Taking a Break Since I’m Back2School
Hey, all you lovely readers, I’ll be taking a break from my blog until about mid September since I’m back at the grindstone helping middle schoolers learn the written word. Please enjoy a picture of this grammar pun to set the mood for the upcoming school year. Don’t worry, it’s on the house. Much love and blessings sent your way.
Finding Hope
This past January I prayed for a few words to be the focus of my year, and one of the words that filled my mind was a word I had been writing about for a year—HOPE.
When I think about hope, faith goes hand in hand, so it made sense that this would be a word given to me to center my year around. What’s kind of mind-blowing is that this word is found in two titles of my books that I finished last year. This was well before I had said that prayer in January, and what I was not prepared for was the influx of reminders each day of this majestic word. Hope was every where I turned… literally.
I’ve seen women wearing shirts about hope, signs in trash cans (I legit found a HOPE sign in a trashcan on Saturday), letters signed in hope, text messages from friends telling me they have hope for me (typically on days when I was low and they had no clue), Bible verses read at just the perfect moment, and so many other examples of how this word has inundated my life. There are far worse words to encircle me, I know.
So, dear friend, I thought it would be awesome to dream with you and share my hope for the rest of this year. If my dreams come true, blessed be, and if they don’t, I know I will grow from the experience.
I hope to sell a few books by the end of the year. (This has been a long time coming, and I truly look forward to the moment this comes to fruition. My amazing agent and I are working tirelessly to make it happen, and I have faith that it will.)
I hope to be at a healthy weight and able to run a half marathon within a year. (This is something I’ve tried to accomplish for years, and I finally feel I’m on track to make this a reality.)
I hope to finish my current romance by October and begin the third book in the series. (This will happen. It’s as simple as putting words down on a page, or so I remind myself daily.)
I have other hopes and dreams I’d love to come to pass this year, but these are my top three, for sure.
Hope has filled my days for more than a year. I see it in the flutter of a butterfly wing, in the embrace of my doting husband, in the anxious anticipation of my older children to begin their lives as young adults, and in the simple smile of my youngest son as he navigates his final year of middle school (in-person). Hope springs fresh each morning. All I have to do is open my heart to the possibilities of dreams realized. Yeah, that’s a beautiful place to begin.
The HOPE sign I found in the trashcan on Saturday.
A Much Needed Break
I struggle with taking time off. In fact, if I’m not working on something, I have a tendency to feel unproductive. So much so, that even when I’m on vacation, I take my writing with me. Though I still worked on editing while on my vacation, and I did write half of a chapter, I made the decision to stop and be present with my husband and thirteen-year-old son. Honestly, it was the best decision I’ve made in a long time.
This year has been a rough one. If you’ve been reading my blogs, you know that I lost my dad and grandfather within three weeks of each other. Through the process of grief, I realized I need to change a lot about my life in order to live it well. First, I want to spend actual quality time with my family, and not just sit in the same room while working on my laptop, scrolling through social media on my phone, or watching murder documentaries on HULU. Next, I know I have to change my emotional eating habits and exercise more (bleh… but yeah). And… finally…. well… I still have loads of work to do on self love. So, putting my WIP (work in progress) aside for a few weeks was tough but oh so necessary.
My son will be eighteen before I know it. I know this because he is our baby, and our other children are now young adults. Pretty soon he won’t want to go on a two week road trip with us. Pretty soon he will be far too captivated by his friends and dating. Pretty soon my husband and I will be the OLD farts he has to put up with. Pretty soon is coming fast, y’all, and I’m not ready.
So, I put my laptop aside. I listened to Harry Potter in the car with him. We ate loads of incredible food. Spent time with family and friends we consider to be family. We went to Niagara Falls, Alexandria Bay, the Hershey Factory, Gettysburg, Roswell, and so many other amazing places. We laughed about nonsensical things, told horrible jokes, dreamed about lake houses, and so much more. It was one of those vacations I will pull out of my memories and mull over when I am no longer cool to him: oh, the teenage years are real, dear friends.
These past two and a half weeks were nothing short of majestic, and I feel so blessed to have had these precious moments with two of my favorite guys in the world, but the vacation is over. It’s time to get back to work. Characters are poking about in my brain waiting to talk. Stories are twisting in my mind. Worlds must be created, y’all, and it’s time I begin again.
Tomorrow… I promise. :)
My Favorite Places and Moments:
Saint George, Utah where we had an awesome dinner with family who always find the time to fellowship with us and make us feel loved, known, and seen. Thank you for your constant support and encouragement.
Keystone, Colorado where the adults tasted incredible beer, and we all savored some of the best pizza we’ve ever had before at Steep Brewing and Coffee Company. I also got to meet a future author who has books in her soul just itching to get out.
Hays, Kansas where some of my favorite people on this planet live. Thank you for showing us around your little slice of heaven and for dreaming about all things books, storefronts, and bees with me.
Abilene, Kansas where my current romance is set. We met the raddest store owners of Ortus Cafe who gave us a tour of their building, including their personal home. I will have to launch a book there one day soon… wink, wink.
Cooperstown, NY where newfound family lives. Thank you for all of the memories we shared. My favorite times were chilling on the boat and listening to the water lap around me. Thank you for loving us so well.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania where I realized once again how terrible hate really is, and that a house divided can never stand.
Knoxville, Tennessee where friends were willing to eat a really late dinner just so they could see us, again. Thank you for the hugs, laughter, and belief in my journey. Until next time…
Niagara Falls, NY
Coffee Break Book Reviews: Sunday Rain by Rosie J. Pova
Do you love bold coffee? How about a good book? What if you could combine the two for a much-needed break? Then, come enjoy some magic bean juice with me as I present this week’s episode of #CoffeeBreakBookReviews.
This week, I interviewed #picturebook #author, Rosie J. Pova, about her #PB, Sunday Rain. This darling book is about a boy named Elliott who uses his imagination to find new friends in a new neighborhood. If you’re interested in reading a sweet book about new beginnings, friendships, and creative play, then this is the book for you. Click the link below to get your copy of Sunday Rain. You won’t be disappointed.
Now, sit back, take a sip, and enjoy.
Thanks for watching. Don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe. Tune in next time for another episode of #CoffeeBreakBookReviews.
TTFN… Ta Ta For Now!
Buy the book by clicking https://www.amazon.com/SundayRain
Follow the author at www.rosiejpova.com/blog.
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The Less of These…
A bee lay unmoving on the sidewalk in front of me. I walked past it, thinking it was dead. Then, a still, small voice whispered in my head: move it. I grabbed a stick, walked back to the bee, and held it in such a way that allowed the bee to climb onto the stick. Slowly, I walked over to a honeysuckle bush, put the stick on the bush, and the bee crawled onto a flower. The bee looked exhausted, as though it had given up hope, and I could totally relate.
I am in the habit of moving snails whenever I see them on the sidewalk, as well. I pick them up, walk toward wherever they're traveling, and place them safely out of harm’s way. One of the things I detest most is seeing a crushed snail on the ground, but I hate it more when I’m the one who accidentally smashes it underfoot. Needless to say, I am always on the lookout for passing snails. You see, animals, insects, and frightened living creatures have a way of finding me. My family can attest to this. In fact, if I pass away before my husband, he has vowed to move snails to safety, and I think that is a beautiful way to honor my life: to pay homage to the less of these… the tiny lives that cannot possibly repay a good deed.
Last Thursday, I found a crying duckling on my morning walk around the lake. I sat down to make sure it was okay, and it climbed into my lap. It had to be about six weeks old, and it was cold, shivering, and terrified. My husband and I researched how to help an abandoned duckling. Google informed us that we needed to walk around the lake as the duckling cried. If it’s mother heard it, she would promptly charge us and receive her duckling back. Though I wasn’t looking forward to meeting up with an angry mama duck, I really wanted to help this sad, little sweetie.
We spent over an hour searching, and though we found geese families, there were no duck families to be seen. That’s when we decided to take the little duckling home. We needed to keep it safe and find it a home. As my husband and I cared for yet another sweet creature, we decided to give it a name. Though we had no clue if the duckling was a boy or a girl, Sawyer was what we landed on. Sawyer is a bit androgynous, and it reminded me of the ducks near Tom Sawyer’s Island at Disneyland, or what used to be Tom Sawyer’s Island.
For two days, we tended to Sawyer, and with the help of an amazing friend, we found him a home on Saturday. The family was so excited to welcome this baby into their flock, but Sawyer needed more care than they could give. They were able to give Sawyer another safe place to land at a duck rescue in Lake Elsinore, California. Over the past week, my husband and I also found out that Sawyer was an “Easter” duck. These are ducklings sold at places, like Kahoots, during Easter. Many families purchase these duckies, and then drop them at nearby lakes. This is a thing, Dear Reader, and you may be as shocked as I was when I found out.
The woman who dropped off Sawyer, and another duckling that I did not find, said Kahoots told her it was okay to drop the ducklings at a pond or lake when they are six weeks old. This woman has been dropping ducklings at my lake for years. Yikes! Though I am angry with her naivety, I am grateful that, in the end, she did do right by Sawyer. She helped take him to the duck sanctuary and paid for his placement. I don’t type these words to shame this woman. I type them to remind you that little things, and tiny creatures, matter. At least, they matter significantly to me.
So, what does all this mean? Why write this post to begin with? I write it because, a year from now, I’d like to remember the day that I saved a duckling. A year from now, I’d like to see that I took the time to help something less fortunate than me. A year from now, I hope this woman will no longer drop off “Easter” ducks at my neighborhood lake. In fact, she may even teach others not to do the same. Who knows? She may become an advocate for the tiny creatures who cannot repay her kindness. In the end, isn’t that what matters most?
Think of me the next time you see an exhausted bee or traveling snail, and perhaps, sweet friend, you will help them along their journeys, as well. Perhaps, you will also make the time to help the less of these.
Finding Inspiration: How to Make Time for What You Love...
I wear many hats. I’m a Christian, a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter, an aunt, a teacher, a blogger, a YouTuber, an author, an at home chef, a housekeeper, a friend, and the list goes on and on. I don’t know about you, but I get tired of doing all of the stuff and things. Sometimes, okay oftentimes, I feel like I’m spinning too many plates at once, and the thing I love the most, writing, gets pushed to the wayside. There have been many days where I don’t feel like writing. Many days when I’ve felt too overwhelmed, too exhausted, too anxious, too (insert emotion here). Once again, this list goes on and on.
So, how do I carve out those precious moments to put pen to paper, or in this case, fingers to keyboard? I wish I could tell you I’ve found a way to extend the day to twenty-five hours. I wish I could give you some miraculous solution, as though I took a magic tonic and BOOM… all the words came to me in a flash. But, then I’d be lying to you, and I don’t want to mislead you in any way, friend.
The fact of the matter is there are moments when I force myself to write. There are moments where I sit at my computer and just type words. Today is one of these moments. I wish I could say that once I get in the groove, brilliant words emerge from my thoughts, but that’s not often the case. Most of the time, I ramble on and on in some nonsensical manner, and I go back through my blog posts and edit the crap out of them. (Well, isn’t that a fine picture to behold.)
The same goes for my books. How do I write with such a jam packed schedule, especially on the days where I don’t feel inspired to write? I’m afraid the answer isn’t at all inspiring. In fact, all I do is write. The practice of writing a little bit every day (at least 500 words) puts me in the habit of writing. I remind myself that it's okay to have an off day, but it isn’t okay to give up on my dreams. It isn’t okay to push my happy place aside because I have “too much to do.” Sound familiar?
What is it that you dream about, Dear Reader? What is a goal you have been pushing aside because you lack time or inspiration? What if I told you the best way to start is to START? Just do it. Inspiration doesn’t come to us like a butterfly fluttering around our heads. That’s a fairytale. Inspiration is more like an angry toddler who refuses to take a nap. You just have to be consistent with it, regardless of how hard it kicks and screams, and voila, a habit forms.
It really is that simple, or difficult, depending on your mindset. So, how do I complete books with all of the chaos spinning around in my life? I sit down in front of a computer, and I type words onto the blank screen. Some of them are great, some of them are terrible, but all of them are necessary: the good, the bad, and somewhere in between. Yeah, they all matter because writing matters to me.
In closing, make it a point to carve out time for yourself. Start at the beginning. Take small steps toward your goal. Just keep swimming, as Dory would say. Time will pass by, anyway. You may as well do something you love while you wait.
Mother’s Day Melancholy
For many people, Mother’s Day is a joyous occasion. One filled with flowers, pancakes in bed, and homemade gifts from kiddos. Though I have had my fair share of happy memories on Mother’s Day, it is still a day of sorrow for me. Since my mother passed away when I was a baby, this has become another day to mourn. Try as I might to have a positive outlook, the blues still sweep over me like an overcast sky. Though I am blessed with an amazing husband and incredible kids, there is this aching hole in my heart. A hole that so many of you readers can relate to, as well.
Mother’s Day, like many holidays, can be a reminder of loss for so many of us. This could be the day that marks another year of infertility. The day that showcases the loss of a child or mother, whether through death or a strained relationship. Perhaps, this is the first year without your mother or child. If that is the case, I am so sorry, friend.
I can attest that this Mother’s Day did not shape up the way I had envisioned. The day started out well enough, with a lovely walk around my community lake. There were even three turtles sunbathing along the trail. My husband and I dreamed of our future together, as we often do. We talked about vacations we had planned, our hopes, dreams, and at one point on our walk, I even warned him that I was feeling rather melancholy. Though, he already knew I’d be sad.
My mother is absent from Mother’s Day. She has been absent from Mother’s Day for as long as I can remember. I can’t celebrate with her. Sure, I can buy her flowers and put them in a vase in her memory. I can release balloons. I can go to the beach where her ashes were scattered. I can do so many things. I have done so many things, with the exception of releasing balloons. I’m pretty sure that’s not good for the environment.
I have the best husband. If you are lucky enough to know him, then you know how loving he is. His loyalty is legendary. He has the patience of a saint, which is necessary to deal with a woman like me. A woman who challenges EVERYTHING. A woman who does not shy away from emotions. You can read them plainly on my face. I am, and have always been, eccentric. I don’t say this as an apology. I say this because it is the truth. I am A LOT, and I needed a man who was able to withstand a lot. Brian is that man, and on this Mother’s Day he would need all the patience he could muster. This Mother’s Day was one for the record books.
You see, friend, I may not shy away from emotions, but I do have a tendency to push them down. That is until I can’t any longer. So, when grief threatened to derail my Mother’s Day, I put on my best smile and swallowed it whole. It sat in my stomach like a concrete slab. I smiled, laughed, and all the while pushed past the grief. Until I couldn’t any longer. Until the grief clawed its way up my throat.
“I hate my floors!” I bellowed.
Brian and my son blinked back at my outburst.
“I’m sorry, what?” Brian had asked.
“I freaking hate these floors! They show everything: all the dust, hair, and dirt. We need to replace them.”
My husband made a face. “Babe, we can’t afford to replace them anytime, soon. You know that.”
“Oh, sure, that’s just perfect,” I exploded. “You spend our money on whatever you want, but when I want to spend a little money, the answer is no.”
I knew the words leaving my lips were a lie before I spoke them into existence. Brian is not a spendthrift. I am. He always spoils me, working above and beyond to get me what my heart desires. Yet, I couldn’t swallow the words. There was too much grief spilling from my lips.
Brian and I argued some more. Then, we attempted to mop the floor to little avail. He even went as far as to take me to Lowes to get a better mop and floor cleaner. Nothing worked. My floors looked as dingy and dirty as ever, and I lost it. LOST IT. I am not using hyperbole here, Dear Reader. I stomped up the stairs and had a regular tantrum. I wish I could say I instantly apologized for my ridiculous behavior, but I didn’t. In fact, when Brian came upstairs to apologize for something he didn’t do, I continued arguing with him. It wasn’t until an hour later that I allowed my daughter to talk me down, so to speak.
She sat on my bed and allowed me to cry. Then, she said in her still-quiet voice, “I’m sorry you’re sad about your mom.”
That was my aha moment. My mother. Of course, that was the reason for my outburst. After a few minutes, and a few more tears, we walked downstairs, sat in adirondack chairs in my garden, and allowed the evening breeze to cool our faces.
Brian came up to me with a tentative smile. “You okay, now?” he asked.
“Yes, my love. I am so sorry. I just miss my mom,” I whispered back.
He pulled me up into an embrace. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I know,” I murmured, as a tear trickled down my cheek.
“We can get a new floor,” he announced a moment later.
I laughed at the absurdity of that statement. “That’s not necessary.”
Needless to say, he made an appointment with a flooring company to give us a consultation. Told you he was amazing.
Mother’s Day isn’t easy for me. Perhaps, it isn’t easy for you, either. In case no one told you, it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to grieve. Sometimes, the pain is just too much to contain. Sometimes, you have to lose your way in order to find yourself, again. Yeah, sometimes, that’s all it takes.
A Time to Remember
This past Saturday, my sister and I had a memorial service for our father, Tony A. Estrada Jr. (also known as Papa T). Family and friends surrounded us with funny memories: tales of cars that worked only in reverse, an almost encounter with Keanu Reeves, and the many moments my father got people backstage for some sort of event (concerts, drag races, and even the closed-off catacombs at the Mission Inn). Hearing these stories warmed my heart and made me ache for my father. Something I am sure many of you can relate to: a feeling of immense love intermixed with profound loss.
I have had recurring nightmares since my father passed away. He comes to visit me, but he is not well. He is sunken in, frail, and mostly decrepit. It’s as though he is crying out for my help, and I don’t know how to save him. I wake up right before I find the solution, and there is this incredible hopelessness that engulfs me. I try to forget the dreams as quickly as I can because who wants to think their loved one is suffering in the afterlife?
My dad led a fast life filled with adventure, impulsivity, and oftentimes, pain. Unfortunately, we did not always have a good relationship. There were a lot of unsettled waters between us, and though our last conversation healed a lot of wounds, there were unresolved issues that could not be restored this side of eternity. I truly believe that there are some wounds only Jesus can heal face-to-face.
One of the last statements I made to my father was one of forgiveness. I told him I hoped to spend eternity with him and get to know him as God intended him to be: redeemed, forgiven, and completely transformed. Needless to say, I still struggle with the idea that I will see my father in heaven, and that thought terrifies me.
On Saturday, as I watched a slideshow of my father’s life, I remembered his infectious laugh. I remembered how his smile lit up a room. I remembered how his passion lives on in me today. I remembered his generosity, his willingness to talk to a lonely person, his ability to make friends wherever he went. I remembered him, and I wept. I wept for the man he was. I wept for the man he could have been. Most of all, I wept for the man he wasn’t able to become because of the trauma he suffered.
The day flew by in a blur of emotion, and when I woke up on Sunday, I was exhausted. My eyes were swollen, my head pounded, and my body felt as though it had aged overnight. In a way, it had. The last thing I wanted to do was to attend church. Instead, I wanted to crawl in my bed and sleep the sad away, but I didn’t. Rather than succumbing to my depression, I watched church with my family, and it was one of those services that will forever change me. That’s often the case when I don’t want to go to church: the message wrecks me, but in a good way.
One of our Pastors, Pastor Alfredo Ramos, was preaching on my favorite chapter in the Bible: Romans 8. This chapter is all about God’s love for his people, which is something I struggle to comprehend. I feel unworthy of God’s love, and it baffles me how He can love me in my brokenness. Pastor Alfredo made some connections in this chapter that I have never made before. I will list them below, in case you need these truth bombs, as well.
Condemnation never brings about the change we need. (When he said this, I was overcome by my own critical nature, and I realized I had sat down in the judgement seat against my father. Talk about conviction.)
Christ will never change his mind about me. (Oof, that one still hits me in the feels.)
In confession, there is still progress. (Oftentimes, I berate myself for making mistakes.)
God cannot stop loving any of us because he never started loving us. He has ALWAYS loved us. (This point made me ugly cry.)
I don’t know about you, Dear Reader, but I needed to be reminded that I cannot earn God’s love… it just exists. His love is not dependent on my love for Him. It is not earned by my good deeds, nor is it lost when I fail, which is most of the time.
My father made mistakes, many of which helped contribute to his death. He got it wrong far more often than he got it right. (Sound familiar?) But, and this is a big but, my father is irrevocably, undeniably, recklessly loved by Christ. Will I see him again in heaven? I can’t say for certain. But there is one thing that makes me think I will… hope.
I have hope in God’s unfailing love for me, for my father, and for you. I have hope that I will know my dad exactly as God intended him to be. I will see him restored, healthy, and so full of light, I’ll need to wear shades in his presence.
I will embrace my father, again. We will laugh together, again. Again… Yes, friends, I can find my hope in the promise of again.
When in Doubt…
There are so many reasons I fail as a Christian. I am loud and boastful. Oftentimes, I sound more like a sailor than a saint. I’m prideful, spiteful, judgemental, and that’s just a typical Monday. Most of all, though, I struggle with doubt. I doubt that God is good. I doubt His plan for my life. I doubt that I am saved. I doubt His love for me, especially since I struggle to love myself. I doubt EVERYTHING.
Lately, I’ve been focusing on the root cause of my doubt, and shocker of the world, I had to deal with some truths that were difficult to face. Below, I will share a couple of these with you, and hopefully by the end of this post, we will come to some kind of conclusion. Most likely it will not be a clear cut answer. That’s not how growth works. Though, it may lead to a starting point. A new direction, so to speak, or the first step of a staircase, like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous quote: “Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”
Help Me Overcome My Unbelief
Have you ever heard the story about the father who asks Jesus to help his ailing son in the gospel of Mark chapter nine verses 14-29? The father seeks out Jesus and asks him to heal his son from petrifying episodes where the boy (I assume he is a boy and not a man) foams at the mouth, goes rigid, gnashes his teeth, and is mute. I am not a doctor, nor am I a theologian, but I assume whatever was vexing this boy was terrifying. As a mother, I would feel helpless. I would want answers, and ultimately, I would want complete healing for my son.
I’m not sharing this story because of the miracle Jesus does for this father, though it is rather spectacular. I share this story because of something the father cries out to Jesus. His doubt in Jesus is apparent, so much so that Jesus points it out, but it is his response to Jesus that I repeat to myself whenever I’m stuck in doubt: “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”
This father knew his shortcomings. This father knew he struggled with faith. But… this father also knew where to go in times of uncertainty. He turned to someone greater than him. He asked for a miracle, and even in his doubt, even in his faithlessness, he longed to believe. Isn’t that how we all are at times: in need of a savior but jaded by the many times we have been let down?
Discouragement
Doubt tends to rear its ugly little head in times of discouragement: I didn’t get the book deal, someone I love gets sick, or worse, dies, and countless other setbacks. Doubt storms in like Thor: filled with pomp and bravado ready to bring the storm. Regardless of the truth I have poured into my soul (this is only a season, you’ve gotten through worse, it’s not always going to be like this), I tend to believe the lies running a marathon in my mind (this is going to last forever, this will end me, I can’t endure it). Sound familiar?
The only solution that pulls me out of my funk is to continue fixating on the times when things have worked out. I got the job I wanted. I landed that incredible literary agent. People are reading my blogs. My children come to me for wisdom. These are the bread and butter that sustain me when doubt threatens to starve me of joy. It’s a choice, really, to believe. Just as it’s a choice to stay in unbelief. One will kill your spirit, and the other will make you thrive.
So, which choice will you make, Dear Reader? Will you be like the father of the ailing son in Mark 9? Will you see your unbelief and ask for help to believe? Or will you build a home and live in your despair? I, for one, am tired of that run down shack. It’s time for a change of scenery. It’s time to pack up and be on my way. It’s time to believe again.
Healing Through Words: Finding a New Story After Sexual Abuse
When I was a child, I was sexually abused by someone I trusted, and life as I knew it imploded. A bedroom became a prison. A bed became a coffin. A little girl became a walking corpse. Everything had changed. Nothing felt like it would ever be the same again. And for almost two decades, I buried the abuse, hoping it would erase itself from my identity. It didn’t.
The thing about burying stuff is something grows in its place. So, like a poisoned seed, the shame I buried wormed its way into every crevice of my soul. It made me feel dirty, unloveable, unworthy, and worst of all, unforgivable. As though I had caused this vile wickedness to find me. As though I could have prevented it by guarding myself. That’s the story I told myself. That’s the nightmare I lived.
Not. Any. More.
Hello Anguish, My Old Friend:
After the abuse, words became my puzzle pieces, and like Humpty Dumpty, I pieced myself back together again. Frailer than before. Cracked. Fragile. Changed.
Books became my escape. I lived through heroines. Slew dragons. Stood up to evil. All in the workings of my mind. I devoured books like a hungry caterpillar, hoping they would transform me. My world could change with a flip of the page, but when I closed the books, and the stories ended, anguish became my only friend, once more.
So, I wrote poetry, created songs, journaled, and tried to escape the monster at my heels. The thing about monsters is they often lurk in dark places. And, Dear Reader, I was in one hell of a dark place.
A New Story:
It wasn’t until I finally found the courage to face the evil done to me that I began to heal. I decided to write about it. At first, I used fiction to tell bits and pieces of my story. Themes of loss and renewal became the driving forces of my books. Characters struggled through molestation, rape, emotional turmoil, murder, and so much more. With each book I completed, I found a sense of security. With each page I wrote, I found freedom, authenticity, and the courage to begin again.
I had shared stories that haunted me, and I was still standing. The world didn’t end. So, I reached out to someone in my church and asked for prayer. The person ended up being a childhood friend who knew my abuser. His compassion in the moment of my greatest frailty encouraged me to keep reaching out. I joined a woman’s group at my church, began in-church counseling, and all the while I continued to write. I peeled away the layers of protection I had plastered around my heart, and with each painful memory, I continued to write.
Finally, after two years of hard work, I decided to reach out to a therapist. That was a game changer. She has been pivotal to my healing process, and she encourages me to write my books. In fact, yesterday, she suggested I write a book about rejection, and I plan to. If people can learn something from my pain, then I will be vulnerable and share it.
I am a survivor of sexual abuse. I allowed it to silence me with shame for almost two decades. I denied its existence in hopes that it would diminish. It didn’t.
Today, I am an author, and I use my story to help others heal. With each word, I get closer to the woman I long to be. A woman resolved to see beauty despite the heartbreak that threatened to consume her. A woman who is worthy, loved, and most importantly, redeemed.
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, the world needs your story, too. We need more survivors willing to speak up and say, “Though it wanted to destroy me, it didn’t kill me. I’m still here. I’m still standing. I have a voice. A story. And a chance to begin again… one word at a time.”
Is It Rejection or Redirection?
I’ve been a writer since I first learned to write, but I decided in 2006 to try and make a go of it professionally. Let’s just say I had some warped understanding of the publishing world: “I’ll write this book, everyone will love it, and I’ll make millions,” I said to myself like a champ… or chump. You decide.
I wrote the book. A few people liked it. I lost money on the deal. Typical story.
If you’re a writer, or human, you’ve faced disappointment and discouragement, too. I’d bet money on it, and I’d make a heck of a lot more than I did with my first indie book, just saying.
Rejection is a part of life—a stupid, annoying part—but it exists just the same. I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been accepted, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now. Well, Barbara, I’m not used to it. Not in the least. In fact, every time I get told “NO” I binge watch murder documentaries and eat all the carbs. And by all the carbs, I mean… ALL THE CARBS! This is not hyperbole. This is fact.
Then, the other day, as I got rejected from yet another job (I’m applying to become an assistant editor in the publishing world), I had an epiphany. What if I’m not actually being rejected at all? What if I’m being redirected? And with all of the power of She-Ra, a mic dropped in my mind.
What if every “NO” was just another opportunity for growth? What if the closed doors were just opportunities to keep on knocking? At least these what ifs are far better than the other what ifs that constipate my mind. Those what ifs, the ones that make me feel insufficient and unlovable, those what ifs can chug castor oil.
Does this mean I won’t feel the sting of rejection any longer? Of course, I will. I’m sure the next time I get dumped on, I’ll feel like a giant turd (pun intended). But maybe… maybe, next time, I won’t feel crushed. Maybe, next time, I’ll pick myself up faster. Maybe, next time, I’ll eat less carbs.
Oh, who am I kidding? Carbs and I will never break up.
Little Lost Girl
My mother would have been sixty-five years old on April 4th of this year. Except she won’t be sixty-five. She won’t ever be a grandmother this side of eternity, either, because she died when she was twenty-four. I was nine months old when she passed, and it’s safe to say my childhood was marked by her absence. Most of my photographs show a smileless girl. A girl who yearned for her mother, but regardless of how hard she searched, that little lost girl couldn’t find the pieces to make herself whole again. Well, not until many, many years later, that is.
Missing
I remember feeling like my mother was a fairytale: just another story I was told. My mama… a fictional character who loved art and dancing. Never real. Never present. Not in the way I needed her to be. Not in the way I still need her to be.
She is missing...
Missing from memories. Missing from family photographs. Missing my wedding, the birth of my son, and so many other countless life events. She has missed it all, and it wounds me.
I have spent forty-one years missing my mother. Forty-one years writing stories of what could have been. Writing about mothers in my books who I longed to love me. Writing… writing… it feels like all I have. Another fictional world where my mama can live.
Tapestry
Grief is a fickle bastard. One second I am overjoyed, smiling at the flowers and hanging out with my chicken. And then, a song begins to play on my phone: “Tapestry” by Carole King. My breath catches for a moment. Her song. Her music. Her favorite. Sorrow moves over me like an obsidian cloud. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.
“And I wept to see him suffer, though I didn’t know him well.” The words paralyze me.
“Mama…” I murmur into the bright April day. Sunshine warms my skin but has little effect on the icicle that has become my heart.
A yellow and black butterfly rests on a purple forget-me-not flower just beside me. Is it possible she is missing me, too? Is the butterfly a reminder of something just beyond my vision that my eyes cannot see: a veil I cannot lift?
“Mom,” my youngest child calls for me.
I lift my head. The butterfly flies away. Reality sweeps over me, once more. My children will never know my mother. I never knew my mother. But I can be the mother she never got the chance to be. I can create memories, smile in family photographs, and be there.
“Yes, love,” I call back. “I’m here.”
My mother: Rebecca Elizabeth (Peterson) Estrada.
A photo of me smiling as a child. I wonder what I’m thinking here.
COFFEE BREAK BOOK REVIEWS: Dwight Karkan’s Debut Novel: Bixby Timmons and the Dragonthorp Riddle
Welcome Dwight Karkan:
What do Kim Impossible, Hermione Granger, Katniss Everdeen, and The Goonies all have in common? Well, if you mix elements from each of these incredible coming of age stories, along with their edge-of-your-seat adventures, you wind up with Bixby Timmons. Last week, I had the privilege of sitting down with the creator of this incredible story, Dwight Karkan, and I was amazed by his down-to-earth personality and dogged determination to bring Bixby to the world one riddle at a time.
Who is Bixby Timmons?
Bixby is a fourteen-year-old girl struggling with her family’s move from their once-beloved home into the mansion of a missing billionaire, Cody Dragonthorp. Through Bixby’s love for riddles and puzzles, she is determined to solve the greatest mystery of her time: what happened to Cody Dragonthorp. With the help of some new friends, Bixby is able to unlock part of the mystery, but in doing so, she is plunged into a dangerous game where solving riddles is no longer about having fun but about survival.
What is Bixby’s Legacy?
Of all the questions I asked Dwight about his debut novel, the one that stood out to me the most pertained to Bixby’s legacy. Dwight had various answers to this question: to honor the students he is privileged to invest in as a youth pastor, to tell a story about mysteries and riddles, and to showcase the incredible women in his life. Though his final answer to this question, gave me goosebumps.
Dwight’s daughter, Selah, was diagnosed with leukemia, and instead of allowing the disease to ravage his family, Dwight decided to use the darkness to bring a little light into this world. Selah is a strong fighter who encourages her father to keep pushing through hardships with each spinal tap she faces. Dwight and his wife were inspired by Selah’s hope, and they decided to donate the proceeds of Bixby Timmons and the Dragonthorp Riddle to THON: “a student-run philanthropy committed to enhancing the lives of children and families impacted by childhood cancer.”
This kind of authenticity and generosity gives me hope, as well. Perhaps it will inspire you, too, dear reader.
Thanks for taking the time to learn more about Dwight Karkan and his incredible character, Bixby Timmons. If you’d like to read this great book and give back to children and families impacted by childhood cancer, click the link below to buy Dwight’s debut novel. If you’d love to follow along with Selah’s journey, click the link for her Facebook page, and if you can’t get enough of Bixby Timmons, click her Facebook link, as well.
See you next time on Coffee Break Book Reviews. TTFN: ta, ta for now!
Links:
Selah’s Hope: https://m.facebook.com/groups/877286435945673/?ref=group_browse
Bixby Timmons Series: https://m.facebook.com/groups/2681353701934495/?ref=group_browse
Dwight’s Website: www.dwightkarkan.com
Buy the Book: https://www.amazon.com/Timmons-Dragonthorp-Riddle-Dwight-Karkan-ebook/dp/B0883BKRR9
The Truth About Being Disabled
I am profoundly hard of hearing. So much so, that I require two behind-the-ear hearing aids. Being almost completely deaf without my hearing aids has been a struggle I have navigated since I began losing my hearing at the age of twenty-one. I have dealt with ignorance, rudeness, and, at times, blatant disgust from others. Don’t get me started on the woman who verbally attacked me in a Trader Joe’s because I had ear infections and could not hear her.
At times, I feel discouraged. At times, I feel like an outsider. At times, I just want to give up on humanity and curl up in bed with my dogs. At times, I do all of the above. Today is not one of those times.
Today, I am grateful for my hearing aids. I am grateful for the people who go out of their way to help me feel like I am a part of this world, regardless of my hearing disability. I am grateful for a husband who translates almost all conversations for me. I am grateful for children who encourage me and tell me they love the closed captions on our television, even if they let them know who wins Survivor before it is announced. I am grateful for friends who go out of their way to make sure I understand conversations, even if they have to repeat themselves five times. I am grateful for an audiologist who makes me feel like I am one of the most important patients he has, stops at nothing to get me new gadgets, and writes amazing accommodations for my workplace. I am grateful to the HR department at my job who have figured out how to make my doctor’s accommodations work for me. There are so many reasons I am thankful, and these are just a few.
Being hearing disabled is hard. Trying to navigate my hearing disability during a pandemic, which requires masks and facial coverings, is hard. People on the outside can be hard. And yet, they can be amazing, too. They can be understanding, kind, tolerant, selfless, and genuine peacemakers. They can make me feel like I am known, loved, and seen, which is everything to a disabled person.
So, the truth about being disabled is it can suck. At times, it is overwhelming and soul-crushing; though, I see it as a blessing, too. I am a better person because of my disability. I am more tolerant of others. I am kinder than I once was. I am more giving, and I often pay closer attention to the people who may feel like outcasts. I guess it’s a choice, really. Do you want to be the reason someone has a difficult day and feels left out? Or… do you want to be inclusive, kind, and the reason someone smiles despite the hardships they face?
In the end, when I’m faced with the decision to be an arrogant turd or a kind human being, I choose kindness. Kindness is free, but its effects are as lasting as any thoughtful gift given in love. In love… Yeah, do everything in love, y’all, and no disability will ever feel too disabling.
This Depression is Depressing
I am in a funk—a depression that lingers like chapped lips. I’ve done all of the stuff and things that I’m supposed to do: gone on walks, prayed, wrote, reached out to my people, but the blues are here to stay nonetheless. Stupid sadness. Annoying sorrow. I don’t have time for you. Maybe that’s the problem… I haven’t given myself time to work through this… whatever this is.
I wonder if its grief? I did lose both my father and grandfather within three weeks of each other, and to be honest, I haven’t really allowed myself to feel the pain. I haven’t even taken a day off of work. Instead, I’ve just plowed through. So, grief… yeah… it’s probably grief.
But… here’s the thing, I don’t think it’s just grief. Whatever this is feels deeper than grief (if that’s possible) and darker. Grief is just the tip of the iceberg, and if you’ve ever seen what lies beneath an iceberg, you know it’s A LOT.
There’s also the anxiety of returning to in-person school and possibly coming face-to-face with COVID-19 , but even that isn’t the big bad that’s got me so wound up. Perhaps it’s the fact that I don’t have control of this chaos. I have to go back to work. It’s not my choice or decision. Though I LOVE distance learning, normalcy beckons at the door, and regardless of how much I ignore the knock, this visitor isn’t getting the hint. It’s here to stay. Yes, this must be a part of the iceberg, but it’s just a portion. There’s so much more within the ice.
What if I’m frustrated because I haven’t been as successful as I thought I’d be at this point in my life? Five years ago, I would have bet I’d have at least one book traditionally published, but that hasn’t happened… yet. So, I keep on writing. I wait. I write some more. I wait. I edit and revise until my head hurts. And then, I wait some more. Yes, this is part of my depression: the wait… it sucks!
Maybe it stems from getting older. Maybe it’s because I struggle losing weight. What if it’s because I have a chemical imbalance? OR I’m premenopausal? The list is never-ending, and going through every symptom is exhausting. I’m exhausted.
So, what’s the cause of my depression? All of the above, and so much more. What do I plan on doing about it? The same thing I’m doing now. I’ll write about it, I’ll go on walks, I’ll pray about it, and I’ll reach out to my people. I’ll keep doing all the stuff and things because that’s what gets me through the frigid, dark waters. That’s what keeps the iceberg at bay.
Depression bites. Its an annoying pecking at the back of my brain, reminding me of all the areas I fail. Except… except I don’t fail. Not really because I keep fighting and what if that’s the point. I just keep fighting because I can’t let this monster prevail. This beast, with its twisted teeth and soulless eyes, it doesn’t deserve to win. Not today. Not tomorrow. Nor any other day in the future.
Depression… you’ve overstayed your welcome. I’m over it… I’m over you. Get the point, already, and say goodbye, Felicia. We are not friends. We never were, and we never will be. Close the door behind you on your way out and kick rocks.
It’s okay to not be okay.
Schools are Reopening: Are You Feeling Overwhelmed?
On Wednesday of last week, my school district made the difficult decision to reopen into a hybrid model school day: with half day distance learning and 90 minutes of voluntary in-person advisory. Though there remain numerous conflicting issues on both sides of this argument, one thing most people can agree upon is that we’re heading into uncharted waters. Many people are frightened. Many people have questions that cannot be answered. I am one of those many people, and I’m sure you are probably one of them, as well.
This blog post is not going to answer any of those daunting questions. I will not pretend to know where to begin with this issue. In fact, I stand somewhere in the middle of the argument. I understand how much our students and educators need to get back to in-person education, but I can also identify with the terrifying anxiety that comes with not knowing. Not knowing if this decision will lead to more illnesses. Not knowing if my children, my husband, or I will get sick. Not knowing is unsettling. Not knowing is torturous at times. Not knowing is the reality we all face… unfortunately.
As I head into my last week of pure distance learning, I wonder how this new hybrid model will unfold. I remember the same distressing fears when I was faced with the idea of distance learning, but like all of the educators I know and call my friends, we rose to the challenge. We put in the work. We learned the new technologies that were necessary to help our students feel some sense of normalcy during an abnormal school year. In short, we did what we always do… we became flexible and persevered. We took a crappy situation and built a garden, and we will do it again. It’s just what we do.
One thing I’d like you to remember, if you are faced with similar circumstances, educators care about your kids. We didn’t ask for these circumstances. Many of us are just as frustrated and fearful as you are. We want the future generations to thrive. We want them to grow into incredible human beings. We want them to be safe. But most of all, we want them to learn. To learn that regardless of what life throws their way, regardless of how problems attempt to break them, they can rise up. Rise above their fears. Rise above the uncertainties. Rise up in the face of the unknown and emerge victorious.
In the end, that is what we all want. Isn’t it? To rise.
So, when your school reopens, remember there is an educator there who is struggling to find normalcy, too. Many of us have children of our own. Many of us have family members who are compromised. Many of us are wading alongside you in those uncharted, dark waters, hoping to stay afloat long enough to be rescued. Remember, we’re doing our very best with a crappy situation, and we’re just trying to turn it into a garden. We will do what we can to help our students blossom. We will be flexible. We will persevere. It’s what we do.
I know I can’t do this alone, though. I need you to help me when I feel like quitting. I need encouragement, just as my students do. I need to feel grace when I am surrounded by fire. I need patience. I need kindness and understanding. Mostly, I’d like to feel like I’m not going to drown. In short, I’d like to blossom in this garden, too. I’ll do my part, but I’m hoping you do yours, as well.
Together, we can make this work. Together, we can thrive. Together… that’s the answer, friends. That’s our solution. Let us never forget that.
Recycled Grace: Guest Blog Post
As you all know, I decided to write this blog series to work through the death of my father, Tony. Upon writing the first blog, I reached out to a therapist I know, Lauren St. Jacques, and I asked her if she would be interested in writing a guest blog post. She graciously agreed, and her amazing tips are written below. If you connect with anything she says, please contact her through the information provided at the end of this post.
FORGIVENESS
Forgive and forget.
We’ve all said it at one point or another. But, what if we can’t forget, or what if we don’t want to forget? Does that mean we are not a forgiving person? I say absolutely not. Even if we forgive, we may not want to forget the boundaries that were crossed. We don’t need to deny the hurt that was caused. We need to acknowledge the pain, whether that pain was self-inflicted or caused at the hands of someone else. Forgiveness does not mean we have to allow a person or behavior back into our lives; it means we have to let go; we have made a choice to not hold on to that baggage anymore.
Forgiveness is a choice.
One of my favorite quotes is “I never knew how strong I was until I had to forgive someone who wasn’t sorry, and accept an apology I never received.” We choose who to forgive, when to forgive, and what to forgive. When we choose to forgive, we choose to let go of bitterness and resentment.
Forgive yourself first.
Sometimes forgiving ourselves first makes it easier to forgive others. When we practice self-compassion, we learn to be compassionate towards others. Forgiving ourselves relieves us from burdens that might not have been ours to carry in the first place.
GROWTH
Growth requires mistakes and failure.
Our mistakes and failures can be our greatest teachers. Growth is not a point A to point Z process; it’s supposed to be messy, and we wouldn’t want it any other way. Many people feel that while on their growth journey if they slide back, they have to start all over. This is simply not true. Growth is a process of ups and downs while we learn about ourselves and those around us. It is a lifelong process, and when we understand this concept, we can accomplish anything we want because we are continually growing.
Set small, attainable goals.
Set yourself up for success. When we set the bar too high and have unrealistic expectations, we are just doing ourselves a disservice. Setting small goals, where we can see our progress, motivates us and helps us to feel accomplished. Whereas setting big, unattainable goals can inhibit our growth because we tend to lose sight of what is important.
Be grateful for your trials.
It’s through the rough patches in our life that we grow and are strengthened more than at any other time in our lives. We cannot expect to grow without the hard stuff. As difficult as it might be to find gratitude in our trials, just remember that in the end, we’re going to come out stronger. Keep in mind, that without pain, sadness, and sorrow, we would never know happiness, peace, and joy.
HEALING
Healing is a journey.
Healing is not something that happens overnight. In fact, it may be a lifelong process. As we achieve different stages of our healing, we may begin to think that we have mastered the process and then something happens that triggers us. Some may consider this to be a failure. I consider it just a part of the process. Look at it this way: vacations are generally short, fun, and relaxing, while Journeys are long, somewhat tedious, require hard work, and involve setbacks. Healing is definitely a journey… it’s no vacation.
Healing requires change.
Change can be scary. I don’t know many people who genuinely enjoy change. Depending on what we are healing from will determine the changes that need to be made for the healing to happen. It could be our surroundings that need to change. Other times, it’s our mindset that needs to change. Possibly our habits need to change: the way we talk about ourselves, the way we view the world, who we allow into our lives, and who we need to remove from our lives.
Healing helps us fine-tune our boundaries.
We can learn so much about ourselves through healing. Through this experience, we are able to practice, develop and/or strengthen our boundaries. We must practice those boundaries in situations and with people we trust first.
“Boundaries are a function of self-respect and self-love.”
– Brene Brown.
More About Lauren St. Jacques:
Lauren St. Jacques is a licensed Marriage & Family Therapist (Lic.#116109). She has been in private practice in the Riverside area for approximately five years, and before that she worked with Survivors of sexual abuse for approximately ten years. She works with individuals who are experiencing relationship conflicts, anxiety, depression, those who are dealing with the everyday stressors of life, and she works with Survivors of sexual assault/abuse, as well as helping their family members. Lauren loves watching her clients grow, work towards healing, and achieve their goals. If you’re interested in reaching out to Lauren, please see her contact information below.
Contact Information:
Lauren St. Jacques, LMFT #116109
Licensed Marriage & Family Therapist
(951) 203-3276
(951) 277-6182 Fax
Recycled Grace: Healing
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
— Psalm 147:3
I threw out my back on Sunday. Not because I did anything crazy. I lifted a five gallon water bottle into the back of my husband’s truck. That was it. One lift, one twist, and one pop in my lower back, though, that little pop was enough to set me back a few days. Yesterday, I felt like I was rounding the corner. The pain was minimal, a slight throbbing at best, so I walked six miles with my husband. Bad decision.
I was so proud of myself. There I was, walking my miles, moving my body, exercising like a boss. Yeah, I was on fire, y’all. That is until I woke up this morning and could barely stand up straight. My back seized up on me, and now, I can barely walk to the bathroom. Yesterday, I was on fire, but today… today, I can’t even find an ember.
My back pain is a nagging reminder that I have yet to heal, despite my desires to push past the pain and be normal. The pain cries out for my respect: “Do what I say, or I will knock you on your butt.”
Okay, Pain, you win. I’ll rest.
Have you been there? Have you pushed past something painful because you didn’t have time to deal with it? Have you said, “Not now, Pain, I have too much to do?”
We all do it: push past something difficult, push down the unbearable, keep on trucking until we get a flat. Then, perhaps you keep on driving on that flat until all of your tires burn out. Burn Out… yep, that’s a real thing.
So, what about this healing I promised you? These great therapeutic tips that give you wisdom and make you healing masters… healing Jedi… whatever you want to call it. I hate to burst your bubble, friend, but healing is not some formulaic device. It’s not a math equation that works every time in every situation. In fact, we don’t always heal when we get hurt. Kinda dumb, I know.
What I have learned is healing comes and goes like the tide, which sound peaceful, but it isn’t. Have you ever been taken down by a wave and lost your senses: unable to find the surface of the water? It is not peaceful. It’s flipping terrifying.
Somehow, if you’re lucky, you find yourself above the crashing wave, gasping and choking, looking two shades of spastic. Then, another wave tosses you back under.
“Really, I just survived this!” You scream inside your head.
But the waves keep coming. They don’t stop. You think you're drowning. In fact, you know you are. Panic claws at the back of your throat, and you try to scream, but there’s too much water. You’re about to give up. You can’t keep fighting any longer.
And… that’s when a strong hand pulls you up above the water. When you breach the surface, once more, you’re coughing up water and shivering from the absolute terror you just survived. Somehow you find the energy to thank your hero from saving you from certain death.
He smiles and stands you up on the water beside him. How are you able to stand there? Why aren’t you sinking? Because, its not your power that holds you up above the waves. It’s your faith… your surrender.
That is the first step in healing… surrender.
You cannot heal on your own. Sure, you can rest and take your medicine. But that doesn’t guarantee you’re going to heal completely. Not really. It all comes down to something, or someone, greater than you to help you heal. It all comes down to a savior. Someone willing to face the waves for you. Someone willing to pull you out of the tumultuous sea. Someone who walks on water.
So, in the end, healing is in fact a process. It’s recognizing you’re sick. It’s understanding you can only do so much. It’s stopping and resting in the truth: you are not capable of running on empty forever.
Make the choice, once and for all. Release your suffering. Relax your grasp over what is killing you. Surrender it all. Only then, will you know forgiveness. Only then, will you know growth. Only then, will you know what it truly means to heal. And when you find yourself working through this cycle of recycled grace, only then, will you learn what it means to have authentic peace.
Recycled Grace: Growth
“Let your roots grow down into him, and let your lives be built on him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will overflow with thankfulness.”
-Colossians 2:7 (NLT)
With the desire to be transparent, I don’t have a ton of Bible verses memorized. I am a late in life Christian, and I did not grow up memorizing scripture for a prize like my husband. His father would take him and his sister down to the Bible bookstore when they were kids, and if they memorized the Bible verse for the week, they would get a pencil. (As a kid, I would have been all over that reward because pencils are my jam.) So, when it came to finding a Bible verse about growth for this post, I had to Google it.
In January of 2015, I made one of my biggest mistakes as a believer, and yet it would pan out to be one of my most monumental blessings. I asked God to grow me: mind, body, and soul. To be honest, I did this because I had gained about ten pounds, and I wanted God’s supernatural assistance to melt the weight off of of me with as little effort on my part as necessary. Little did I know how that small uttered prayer would wreck and rebuild my life.
That was the year I began taking small steps toward acceptance of my past. That was the year where I struggled with weight gain, regardless of what I did to lose the unwanted pounds. That was the year that my life began to fracture, once again. Sometimes God has to break everything apart in order to rebuild it. It is painful. It is disillusioning. It is critical to the growth process.
Growth is Uncomfortable:
A butterfly was once a caterpillar. I have to remember that whenever I look upon their beauty. The colors of their wings dazzle, but once, before they fluttered with delight, they were mere caterpillars. Some people prefer the caterpillar. They’re squishy, soft, and cute. But a caterpillar was not destined to remain a caterpillar, and neither were you and I destined to remain the same as we are right now. We (you, me, and the caterpillar) are destined for change.
Change is inevitable, but growth is a choice. See, there is a difference between change and growth. We all will change, despite our desire not to, but not all of us will grow. I don’t know about you, but I want to be as brave as the caterpillar, so I can fly like the butterfly. So, despite how uncomfortable growth is, I choose it time and time again. I choose it because staying the same is painful, too. It really is just a matter of what kind of pain I’m willing to endure.
Growth is Failing Forward:
Yesterday, I sat in my therapist’s office, and we talked about growth. One of the comments she said struck a chord with me. Growth is not a clean movement from point A to point B. Instead, it is a messy adventure that looks more like a dot chart than a linear line. It is failing forward. We take one step, get knocked back a few pegs, brave another step, and get knocked down, once more. We succeed, we fail miserably, but the only way growth ceases is if we stop moving forward. Growth is not determined by how much we succeed, nor does it terminate when we fail. Growth is this constant illuminated spark within us. It’s that still, small voice that says, “Try, again.” So, who cares if you fail? Who cares if you fall flat on your pretty, little face? All that matters is that you find the courage to get back up and try again.
Growth is Eternal:
As my husband walked up the stairs to our office, I stopped him along the way.
“I’m scared,” I managed to say.
“What are you scared of, my love?” he asked, concern creasing his brow.
“I can’t write about growth because I’m still growing. I’m not there, yet,” I uttered, wrapping my arms around myself like an oversized sweater.
“It’s not about getting there. You’re always going to be in the process of growing. Growth is eternal, babe,” he said as his gentle gray, blue eyes alit on my face.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I think I can try to write this post, now.”
“Good,” he replied, and then, he walked up the stairs into the office, as though he hadn’t just given me the courageous push I needed to begin again.
My husband is the smartest man I know. He will roll his eyes at that statement because he is also incredibly humble, like to a fault humble. He is constantly thinking, researching, and growing. It is because of him that I am writing. Not just this post, but writing in general. I gave it up in 2007 when my first book didn’t pan out the way I had envisioned. I decided I was tired of growing. In fact, dreaming, and all that came with it, could just pull on some other girl’s heartstrings because I had had enough. And then I met Brian, and my soul saw color, once again.
If you are tired, if you have felt just a little too much defeat, as of late, I’m going to lend you some of my light. Thanks to Brian, I have enough to share. See, we all face these big disappointments. We all have dreams that didn’t take shape, or we deferred them so much, that we can’t even see the outline of what they once were. But they’re still there just beyond the shadows of doubt. I promise. Allow me to show you the way.
Back when I first met Brian, he had asked me why I wanted to write. Was it because I loved it, or did I write for some other purpose? I thought about this for some time, until I decided that for me writing was something very much like breathing. It was part of the essence of my being. Then, he asked me why I had quit.
“Because it hurt,” I had answered.
Brian in all his humble wisdom simply looked at me, smiled, and said, “Well, life hurts, Babe, but that doesn’t mean we give up on it.”
So, as that wave of wisdom pours over you, I ask that you try, again. Dream, again. Grow, again. Because who knows, maybe this time you won’t fail. Maybe this time, it’ll catch. And If it doesn’t, who’s to say that it won’t catch the next time? Or the time after that? You see, dear reader, the only way we stop growing is if we decide to stop. In the end, growth comes down to a choice: be courageous or settle for something less. It is as simple and difficult as that. Growth always is…
Recycled Grace: Forgiveness
“Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.”
Ephesians 4:32 (NLT)
This verse is one of my favorites because it is a beautiful sentiment. I like the idea of people forgiving me through tenderhearted kindness. It alights my soul, and reminds me of mercy. Then, there’s the other side of this verse. The side where it is up to me to be kind, tenderhearted, and forgiving. That is not an easy task, especially for a justice warrior like myself. I am a rule follower, and when people don’t follow the rules, I want them to have consequences. This isn’t a bad thing, rule following, but it can become overly legalistic. Extreme legalism, following the law devoid of love, can get in the way of the commands in the verse above: be kind, tenderhearted, and forgiving.
As a Christian, I believe it is crucial to live out my faith, to practice what I preach and not be a hypocrite… an actor wearing a mask. So, three years ago, when I was not practicing forgiveness, I knew I needed help. This was why I originally reached out to my amazing therapist. As I stated in my last blog, I needed help with forgiveness because I wanted to redeem relationships, specifically the relationship with myself. I read books, listened to podcasts, and plunged head first into therapy. Not only have I learned what true forgiveness is, I have also been reminded of what it is not.
Below, I’ve penned a list of what forgiveness is and what it is not. Hopefully, this list will help you come to terms with the first steps in this process. It will also act as a reminder for me because some times, okay often times, I need a refresher course.
Forgiveness is…
Releasing the Pain: When we hold onto our pain, we put unnecessary pressure onto our shoulders. It bogs us down and causes anxiety. In order to deal with these stressors, we must face our pain and release it. For Christians, we call this leaving it at the foot of the cross. We believe that Christ is the only one capable of withstanding this pressure. It crushes us, but it glorifies Him. This is why Christ says in Matthew 11:28, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
A Process: Too often, people have rushed me through the process of forgiveness in order to suit their own personal needs; however, there is no timeline in the process of healing. Certainly, we can make the statement, I forgive you, and wholeheartedly mean it, but the trauma we have experienced cries out from the very marrow in our bones—”I am still hurt.” If you have a broken toe, you can forgive the wall for getting in your way, but you still have to heal from the break. As Lysa TerKeurst says in her new book, Forgiving What You Can’t Forget, “My ability to heal cannot be conditional on them wanting my forgiveness but only on my willingness to give it.”
About Setting Healthy Boundaries: In the book Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life by Henry Cloud, the importance of setting clear and consistent boundaries is pivotal to forgiveness. This book helped me realize that the only good boundary I had was the one I kept. If I permit people to push aside my boundaries, it is only because I allow my boundaries to be ignored. Boundaries are like fences or gates around your house. You are responsible for allowing the people in that you want inside. Open the gate, or boundary, when you want… not when someone else demands it.
Forgiveness is NOT…
Reconciliation: Too often people confuse forgiveness with absolution. As a new Christian, I thought I had to forgive people and reconcile with them, but my pastor, Matt Brown of Sandals Church, made it perfectly clear: forgiveness and reconciliation are not synonymous. Yes, as a Christian, I am required to forgive, but that in no way means I must have a relationship with my offender, especially if the perpetrator is toxic. Repentance is key to reconciliation, but not all people are capable of this kind of introspection.
Forced: When I was a new mother, I used to force my children to apologize and forgive one another. I believed this was the right way to solve their disagreements. As a more mature mother, a nice way of calling myself old, I’ve had to apologize to my children for forcing this upon them. As I stated above, forgiveness is a process, and it is not one that should be rushed. Though I hate messes, and fighting is messy, apologies void of authenticity are worthless.
One and Done: I remember the day I forgave my father for the abuse I suffered as a child. I remember crying out to Jesus and laying the pain at his feet. I remember it all, until the next time he did something that infuriated me. Then, it was as if the forgiveness I had for him disappeared like some offensive magic trick—now, you see it… now, you don’t. After many years of questioning my faith, I’ve come to understand that forgiveness is something I must offer up on a daily basis. So, whenever resentment reappears in my heart, I recognize it and forgive all over again. As long as I have breath within me, I have the ability to forgive.
In closing, I hope you find space in your life for forgiveness. Though it is not an easy process, it is a necessary one. With forgiveness, you can learn to find peace. With peace, you can find contentment. With contentment, you can find joy. In the end, a life lived with the abundance of joy is a life well lived.
