Stages and Changes

Of my 7 little ones I mentor, the one I hold onto the tightest is Jastain, my sixth grader, because I am completely aware he will soon wake up and become “too cool” for me.  I know because it happened with his older brother, Boaz, and I know because Jastain tells me so himself.  

Last June as I was planning his sister’s high school graduation party, he asked me when the party for his fifth grade graduation would be.  I told him I wasn’t sure 5th grade graduation merited a party.  That smart boy told me, “but Jessica… it is a big deal.  I’ll be too cool for you soon.”

I literally cried.  So, after seeing the light made by his rational point, I picked him up and took him on a date to eat chicken ‘n waffles and enjoyed the final season before he outgrows me.  Next year he’ll probably end our 3 year long trick-or-treating streak and will probably stop squealing when I show up at their house and probably won’t want to go to Disney on Ice or musicals with me.

I did not even cut up his chicken and waffles for him. He's grown.

For Jastain, walking across his fifth grade stage was a big deal.  And it took me some convincing to realize it, but it was.  

Jastain actually shows me that every new thing he does is a big deal.

When he was in the fourth grade I had plans to pick him up to hang out and he had one of his sisters call me and say that he had something going on at his school and he wanted me to go there for his thing instead.  I had no idea what this thing was, but when you get invited to a kid’s thing at school you just go, okay.

You should know that as soon as I walked into the school there was a group of teachers at a check-in table who asked me what I was there for, and I told them I was meeting my fourth grade friend, Jastain, for what I did not know.  With (rightfully) sassy looks they asked me Jastain’s last name and I drew a blank… each of the 7 kids has a different African last name (they have the same parents) and they are all difficult for me to pronounce and/or remember.  (The kids give me grace for it, so stop judging me).  Eventually they let me through and to my surprise, the event I showed up for was a school production of the musical “Annie.”

I sat through the whole production, which lasted a couple of hours, and somewhere in the middle of one of the dramatic songs, my little man Jastain silently walked onto the stage sideways with one hand extended to his side, and one behind his back. When he got to the middle of the stage he switched hands and walked offstage the same direction he walked on.  Basically, he walked on to que the other tiny performers to walk offstage.  He showed up to make sure other people knew it was time to do what they needed to do.  

My little friend’s role wasn’t the most glamorous, but he was so proud of himself and excitedly asked me how I thought he did on the ride home.  

The thing is, he did something great.  He took his small role and he played it well, with pride.  I’m not sure that people who don’t have kids (or, in my case, borrowed kids) would understand what it’s like to watch your little one do something they love or try something new, however big or small, however well or poorly executed, but it’s the best.  

Whenever I feel like I’ve failed at something I care about or barely stumbled through something new, I consider how God must feel a lot like I felt spectating Jastain walk on and offstage at his play, just proud that he gets to watch me do something new.  I know a lot of people give participation trophies some heat, but what I know about God’s character tells me that he is likely a big fan, and we should be, too.  We should celebrate doing new things, whether they are big and grand or the small behind the scenes roles that help others get to where they need to be.  

Since I met my friend, Katie Adams, a year and some change ago, we managed to master taking turns playing Jastain’s role in each other’s lives… walking onstage to remind our friend where they need to be, which direction they are headed in.

On Friday I got to watch Katie walk across a big important stage (a semester EARLY) and get her placeholder diploma from the University of Kentucky.  Little Katie Adams, who hates attention, is so often the foundation that holds up people and projects when they need it most… I’m proud of her for graduating from college, but I’m more proud of her for the character she has developed by following Jesus daily, which will take her so much farther than the things she learned in classroom ever will.  

We happy cry more than anyone we know.

As my friend prepares to do a new thing and apply for big girl jobs, I’ll be one of the people cheering the loudest, no matter where she ends up because I am more proud of who she is and whom she has chosen to follow than I am of what she does.  

Where is Katie going?  Well, Jesus knows that.  Just standing in the middle of the stage to remind her. <3

Doesn't she look like a genuine angel?!

We Weren't Made to be Chicken Little.

I used to be like Chicken Little.  I did.  If one tiny small setback or hard thing happened, I would act like everything was awful and the sky was literally (but figuratively) falling.  Every time I look at Facebook’s “On This Day” thing-a-ma-jig, I am reminded I played the role of Chicken Little for the majority of my facebook having years.   All of the complaints and all of the “I try so hard and have no fun and nothing ever works out for me” and other equally gross stuff.

It took me a lot of years to realize God did not make little ole me to be Chicken Little.  After I figured it out, it took me no time at all to realize God actually didn’t make anyone in the world to act like Chicken Little.   Not Chicken Little, not chickens with our heads cut off.  Not chickens, period.

I focus grouped this self-evaluation today and my long-term best friends confirmed that they, too, have noticed I am becoming increasingly less dramatic and Chicken Little-esque. If I were to vouch for anything in the world, it would be the validity and integrity of my focus group.  If they say it’s a real thing, it is.  So it is.  If I can become less like Chicken Little, I think other people can, too.

I can’t remember the exact time frame when I stopped acting like Chicken Little, but if I were to guess it probably aligned pretty closely with feeling like my little tiny world was actually falling a part, in a dramatically exaggerated but sincere way.  After months of crying all the time I realized it was no way to live and there must be something better to the world.  From there, I metamorphasized into a little butterfly who just loves everyone always and is the most optimistic little human you’ll ever even meet because I learned that even when everything feels like the weight of everything should be paralyzing, goodness you can still actually MAKE.  SOME.  MOVES.

[[My people tell me I give spot-on self-analyses.  Are you going to tell me I’m not a little butterfly who loves everyone always and is the most optimistic little human you’ll ever meet?!]]

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In a practical way, this is what that reframing process looked like for me yesterday:

The election did not turn out how I hoped or expected it too, and I was really upset about it.  From there, my feelings started to do the former Chicken Little snowballing thing and I started to imagine that all of the other good opportunities that have presented in my life recently would also fizzle out and go nowhere.  Because black-and-white, Chicken-Little thinking says if one thing goes wrong everything will go wrong:  Trump won the election, and I’ll never get the job I want.  Great logic, right?

So I kicked myself, and laughed at myself a little, and decided to not backslide into my old ways and created a backup plan instead.  My new backup plan, in the event my awesome plan A does not work out, is to start taking classes in the Spring for a doctoral degree in Education so I can one day help improve education systems in lower income neighborhoods in the United States and abroad, and then continue to apply for new jobs, too.  

Coming up with a backup plan and taking the steps to meet someone in the doctoral program not only made me feel more hopeful and capable, but it also added to the beautiful goodness of my plan A (instead of just getting the job I want, GET THE JOB I WANT AND GET THE DOCTORAL DEGREE AND GET STUFF DONE).  My plan A is the best plan, and I am so excited about it, but my backup plan is pretty extraordinary, too.  

Instead of feeling like failure was inevitable, I made a plan so celebration is inevitable.  It’s a better, braver way to live.

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We weren’t made to kick rocks and pout.  When bad days and bad news come, instead of being Chicken Little let’s all be brave instead, questioning what we can do in response.  And there is always something to do.  Always.  

I think we were all made to be brave.  On days when everything is going wrong, and even on days when everything is going just fine, we were made to say hard things and do hard things and try things we have never done before but know we have to do.  

I think brave is the best thing to be.  Lately my friends have called me brave and fancier synonyms for brave (like brazen or bold or audacious) a lot and every single time it makes my little soul sing and typically shed little happy, disbelief tears.  Disbelief because I spent most of my life being Chicken Little and very little of it being brave.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?  Telling people they are brave has become my favorite thing to do.  I have noticed they happy cry 100% of the time.  I am not exaggerating.  People always cry when I tell them they are brave.  People I know, people I have just met, all of the people cry when told they are brave.  

Do you know what else happens when people, including me, are told they are brave?  They suddenly believe they have the capacity and the permission to actually go out and be the thing you just said they are.  They stop feeling like Chicken Little and like their own little section of the sky is falling in on them and suddenly they have the courage to take autonomy of their little life and do something wonderful.  

We did not hike this weekend to climb the tall jaggedy cliff, but we did come to tell other people they were brave and strong enough to climb the tall jaggedy cliff. :)

Then it starts snowballing from there folks!  Instead of feeling like everything is awful and the worst, one starts feeling like everything is awesome and God is moving in every way and suddenly your little life doesn’t feel so little or inconsequential anymore, and the world doesn’t seem so big and threatening and scary.  

Even though we live in a country where our President-Elect is less than beloved, and even if the sky does end up falling and the world is actually ending, the same God who made it is still in control and we are to be brave and unafraid.  He made us to be brave, and that is what we are.  SO LET’S BE BRAVE AND GET STUFF DONE.

On Commitment

The other day I was in a conversation with a guy who abruptly launched into a well-merited existential rant about cultural norms regarding modern relationships.  Preach.  Preach preach preach, preach preach preach.  He talked about how people are too willing to break off relationships-- dating relationships, marriages, and even friendships--because our culture sees commitment as temporary.

I agree with all of that frustration.  All of it.  So what do I do instead of breaking off commitments?  I don’t “break-into” them.  

I am starting to realize commitment scares me tremendously.  I love to whisper. That’s my version of whispering.  

Why is commitment scary?  Because vulnerability is scary and relationships are hard work.

I just wish it felt as easy as it was when I was seven.    

When I was seven I picked a best friend and I kept her around for the rest of my life, because when you are seven you don’t see relationships as temporary or scary or work.  Your “best friend” is your “best friend for life.”   

In the second grade I picked Katie, the new girl from Connecticut in our second grade class-- with her intentionally miss-matched socks and disdain for practicing cheerleading at recess-- to be my best friend, against her explicit wishes.  I remember giving second grade Katie notes to deliver to her Mom, requesting that her Mother force her to spend the night at my house.  Second grade me-- precious!  Second grade her-- not a note passer.  Twenty years later, the joke is on her... I live with her Mom.  I can put notes on the fridge, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

To summarize the rest of elementary school, I kept giving her lice and told our third grade teacher that Katie thought her son was cute, even though I did, too… the whole world did.

To summarize middle school, I convinced her to join the cheerleading team with me (I still don’t know how I managed to do it) and told this one girl that the reason Katie missed a couple of days of school was “because she’s in the hospital… she overdosed… on viagra.”  The girl’s parents made the two of them look it up.  You’re welcome.  At least I stopped giving her lice.

In high school I called her everyday to give her a daily report on what I ate that day and always had the lightsabers ready whenever she talked her high school boyfriend into leaving all proms early to hang out with me and my sisters instead.  Oh, and I forgot to give out invites to her pirate themed 16th birthday party that I had planned, for which she will forever hold me in contempt.

In college I refused to wash my pile of dishes in our tiny dorm room to the point that I challenged her to throw them away if it bothered her that much-- she did.  To get even, three years later, I threw up in her car.  Then a few months after that little incident, I threw up in her now husband’s car.  But only a little bit the second time.

Front bangs and mirror pics, FTW!

Last year, I lived with her, her husband and two kiddos for like a month and a half while the house I was moving into underwent renovations.  We survived it.  We survived it all.

We even like each other sometimes.

Recently her perfectly sweet, perfectly sassy soon-to-be five years-old, slash almost as old as we were when we met, baby asked me, “Bubby, when you were a little girl, did you know you wanted to be a Bubby when you grew up?”

I’m still not sure what she thinks “Bubby” means,

but this is what it looks like.

Little does that sweet babe know that becoming a Bubby was the whole reason I grew up.  When we were both 20-ish years old standing outside of the student center, my decaf coffee sporting best friend told me she was pregnant; I just looked at my scared crying person and told her that loving that baby would be the best thing we would ever do (which has proven to be the truth).  Suddenly growing up got real for two small girls… she grew up because she was a Mommy, and I grew up because I wanted to be a Bubby for my Bubby’s little ones. 

11ish pound newborns. <3

When Baby 2 was born, I delivered sushi to her hospital room. #pushgift

Life can be scary, but commitments don’t have to be.   Sometimes our gut leads us to people and we pick them for a reason as random as their socks miss-matching on purpose, and then boom… we have a person we can share all of the scary and cool and so-cool-they-are-scary moments with.  Sometimes vomit and lice and neglected birthday invitations must be endured to get to that point though… that’s just part of it.

Now my best friend for life and her hubby and kiddos are likely moving to Dubai for two years.  My. People. Are. Leaving.  Angstttttttttt.

On days when I am scared and overwhelmed about the prospect of having to make new friends while they are living on the other side of the world (and, you know, maybe even like falling in love one day or something), I just remember that I have a shining example of making a commitment work for 20 years.  Even though I’m not perfect (i.e., I vomit in cars sometimes) God has shown me there will be people who see me as I am-- my constantly vulnerable, over thinks everything, always says what she thinks, self-- and still love me perfectly, regardless, with no expiration date.

Aren’t those commitments worth celebrating in advance?

"Pseudo-Mom-ing:" A How To

As a gentle reminder, I have given birth to exactly 0 children in my lifetime.  Beyond that, I have been on exactly one date in two years, so like, I’m nowhere even close to birthing children. Never-the-less, I take a lot of mental notes about the kind of parent I want to be, and get a lot of practice in pseudo-mom-ing (give me any brand/style of baby carrier and I can successfully figure out how to fasten a toddler to my body… skills!). 

The best thing pseudo-mom-ing is teaching me (you’re welcome, future offspring) is that all kids are wired differently, and there aren’t really any “one-size-fits-all” methods or rules about ANYTHING. 

Example: a couple of weeks ago I was babysitting my niece, Jocelyn, and worked my baby-whisperer magic (it IS magic) to get that cute fussy babe to sleep.  She was being cute and sleeping, and I was being the overly concerned, creepy aunt who kept watching her sleep to make sure she was still breathing, freaking out about whether or not the way she was sleeping would lead to SIDS (a very real, not funny at all phenomenon).  I took the issue to google and, fellow childless readers, let me give you the spark notes: the internet will give you an overwhelming number of articles, each of which will tell you that such-and-such way is the worst way to lay the babe, so at the end of your research you will just decide babies cannot sleep in any position at all, else SIDS (a very real, not funny at all phenomenon).  Then I tried to roll the perfectly safe sleeping baby to her tummy and she woke up. Chaos ensued.  Chaos. 

(Shout out to Moms of newborns everywhere.  RESPECT.) 

Like most people, I just wanted one clear-cut solution on how to handle this universal baby problem.  The world doesn’t give us that.  What I love about Jesus: he does. 

Jesus, also childless (don’t listen to the Da Vinci Code conspiracy theory nonsense), recently gave me conviction about my pseudo-parenting style (and what I hope becomes my future parenting style).  It’s a 100% blanket, one-size-fits-all-types-of-children approach, and it’s brilliant, it’s magic, I promise you it will work. 

So let me tell you about it. 

To set the scene: Jesus has just proved he was who he said he was.  He just rose from the dead, and he came back for us. 

To set another scene: I am now crying in Coffee Times, just thinking about that.  Moving on…

When he was leaving his disciples to go back to Heaven, he told them what I think we should all tell the little ones we influence: You, too, can do what I’ve done.  In fact, you can even do better things than I did, because I’m on your team.  I’m your advocate.  Whatever your dream is to improve the world and build God’s kingdom, I’m here to help you make it a reality.

He, Jesus Christ, said that.  He did!  I’m not making this up, even though people frequently ask me if I am.  Look it up… it’s in John 14.  [**That is as specific as I will be because I want you to read the whole chapter.  So there.]  I think this one principle should be the heartbeat behind how we guide all little ones… all of them.

My own interpretation (of my own interpretation of John 14) brought me to these future parenting tenets:

1.    Guys, don’t use me as a measuring stick.

2.    I’m here to support your dreams, not tell you what to dream.  So don’t be afraid to dream.

3.    We can’t be successful without Jesus being a part of the plan.

This conviction hit me at the most perfect time, because I have three babies arriving at the same pivot point, each going in different directions.

My sister, Bekah, just graduated from high school and is deciding to wait to go to college until she is ready.  I am so proud of Bekah for waiting.

My sister, Rachel, just finished her first year at community college and decided it wasn’t God’s best for her.  I am so proud of Rachel for quitting.

My little one, Divine, is starting her first semester of college.  I am so proud of Divine for starting.

I have had to go through those three points with each little one this year.  Bekah and Rachel both went through seasons of avoiding me because they didn’t’ want to tell their “I LOVE EDUCATION, I’M GOING TO STAY IN COLLEGE FOREVER” sister that education wasn’t part of their plans right now.  Because I forgot to mention I am not comparing their dreams against my own, they were afraid to share their dreams with me, which meant months of missing out on supporting them.

But then!

But then I found myself sobbing in a Mexican restaurant with Bekah (while simultaneously shoving my face full of chips and salsa), saying “I can’t support your dreams if you don’t tell me what they are.”  The invisible measuring stick broke in half, defenses went down, and for the first time in a lifetime, I got to listen to my baby’s dreams and be her cheerleader, her advocate.

I am so grateful for that breakthrough.

I am grateful for a God who is so creative.  He made Bekah and Rachel and Divine and he made me, and he made us each so differently.   

I’m grateful for how He consistently loves us each the same way.

I’m grateful he gave us Jesus as an advocate, and am grateful that I get to use Jesus as an example for how to love others (you can’t google that one).  

I am grateful for little ones who give me grace when I don’t get it right all the time.  

I’m grateful for the reminders Jesus gives to stop comparing, and the freedom it offers.

Lastly, I’m grateful that he picked me to love three great girls.  I can’t wait to see who they each invite to the table, people who I could never reach.  This pseudo-Mom is already prepared to celebrate… with store-bought, not home-made cake, because that’s the style of pseudo-Mom/ future Mom I am (God says that’s ok, too, FYI).

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Distractions and FaceTime

I live in a constant state of distraction.  I am usually thinking up some sort of plan to get coffee, or about how I am not old enough to adopt babies from developing countries (and will never be able to adopt from Russia, at any age), OR about who Jesus would vote for as the 45th United States President.  Or about how if Jesus came back right now no one would have to vote for the 45th President of the United States (hint, Jesus, hint).  And if we are going to be real, I’m likely thinking about all of those topics at once at any given moment, plus some.    

All the things.  All at once. 

My mind runs a mile a minute, truly. The other day my best friend looked through my phone for a bit (okay, like for 30 minutes) and said, “how do you even THINK, let alone type, this fast?!”

Distracted people get lodged on lots of tangents, Bub, that’s how. Duh.

Anyhow, it’s never a bad time to stop and talk about why Chipotle is better than Qdoba. Never.

What I love about my best friends: they never say “but queso” when talking about Chipotle versus Qdoba.  Chipotle, always, duh.  

I polled these people, and they each agreed “but queso” is not a valid claim.

What I love even more about them: they never settle for my split attention.  The best example of this happened the other day when I was watching “Galaxy Quest” for the first time with my friends Tyler and Amie.  If I picked up my phone, Tyler paused it.  If I went to the bathroom, Tyler paused it.  If I sassed him, he paused it and sassed me back.  I’m learning some things deserve your full attention, and apparently Alan Rickman movies make that short list.  

What his frequent pauses for phone usage effectively made me consider:

It seems silly to waste time with people who are totally crazy about you (or, in Tyler’s case, crazy about “Galaxy Quest”) being distracted behind the screen of a phone.  Those distractions just aren’t worth it.  

His face looks like this because he misses Alan Rickman.

My favorite favorite author, Bob Goff, says, “people grow where they feel accepted.” TRUTH TRUTH TRUTH.  At least, true for me.  What is also true for me: I am starting to find that even when in that place of acceptance it’s easy for the rabbit holes that is my cellphone to transport me to a different place, one of comparison and opportunities to question, “will they like me if I say this?”

That place sucks.  I’m not going to throw my cellphone across the room about it, but if given the two options in a rational, self-reflective state of mind, I would rather be in the other place… the one with people who know and accept me and support the way my brain thinks up dreams to make this crazy world better, while feeding me burritos. That place kicks the other place’s butt. 

Whether it’s texting someone who is undecided about us, swiping on tinder, wasting time on facebook looking at that-girl-that-we-don’t-even-like’s baby, or reading an article about the Presidential candidate we hate the most… let’s do it while home alone and bored at 9pm, not during qt with beloved people.  Or better yet, do it never.  Let’s just make a binding contract not to do it.  

What might happen if we all decided to stop mistaking social media and text messaging for acceptance and intimacy?

Probably everything amazing. 

The real truth of it is love is about making (face) time for people you think are super.  Love is practicing pauses when someone needs time to catch up.  Love is a Chipotle barbacoa burrito with fajita peppers and guacamole, because it doesn’t even need queso.  Love deserves our full attention and focus.  

Let’s feel accepted and grow, friends.  No distractions.

Everyone Needs Friends

I had already started drafting this post when I turned to my youngest two sisters for blogging inspiration asking, “what wisdom did I try to cram down your throats when you were kids?” They reminded me of my infamous ‘everyone needs friends’ rant, which seemed to collide so nicely with the thoughts that were already swimming in my head.  

When Rachel and Bekah were just beautiful babies and I was trying to Mom them real hard, I would go to the ‘every-one needs friends’ rant over and over and over again. The rant stemmed from me  learning at an early age how important it is to be kind and fight against being a bully, because everyone needs a friend who encourages them to be their true selves... cool kids and band kids alike.  Everyone needs friends.  Everyone.

The best visuals I have for what this looks like in action are my memories from high school and my annual light-saber fights.  One night a year I invited people across the social spectrum to come to my house to hang out with my sisters and play with expensive light-up toys in my front yard, encouraging them to be whatever they wanted to be.  This kind of teaching moment, I am sure, is indirectly why my beautiful tatted up, concert tee wearing youngest sister became Prom Queen and seems to have such a wide variety of friends (sometimes she listens to me!).

What a babe.

Everyone needs friends, specifically ones who know you and accept you for exactly who you are. The Bible shows us that Jesus valued that brand of friend, too.

One day he (Jesus) was walking with his friends and asked them what his reputation was in the community and among the religious people.  They told him a list of things people claimed he was and, to be honest, they weren’t super negative descriptions.  In fact they compared him to some really esteemed prophets; however, they didn’t really hit on who Jesus was or why he was important.  Then Jesus turned to his friends, the ones who spent all of their time with him and who believed in him the most and he asked them who he was.

Jesus, I am sure, always knew exactly who he was, why he came to Earth, and why he was important.  We don’t always have that stuff figured out for ourselves though, do we?

Lately I’ve been hyper aware that I sure don’t.  

If you asked me to describe myself to you, I would tell you that I love Jesus and from there would likely go on to tell you about all of my involvement in local ministries, my recent trips to Haiti, and about all of the kids I am lucky enough to get to hang out with on the regular.  

The sad thing is, most days lately that feels like “it.”  The more I realize I am getting my value from the lines in my planner dedicated to service to others, the less satisfied I am with the way that I’ve been living.  I know that Jesus doesn’t define me that way, and I don’t really want myself or other people to either.

Thank God for friends.  

While I haven’t held a light saber for years, I still have the kind of friends who encourage me to be my weird, frequently misunderstood (even by myself) self-- and celebrate how completely me I am.  In the middle of my recent “who even the heck am I?!” crisis, I realized God-- who is, by definition, love-- gave me so many people who sound off bits and pieces of who God says I am.

Feeling inspired by Jesus’s bluntness, I sent notes to twelve people who show me God’s love and complete acceptance daily and asked each of them, “who do you say that I am?”  The sum of the 5 notes returned to me so far have helped to paint a rainbow of snapshots of myself (none of which read like a resume), each one serving as commentary from the people I love about the picture they see God creating with me.  [And each one bringing me to tears].

 Who am I?  One loved girl who can be pretty good at loving people.  With the help of my people, I'm starting to remember that’s enough.