wasn’t long before his wife, Elizabeth, conceived. She went off by herself for five months, relishing her pregnancy.”

This section is part of the story of Zachariah and Elizabeth, the parents of John the Baptist. This relatively small passage gives us a snippet into the lives of a high priest and his wife. At the point in their lives when the angel appears to Zachariah they are both old and have never had any children. And the angel appeared at the one point in Zachariah’s life that he would EVER enter the Holy of Holies and tells him he’s going to have a very special son.

Let me say this again, this is one small part of the story of the life of Zachariah and Elizabeth so I think what Luke chooses to share must be important to his point. And apparently their life had been a long, childless, and likely sad and lonely one that may have been defined more by what they weren’t (parents) instead of who they were (both descendants of Aaron the High Priest). Then Luke shares the information I am stuck on: “She went off by herself for five months, relishing her pregnancy.”

She had waited for this her whole life and had likely given up on her dream of motherhood, considered at that time an important sign of God’s blessing on a husband and wife. But when God moved and pregnancy happened, she relished it. She relished right where she was and embraced the season she was in. Like any expectant mother I am sure she thought and dreamed about the life of her future son. It’s possible she didn’t know what the angel had shared with Zachariah because he was mute when he exited the Temple. I am sure she also struggled with some of physical ‘issues’ that happen with pregnancy, especially to older moms. I had my last baby when I was 30 years old and while I know that’s fairly young, I also know there was a huge difference in how pregnancy affected my body at 30 versus 25.

But Luke doesn’t tell us any of that. All he says is that she relished the pregnancy. She relished right where she was in that moment.

This afternoon I dropped my baby, Sophalopes, off at driver’s ed. Let me rephrase that – I DROPPED MY BABY OFF AT DRIVER’S ED! I asked her if she wanted me to walk into the enormous high school building and help her find where she needed to go. She said, “Nope” and practically ran from the car. In fact, I am not sure the car had come to a full stop when she hopped out. And then I pulled over and burst into tears. Simultaneously I was caught between mourning the passing of one season (I was finally promoted out of Middle School after 9 years last week) and rushing headlong into an uncertain future. And I am struggling.

It’s hard to relish the moments we’re in. Some are hard, some are celebratory, some are flat-out horrible. Some are a combination of all of the above.  Most moments are completely ordinary, and those are some of the most difficult to remain in. Each moment is a pre-cursor to the next and each one is pregnant with possibility. But no matter what’s happening in any given moment it’s the only one we have. If we are stuck looking behind or can’t stop looking ahead we miss the only moment we can actually experience.

Elizabeth relished her pregnancy. Alone. For five months. And I am asking myself, can I relish right where I am without letting myself be crushed between the weight of the past and the fear of the future?

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Just because I enjoy laughing at myself, I’ll give you this little peek behind the curtain so to speak…I decided to experiment with some different writing locales to help me focus so I tried a local bakery/coffee shop today. I put in ear plugs to mute the satellite radio that was playing a little too loud in the background. I could still hear the music, but it wasn’t distracting. Then all of sudden I found myself singing, “Play That Funky Music” out loud. Can anyone hear that song and NOT sing along? I may need to find another spot…or charge admission to the show.

When you are inextricably trapped, stuck, incarcerated by 9 inches of snow and a 45-degree driveway, it tends to bring out the best, worst, ugliest REAL in all of us. If anything was hiding just beneath the surface of a quiet, nicely polished veneer of calm in any member of my family, well…after three days of lots of togetherness, it’s all hanging out now.

I would love to say that we embraced this time together in true Brady Bunch fashion with lots of sing-a-longs, board games, and crafting…well, there was some crafting for about 15 minutes…but that would not have been US – The Popes. Instead, in one room there was a three-day marathon of ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ and in the other was non-stop channel surfing between the World Fishing Network and the Outdoor Channel (I want to meet the heads of these two networks and have a heart to heart with them – WHY ARE THERE SO MANY COMMERCIALS? WHY ARE THEY SO LOUD? WHY DOES THE BACKGROUND MUSIC DROWN OUT THE FISHERMAN TALKING SO MY HUSBAND HAS TO TURN IT UP TO HEAR THEM????). And in the corner was me. With my ear plugs in.

In all honesty, I am quite proud of how we handled our unfortunate incarceration, there were no major melt downs until the end of day three. Sadly, it was Valentine’s Day and we were all just d-o-n-e. So instead of the day representing how perfectly our love manifests itself every single day (insert raucous laughter right here), it was messy. No cards. No candy. Flowers never arrived. Lots of frayed nerves and very little capacity to hold anything in. We were a group of people whose filters were eroding faster than the melting snow.

Valentine’s Day was probably better represented in our home the other 364 days this past year:

• the day when Popey shoveled those 9-inches of snow off of said 45-degree driveway;
• every single day for four months when Popey had to work 14-hour days, 7-days a week out of town;
• the days when a week’s worth of filthy-sweaty-construction-site laundry had to be washed, dried, folded and packed up to leave again in just six hours;
• the days when a week’s worth of food had to be cooked and packaged as individual meals to send to work with a man who didn’t have time to stop and eat or even go through a drive-thru;
• the days of sleeping alone in two cities because work and family don’t cohabitate for us;
• the days of mothering through the tough, rocky emotions of three teen-age girls alone;
• the days of crazy long beards;
• the days of crazy short hair;
• the days of just plain C-R-A-Z-Y;
• the days of just plain;
• the days when he said, “Let’s go out to dinner,” because he knew I was spent;
• the days when I said, “Let’s stay home for dinner,” because I knew he was spent;
• the days we spent in bed watching TV together when he only had one day off that week and was too tired to do anything else;
• the days when one of us or both of us realized we don’t understand the other one nearly as well as we thought, but we love anyway;
• the days one or both of us realized we don’t understand ourselves as much as we thought we did, but we cling to the other one in desperate hope that they’ll hang in there with us through it (it’s possible that one was just me);
• the days of getting up and doing all the things married people do when they are tired, lonely, feel misunderstood and misrepresented, and missing the fairy tale they thought they signed up for on day one when they said ‘I do’;
• ALL THE DAYS.

The ordinary days of what true, messy, real love is. Most of the time it’s just showing up, even when you have nothing to offer, and doing the best you can and trusting Jesus for the rest.

And then there’s the day after Valentine’s Day while you are typing a blog post about true love, and the bedraggled UPS man shows up in the melting snow and ice to deliver the two dozen roses that were guaranteed for delivery on Valentine’s Day. And they are beautiful. But they pale in comparison to the brutiful mess we make every other day of the year.

Thank you for loving me well Popey. For almost 27 years you’ve taken good care of me and loved me even when neither one of us knew how. I pray we have many more brutiful messes together. I know there will be more messes because I understand now what I didn’t on our wedding day – neither one of us have any idea what we are doing!

(And for the sake of my sanity – please turn down the fishing channel…uuuuggghhh!)

Last week I found myself on the other end of the line of someone else’s crisis. After two panicked phone calls and several text messages that didn’t feel sufficient or comforting enough for someone coming unraveled (her, not me this time), I was suddenly overwhelmed by the peace of The Truth. And I heard God whisper to me that He is enough for me, and He is enough for her. In Him she is safe and well loved. And I can relax.

So I simply sent texted the following:

“You are the righteousness of Christ. You are complete in Him. You have EVERYTHING pertaining to life and godliness. In no way are you deficient or ill-equipped to handle whatever comes into your life because you have Christ, the Creator of the universe (and you) living inside of you. And you really can do all things in Him. Not by yourself. He sees right where you are and is crazy about you. He doesn’t care if you handle things perfectly He just wants to do life with you. Every second of every single day.”

As I typed that message the words rang through me like a bell.

He is more than enough.

For me.

For you.

For all those we love.

In any storm we face.

Psalm 46:10a (ESV) ~ “Be still and know that I am God.”

So I asked God for a word for 2014 and He gave me two, Fully Alive.  Sounds a little exciting, doesn’t it?  I had visions of adventure, mystery and joy.  Somehow Fully Alive (as opposed to dead) sounded exciting and happy to me.

So far though, Fully Alive has been TWO hot, messy emotional melt downs; being angry for multiple, ridiculous reasons that make no sense at all; experiencing a traumatic loss and walking through grief; being happy, joyous AND overwhelmed and feeling unworthy for ALL THE GOOD THINGS THAT ARE HAPPENING; and simply being confused.  And since I’ve decided to be kinder to myself, there was also one brief moment of total brilliance that I really enjoyed.

And literally, as I am writing this, another bird just flew into my house.  And he felt trapped.

And I feel trapped.  Trapped inside a body that refuses to cooperate and just be fine.  A body that won’t just sit down, shut up, paint on a smile and pretend to be happy regardless of what’s going on.

I am forty-five years old and all of a sudden I have emotions and they are whipping me around like a ride at an amusement park…minus the amusing part.  Apparently I was born with them (AS ALL HUMANS ARE!) I just became very adept early in life at stuffing and hiding them.  It really didn’t seem to matter to anyone else when they made an appearance.  They were inconvenient and inefficient and so down they went.  Down into the pit of my stomach where they hid.  Until now.

They aren’t hiding anymore.  They won’t be quiet and they won’t leave me alone.  They don’t care how embarrassing, inconvenient and inefficient they are.  They are coming out and are on full display.  This really is some of the ugly part of life.

Fully Alive people have emotions.  And they allow themselves to be human and experience them.

This is hard for a woman who wants to do her hair, put on her lipstick, tuck in her mess and say, “I’m fine.”

Well I am saying it right now, I am not fine.  Fully Alive is hard.  It means being vulnerable and living in relationship with others and engaging with them even when it’s painful.  And it is painful.  And messy.  And beautiful.  And exciting.  And overwhelming.  And worth it.  (I am really counting on that last one being true because in this moment I’m wondering).

It’s 2014, I AM NOT FINE, but I’m Fully Alive.

Pray for my family, they look scared.  🙂  I think they are wondering if Fully Alive might possibly mean Totally Crazy!

I shared earlier this week about the brutiful passing of Liv Loo’s dog Oreo.  All I will add to that traumatic tale is that grief is definitely a process.  His loss is felt by everyone in our home.  The other morning I came home from carpool and I was completely alone in the house for probably the first time in almost 10 years.  And it was really weird.  I was the only living being in the house and I could feel it.

Let me be clear:  I AM NOT A DOG PERSON.  But Liv Loo, Sophalopes and Popey are.  In fact, most of the time I am fairly certain that they liked the dog more than me.  Just sayin’.

At dinner the other night I noticed that Popey was moving the extra fat from his corned beef to the edge of his plate.  Towards the end of the meal he realized he didn’t have his four-legged buddy to share the scraps with.  Then it dawned on him that he had eaten his entire meal without Oreo’s tail beating him in the leg as he happily waited for the scraps.  It was sad.

While I AM NOT A DOG PERSON, I do appreciate the joy that Oreo brought to my family.  In particular, I am forever indebted to that little dog for the unconditional love he lavished on Liv Loo at some of the most difficult times of her life.

After Liv’s first hip surgery when she was 10 she spent two months in a wheel chair, unable to put ANY weight whatsoever on her right leg.  Unfortunately, our house was not designed for the disabled.  All the bedrooms and showers are upstairs and moving her up and down the stairs every day was too risky in our opinion.  So the decision was made to have her stay at my parents’ home where everything was on one floor and someone could be with her all the time.

It was very difficult on all of us, but particularly on Liv Loo.  She was very lonely and felt abandoned.  In hind sight, well…of course she felt abandoned!  But at the time, we were simply trying to make the best decisions we could that would hopefully result in her eventually being able to walk normally again.  And now thankfully, she walks normally, with minimal pain.  However, it came at great emotional cost.

During those two months of DON’T PUT ANY WEIGHT ON HER RIGHT LEG WHATSOEVER, two close relatives (they shall remain nameless) decided that what Liv Loo needed was a dog.  She had been asking for one for a long time, but I felt like we had enough on our plate raising three kids, two jobs, piano lessons, karate, church and Popey back in college  That was even before Liv’s diagnosis.  Who had time for a dog?

The minute they ‘surprised’ us with the dog all I could think was, “I need this like I need a hole in the head.  They are giving her a dog, but how the heck is this wheel chair bound kid supposed to take care of a dog????”  That was one of the most overwhelming moments of my life.  I AM NOT A DOG PERSON.  And at that moment I became THE MOTHER OF A DISABLED CHILD WITH A DOG!  I really almost lost it right then.

However, I was not the only one in the story.  My daughter needed the unconditional love and affection she got from that puppy almost as much as she needed water or food.   And so God loved on her, in spite of me.

Every night while she recuperated at my parents’ home my Mom would come home from work and she would push Liv Loo around the block in her wheel chair so Liv could ‘walk’ Oreo.  Usually Oreo’s short legs gave out on the first half of the block and he would ride on Liv’s lap in the wheel chair the rest of the way.  He watched tv with her.  He played video games with her.  He sat with her.  He loved her.

Once she and Oreo came home Sophalopes quickly adopted him as her own.  Against Liv’s wishes, and probably Oreo’s.  Liv and Soph were still fighting over him until the day he made his last trip to the vet.

One of my favorite memories is when Soph was about five or six.  I was sitting in bed one night reading and Oreo came flying up the stairs.  He was moving so fast that it didn’t even look like his feet were touching the ground.  He flew up under my bed and barely came to a stop when I saw Soph coming up the stairs.  She was clutching her favorite blanky (the blanky’s name was Bob – another story for another day) in one arm and she had one of her doll’s roller skates in the other.  Apparently she had been trying to put them on Oreo.

Soph carried him around like a purse.  She painted his nails.  She sat him in her doll stroller, strapped him in like a baby and pushed him around the house.  But when Olivia came home, he knew who he belonged to.  He was all hers.

So I would just like to say thank you Oreo for loving my family well.  You brought joy to the Dog Lovers in this house.  And for those of us who aren’t Dog Lovers, thank you for putting up with us and trying your hardest to win us over.

And thank You Father for knowing that I only see in part, even on my best day.  Thank You for loving my children better than I ever could.  Thank You that sometimes Your Love comes wrapped in fur at what seems like the worst possible time.

Recently I’ve come across the writing of Glennon Doyle Melton.  Both in her book, “Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed” and her blog she talks about how life can be both brutal and beautiful, ‘brutiful’, and often at the exact same time.  Author Ann Voskamp calls these same moments the Ugly-Beautiful in her writing.  Those moments when pain, suffering, fear, grief and sometimes death hold hands with precious, beautiful, amazing and holy.

And in those brutiful, ugly-beautiful moments we have a choice.  We can embrace them and move through them open to all that God may want to do and say in them and through them.  OR we can suit up with our own version of self-protective armor and move through them on our own terms, closed to any outcome other than the one we want.

Last week I was privileged to witness one of those moments in our family.  With very little warning, but a whole lot of drama, tears, and heartache my oldest daughter had to make the decision to have her beloved dog of almost 10 years, Oreo, put to sleep.

For twelve excruciating, sleepless hours she stayed by his side as he suffered through uncontrollable seizures and difficulty breathing.  She whispered sweet words of love and affirmation as she continually pet him in an effort to keep him calm.  She bore witness to his struggle.  She didn’t turn away.  She didn’t ask for anyone else to do it for her.  She walked through every single ‘brutiful’ moment with Oreo

When the sun rose the next morning she knew that she didn’t want him to suffer like that anymore.  Liv Loo, Sophalopes, and I, made the painful trip to the vet’s office.

An hour later, after Oreo’s condition had deteriorated further and arrangements had been made, the vet let the girls know they didn’t have to stay if this was too hard.  But they couldn’t leave him.  As long as he was still breathing they were staying with him.

And so they sobbed uncontrollably, whispered love in his ears, pet him and looked him straight in the eye as the life left his tiny frame.  They bore witness to his suffering and to his passing.  And I bore witness to their love, their bravery, and their refusal to surrender to their own heartache.  As his heart stopped beating their hearts split wide open.

It’s a very difficult, gut-wrenching thing to watch a living thing, human or animal, give up its life.  But they never looked away, they were generous with their love and their presence.  They moved through each moment as it came and embraced it as profoundly necessary and holy.

Love stared death in the face and didn’t flinch.  Brutal and beautiful met, grabbed hands and wrestled.  And it was one of the most sacred moments I’ve ever witnessed.

Our little Make Stuff Girl truly is made of tougher stuff than I knew.  And the Everything is Possible Girl who confidently moves through life unshaken by those things that make her different, well she’s my hero, too.

They are the bravest women I know and once again I am humbled and honored to be their Momma.

This morning (at this writing) we woke up to 8 degree temperatures here in North Carolina.  Just a few days before Christmas I rode around town with my sunroof open, enjoying the breeze.   The forecast for this weekend includes temperatures in the 60’s and a week from now there is the possibility for a Wintry Mix.  I think our state motto should be changed to “The Schizophrenic Weather State” or “The Multiple Seasons a Week State.”

Schools were delayed two hours due to extreme cold so we took full advantage and slept in. You need all the rest you can get to work hard at staying warm.  A few minutes before I headed out to warm up the car Sophalopes started looking for gloves.  After several minutes of searching the dark recesses of our closets all we could come up with was one white glove and one brown one.  I had no idea I am the only female in the house with a matching pair of gloves.

Soph suggested that we stop at the grocery store on the way to school and see if they had any.  I thought it was an odd place to shop for gloves, but she thought she remembered seeing some.  So off we went. (Just a quick shout out for the Most Awesome Husband Ever who bought me a car with heated seats!  This “tushy-less” wife was very happy this morning!)  After a quick 30 seconds in the store she came out empty-handed and got back in the car.

I looked down at my leather-clad hands and as a Mom I knew it was one of those moments when you make the ultimate sacrifice for your child.  With a tear in my eye and a quivering voice I quietly offered up The Best Leather Gloves in the History of Leather Gloves to save my child’s precious hands.  I just knew generations from now people would be talking about this Momma Moment and how brave I had been.  Especially if she follows through on her plans to become an orthopedic surgeon.  I could be THAT Mom one day!

I really expected a huge smile as she lovingly took my offering and a gave a heartfelt, “Thank you.”  Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “These will be fine.”  These.  These.  “These” are the one white glove and the one brown glove.  The mismatched pair of gloves was fine with her.  I silently wondered how on earth this profoundly self-assured, confident young lady could possibly the daughter of such a mess as me.  Keep in mind she is the one who really tried to talk me into buying the yellow tube top dress back in the summer.

When we pulled up at the curb at school I watched in amazement as she gathered her things and got out of the car like nothing was amiss.  I looked her in the eye one last time as I tried to hand her my matching leather gloves and said, “Are you sure?”  And she just rolled her eyes and said, “Mom” in that tone of voice that reminds me she is closer to adulthood than I am sometimes.  She closed the car door like she does every day and walked into school like everything was right in her universe…with her mismatched gloves.

And everything is right in her universe because she knows she is not defined by her gloves…matching or otherwise.

Unfortunately, 31 years ago if I had been in her shoes (or in her gloves), I wouldn’t have worn any gloves in 8 degree weather if they didn’t match.  I would have been HORRIFIED.  To stand out in any way was a completely paralyzing thought to me.

So this morning, when I watched her walk into school that’s when I knew that I knew in the depths of my soul just how big my God is.  And how small I am.  While I have written this wrapped in humor and a bit of self-deprecation, please know that my bottom line is deep and profound:  God is so much bigger than me, my mess(es), my mistakes or my ability to screw things up.

Amen.

Mark 10:27 (ESV) ~ “Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man it is impossible, but not with God. For all things are possible with God.'”

Important Update:  Just so no one thinks Sophalopes is completely devoid of any fashion sense…when she got home that afternoon she did ask that we go shopping for matching gloves (and scarf, and head band).  She is now all set for the 60 degree weather coming this weekend!