image by Frederic Revollier via flickr

This is a guest post from Kelly of The Complete Guide to Imperfect Homemaking. Kelly is a real-life friend of mine who also happens to be a total rockstar blogger. She has six kids and embraces a life of motherhood with passion, knows how to cook up a storm, crafts like Martha Stewart, and does things like fold her fitted sheets into neat little packages on the shelf. I kinda want to be like her when I grow up (Except for the sheet thing: My current Ball It Up and Throw It In The Linen Closet thing is really working for me).

I don’t find it easy to write about these sorts of things.  I blog about organizing closets and painting things teal, not pain and brokenness and struggle.  But I truly believe that creating dialogue in the church about our own brokenness is powerful and beautiful and freeing.  I believe that when we tell our stories, we set other people free to experience their own stories with more peace and self acceptance.  I believe that when we are real with one another we see God move more clearly among us.

1. My clean time and my conversion date are not the same thing. I’ve been clean for 8 years, and a Christian for 13. I was a saved-by-grace, Bible believing Christian who was using drugs. If I relapse tomorrow I will still be a Christian, redeemed and forgiven.

2. I am alive because Christians showed me grace. Sure, I can pull off the soccer mom act now, if I want to. But there was a time when I was literally stumbling into church on Sunday mornings,looking to find God again after a particularly rough week or month or year. There were Christians who told me to smarten up and Christians who asked me to leave. But there were also Christians who welcomed me, bought me a cup of coffee after church, listened to me, mentored me, prayed for me, and bared their own souls and struggles when I felt alone.

3. When people tell me that they would love to hear my story, sometimes I feel more like a two-headed alien than a friend. Please don’t pry for the gory details of some of my most tragic moments. Someday I might tell you about the dark places I’ve been, but only when I know I can trust you — and that I can trust myself to tell the story for God’s glory and not my own wistful, dangerous reminiscence.

4. Please don’t tell me that you know what I’ve been through. I am thrilled to hear that you have found freedom over your own life controlling issues, but please don’t tell me that you know exactly what I’ve gone through. Let’s show one another more respect for our unique situations than to presume we know what each other has been through.

5. Addiction doesn’t always look like it does in tragic made-for-tv movies. Yes, I had a time in my life when I was the homeless punk kid passed out on the sidewalk. I also achieved a 4-point-0 at bible college while smoking crack. People rarely fit into their stereotypes.

6. Addiction is both a sin issue and a disease. Please Please Please hear what I’m saying on this one. Any treatment plan or advice that only tackles one side of the equation is more hurtful than helpful. Encourage addicts to get treatment for their disease; even if it is not faith based treatment. You wouldn’t tell someone with cancer not to visit a secular oncologist, or someone with diabetes to just try harder and read their bible more. In my experience, Christians who are struggling with addiction are well aware of their sin. They need hope, help and support, not condemnation.

7. Please stop using the word addiction to mean “affinity for”. You aren’t “addicted” to reality tv or strawberry frappucinos. Please don’t trivialize the pain that people struggle with every single day by referring to your hobbies and preferences as addictions.

8. I’m still an addict. 8 years clean and I still have to be damn careful where I go, what I watch, and where I let my mind wander to. If I breathe in too slow sometimes I can almost for a moment taste and feel the drugs. Sometimes when that happens I pray that sin would not have dominion over me; other times I take another slow breath to try sadly and desperately to feel it again. The temptation doesn’t disappear just because I’ve been clean for years, which brings me to the next point…

9. Sometimes I just really want to get high. And for the most part I can’t tell people this because they think it means I’m about to relapse. If I do tell you I’m struggling, please don’t freak out.

10. And I am so much more than an addict. I am passionate and creative and opinionated. God is daily showing me bigger, better glimpses of who I am in Him.

11. Sometimes, deliverance is white knuckled work. I used to ask why God wasn’t setting me free from this in the powerful, miraculous ways he sometimes does. What I’ve come to see is that freedom is not the lack of temptation, it is the ability to stand against it. Everyday my weakness is made strong in Him.

12. My old life was full of lies. It was how I protected my addiction. So sometimes now I say things that are uncomfortably and painfully true. I have to. The whole “I’m okay, your okay” game we like so much to play in the church can mean certain death for an addict. Ultimately, it isn’t really good for anyone. I’m not okay, you’re not okay, we all have issues we are working through.

Let’s be real about that.

Kelly Oribine

Kelly lives in rural Ontario Canada with six loud kids, a quiet husband, and a brood of crazy backyard chickens. She blogs at www.imperfecthomemaking.com

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Dearest One,

Today we mark ten years of marriage. Happily, even. With a touch of pride and a cautious joy. Given that a few short months ago I didn’t think I wanted to stay married I’d say we’re doing pretty well.

Ten years ago when I married you under the muggy late-spring sun on that post-thunderstorm day in May, I thought you were so sexy. You were standing up there in your rental tux, all dapper and grown-up and ready to whisk me away into a world of which we clearly knew absolutely nothing.

Let’s be honest, we were just kids playing a grown-up’s game, me still a teenager and you barely finished being one. We were in love though. I’ll swear it to my grave that we were. You know, of course, that at that point it was the kind of hormonal, romantic-notion love that is positively bursting pregnant with hope and naivete. The sort that’s certain the world has bestowed a never-ending burning love upon them. Love that aches when physically apart and smolders when together. Sexy back then was breathlessness and wide-eyed lash-flutters, heart palpitations and passionately united bodies unmarked by child-rearing and age.

Let’s be honest though, we were truly in love.  We spoke each other’s names softly when we held hands at the downtown jazz club, ordering things that made us feel grown-up like escargots and wine. We laughed and gazed in one another’s eyes, and we strolled along the boardwalk as lovers, doing all those things young love is wont to do. We dreamt of the love-saturated life in technicolor that we’d lead, bright future indeed, then went home to our tiny apartment to make love without worrying about babies waking up to nurse or toddlers wetting the bed.

Four months ago I had the worst Christmas of my life.

We were either fighting or simmering below-the-surface the entire day because we just couldn’t for the life of us meet in the middle. The middle of what? I don’t know exactly but it felt like a desert. Vast and expansive and completely parched, populated by bills and piles of laundry and peed on sheets and harsh words, in the company of a whole herd of tiny dictators that apparently we were qualified to birth and raise. We couldn’t even be happy together on Christmas. It was wretched. It had been that way more-days-than-not for a long while.

The day after Christmas I emailed a marriage counselor and asked if you’d come with me.

You did.

I had no idea how we got there, to that horribly unhappy place, but there we were. I guess it has to do with having a bunch of beautiful babies in a relatively short time, moving across the country, getting little sleep and even less alone-time, and watching your dreams and plans crumble. They say we humans tend to take out our stress on those we trust and love the most, and I’d wager that after several straight years of this we each just grew tired of it.

We grew tired of each other. I didn’t know you anymore, and the leftover tired bits were not altogether amiable, nor mine for you, if I’m being truthful.

We talked about it. Actually mostly we fought about it, but when we managed to talk civilly it was pointless. We had no magic solutions. We didn’t want to divorce, but we tossed the word around, wondering if it was a looming inevitability.

If something drastic doesn’t change, we said, there’s no way we’ll be together in a year’s time. I just… (deflated and hopeless). I just don’t know anymore. I don’t.

Trapped. Wounded. Our aching and bleeding frail hearts had grown paper-thin. The old tired wounds kept piling on hurt and anguish and brick-by-brick it continued until there was a mammoth wall looming in between us that we did not know how to dismantle.

It was wearying to keep our secret as we played married bliss to the world.

So, finally, hanging on by a bare thread, we dragged our marriage into a therapist’s office, cracked and bleeding, plopped down into the chairs where the air crackled with awkward tension. It was the sexiest thing I think you’ve ever done for me. For us.

You know, to be honest – I think we’ve come to a new kind of sexy now.

Today you showed up at the zoo to surprise me and the kids. You finished work early and ran to us. Kids that were whiny and tired, a hot and sunburnt wife who handed the deliciously chubby baby over for you to hold. And you came to us, your smile twinkled the corners of your eyes and you walked with us. You just came to be with us because you didn’t want to be elsewhere.

We stopped for ice cream on the way home and then you started teaching our oldest to ride a two-wheeler in the driveway while twilight set on and the baby chattered and crawled and ate dandilions. Our daughter rode her tricycle around and we all basked in this glorious life of sunshine and bare filthy feet and toddler drama, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier.

Today sexy means fathering our children and making them feel loved. Making my coffee at night so it’s ready to go in the morning when you leave early for work? That’s sexy. Doing the hard things and swallowing pride down deep when conflicts arise and saying sorry and being sorry and loving me more than your own pride is sexy. That’s what sexy is. Damn straight that’s sexy. It’s sexy when you hold my hand tenderly across the space between our chairs in marriage counseling and when you look at me like that. Like you know we can make it, even if we can’t figure out how. Like you just desperately want to like/love me but can’t and so we ask for help and you are willing. Willing to do the hard things. Talk the hard talks and live the hard ways.

It’s not easy being married almost a decade and realizing you really kind of hate the person beside you in the bed. When the empty space in the sheets between you may as well be a chasm for all the touching we’d done lately. Our feet used to find each other in bed as our dog-tired eyes drooped shut and we were in between awake and snoring. Then somehow they stopped and the space in the sheets grew cold and our hearts got all bent outta shape and frail.

So we fought for it. We stumbled on redemption in the unlikely sexy acts of taking out the smelly-diaper trash, going to marriage counseling, and texting each other apologies for misspoken harsh words.

Tonight, while in the driveway, your eye caught mine between helmet tightenings and you gave me the lovey eyes. You haven’t done that in a long time. Your smile crinkled your eyes up and you did that thing with your eyebrow that you do when you’re content. We had an argument the other day and it felt like the exception rather than the rule, and last night our feet found each other again in bed.

The hard work of Every Day Life brings restoration to a crumbling marriage and whispers sexy back into a couple of hip minivan parents with tired circles under their eyes and a spirit bolstered by a hope that simply refuses to die.

There’s none other in the world I’d rather do that hard work with than you.

All of my love forever,

B

Fast Tube by Casper

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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original image credit

I have always been a dreamer. I major on grand ideas and enthusiastic starts, and I minor in follow-through and completion. The amount of projects around here that are half-done is embarrassing. My husband knows this about me, and yet he loves me still. It’s probably why he rolls his eyes every time I tell him my latest and greatest plan for awesomeness, but I digress…

Here’s the thing: I’ve been trying to get myself into the habit of exercising with Fit2B Studio to heal my diastasis recti (AKA my wrecked abdominal muscles from growing three human beings). As much as I wish I were a highly disciplined person, I sadly am not.

BUT now that I’m approaching 30 years old (this July, baby!), I am learning more about myself than ever before. And you know what? Do you know what works for me to get stuff done?

Competition and peer pressure, that’s what. Oh yeah. Intrinsic motivation for self-betterment? The reward of a job well done? Nope and nope. Just some good ol’ fashioned potential embarrassment for being a failure in the eyes of the world.

*Shrug* Hey, whatever works, right?

A Challenge to Myself

So. Here’s the plan: In April I am challenging myself to spend 30 minutes for 30 days on a couple of habits that I want to cement in my life. I will be focusing on two things:

1) A daily quiet time with the Bible (whether it’s 1 verse or 1 chapter or more)

2) Exercising with Fit2B Studio videos

30 minutes a day, minimum, and it has to include both of those things.

Wanna Join Me?

I am inviting you to join me! Pick your own goal, and commit to spending 30 minutes for 30 days working on it. If there’s enough interest, I will make a blog button for y’all to use and we can make a link-up happen.

What goals do you have? Organize your home? Exercise? Bible reading? Cooking healthy snacks? A crafty project? Gosh, it could be just about anything, really.

Let’s do it!

And a Whole30 Bonus…

Hubby and I have decided to do Whole 30 for the month of April! It fits in nicely with my little theme, right? I’m turning 30, we’re doing Whole 30, the 30 for 30 challenge. Serendipitous, n’est ce pas?

So, Whole 30. I had my friend Paula guest post about her experience here at R&H a while back, which you can read here and here. It’s a major undertaking, and I will be blogging about it along the way. If there’s anyone who is interested in doing Whole30 for April as well and wants to join an support group on facebook with us, let me know – I’ll send you the link.

So… Who’s In?

………………………………………………….

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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This post is from one of Red & Honey’s new monthly contributors, Marissa of Becoming Kindred! She’ll be sharing an awesome post every month. Welcome Marissa! 

***

We are an outdoors loving family and it is common practice throughout the year to bring pieces of nature in doors to be admired and enjoyed. While I’ve always loved the idea of a nature table, it’s not something that works well for our family and so the center of our dining table has been unofficially designated our “nature spot”.

Usually, there is a bowl or a plate that holds glimpses of the season as well as whatever treasures may have caught a little ones eye. Whether it’s a feather from one of our chickens, an ocean washed rock or a small stick, my girls enjoy adding their bits of beauty and I am often inspired as I see creation through their eyes.

Last year, as we moved through the season of Lent, Palm Sunday, and then the Easter week, I wanted a visual marker that would draw us to the death and life of Jesus. It was actually as I was preparing some potting soil for seeds that I saw that creation offers itself in the telling of the truth of Jesus, and for us this fits much more naturally than many of the crafting options I had found.

The specifics of what you use to tell the story of Easter is very flexible but I’ll share what we do.

Lent & Jesus in the Wilderness

Because the season of Lent is too long for small children to really grasp, about a week prior to Palm Sunday, I started by simply placing a plate of dirt (although sand would be even better) in the center of the table. As I expected, the girls were inquisitive and so we talked about how Jesus was in the desert for 40 days.

After a couple of days, I added a stone which led to talking of Jesus’ hunger in the desert and how he was taunted with the lies of Evil.

Palm Sunday

When Palm Sunday arrived, we took a walk to find ferns that resembled the Palm branches that were laid before Jesus as he entered Jerusalem. How they loved to talk about the excitement as everyone called praises! It works well to keep some ferns or branches in water to refresh the plate through out the week.

Passover

For Passover and the night Jesus was betrayed, add a piece of towel and small cup of water. This is a good way to talk about how Jesus served others and leads into his love for us.

Crucifixion

As we moved into the crucifixion, I really struggled with how to present it in a way that would be age appropriate and yet honest. We added a crown of thorns (a rose bush or any prickly bush works) and talked about how Jesus was hurt and made to wear a crown like that. We also added nails but simply said that Jesus died on the cross and instead focused on why he did that in his great love for us.

Resurrection

On Easter Sunday, I laid a white cloth for that which was left in the empty tomb and little sprouted eggshell seed starters as a symbol of life because Jesus is Alive!

Rejoicing!

Later in the day on Easter Sunday, the plate was again filled with the wine and bread (or in our case grape juice and gluten free rice crackers) that we shared in remembrance and thanks.

Originally, when we decided to do nature plate for Easter, it was for our daughters, but I found myself more contemplative as my eyes were drawn to it again and again. I found my heart being probed and changed as we took our walks to add pieces and I understood the love and the giving of God differently as we talked with our children. 

What are some ways that you share the crucifixion, death and resurrection of Jesus with your children?

While learning to live a simple farming life in rural Nova Scotia, Marissa finds home wherever her beloved, Dan and three darling daughters are. She writes about her journey of life as a wife, mother, woman, novice farmer, homemaker, & Christ follower at www.becomingkindred.com. and on facebook. When she finds spare creative moments, she also adds wool felted crowns, finger puppets and other goodies to her store Chickadee Swing. You can also find Chickadee Swing on facebook.

Marissa Froese

While learning to live a simple farming life in rural Nova Scotia, Marissa finds home wherever her beloved, Dan and three darling daughters are. She writes about her journey of life as a wife, mother, woman, novice farmer, homemaker, & Christ follower at Becoming Kindred.

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(Don’t miss my Top 10 Posts from 2012 that I published earlier today. Also – I was planning on publishing a post about my 2012 resolution/goal, but I’m going to keep it under wraps just a little longer. Look for that in just a couple of weeks…)

It’s resolution-time and despair is thick in the air. Why bother trying? The stats tell us we will fail and all will be for naught. But yet my soul refuses to listen. I refuse to sink down. I stubbornly cling to my quiet optimism and hope for renewal, that one day my old self will be gone forever, and that while I wait I am His image-bearer and love-bearer in this world and I will never ever give that away. I can never sacrifice my opportunity to live and love more fully in His way.

It’s a slow fading of darkness into night and another year marches to a close. The minutes tick by as we make our choices and live our lives with breath in and breath out without even noticing most of the time that’s it’s an utter miracle just to be alive. And life continues while we catch up, with scrambled eggs and car drives and budgeting and kissing in the kitchen.

We are the people of fresh new moments and life in the fast lane, trying to slow down. Trying to remember the reason for the sun’s rise every morning. And every so often the glimmer of unveiled knowing shines through the cracks of our constructed reality and we truly see what it’s all about. And we exhale our thanks to Him, and declare our refusal to ever stop saying yes to hope and love and the beauty of it all.

The quiet knowing that I can do better  and that I was made for more than mediocrity. Passionate resolve is my life’s amen and so I raise my glass to hope and give a nod to deep breaths of grace and second chances, and thirds, and so on.

These days are heavy with the never-giving-up on the living, and I make my art by saying yes.

(This post was originally published one year ago here.)

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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I used to think that when I became a mother I would be in control of my mothering-life.

I’d be in control of my kids, of my temper, of my laundry. I’d be the organized mom, y’all (how hard could it be?). I’d be the patient one, the one with crafty activities and delightfully playful discipline that my children would respond to without hesitation.

Last night I put the kids to bed by myself again.

My husband’s job demands his time at random and unpredictable hours. He is a flight instructor, and since he flies small airplanes (4-seaters, generally) and is teaching students who are just learning to fly, he is at the mercy of the weather.

I often don’t know if he will be home for dinner that night until 3pm or so, and I certainly cannot predict what the days ahead will be like. This is the case six days out of the week – he books flights as much as possible those days so he has the greatest chance of making enough income to pay the bills (he only gets paid when he flies, plus a little for ground briefings).

Right now, his students are working on their night ratings. It gets dark from about 5pm onward at this time of year, so while I’m bouncing the fussy 5-month-old in the Ergo on my chest and accepting “help” from the 2 and 4-year-olds in making gluten-free pancakes from scratch, tapioca starch goes poof all over the counter and my laptop.

I frantically blow it off the “asdf” keys whilst watching my last shreds of patience wearing thin and slipping through my fingers, melting like butter in the sizzling cast-iron pan, heating on the stove.

It was a slow falling, beginning earlier in the day. Heck, it began the night I woke up with raging heartburn in my first pregnancy and wondered what in God’s name I’d done to myself.

(My death began that night. A slow dying to selfish self. Stinking, gritty inward-gazing self. I had kept up appearances well, and still do, but now that I’ve been provided with three separate-human-being mirrors that reflect me back to myself, I can see a little more clearly.)

I breathe. In and out. In and out.

Motherhood is my calling. Motherhood is my mission. Motherhood is harder than my pre-kid self could have possibly conceived. The dirty nature of my self-centered humanity comes to a gory and terrible clash of metal scraping metal and wrestling of natures as I nearly lose it on a sticky-faced toddler staring me down, decidedly her own person separate from the one who birthed her.

Here, life goes to slow-motion and the battle commences. Usually I am too tired, too rushed to notice. To even see that I am under attack, that I battle with my own self instead of the perceived pint-sized target.

Aghhhhhhhhh! I beat my chest with tarzan-esque gutteral frustration and the epic battle comes to a head. I choose now, right now. Another moment of cosmic significance, and here times stands still for a few seconds. In the midst of my strangled and primal cry I am thrashed about and slayed down in my surrender. Bleeding and defeated, I have chosen other, died to self. Gasping for breath, I have just barely managed to thrown off Anger and Impatience and I stand up naked and weak and heaving for breath, dripping with the sweat of effort, glory hallelujah to the Christ in me.

The Imago Dei in me rises above the fray and I am grateful. I’ve won a tiny battle that is but one of billions more and it seems like nothing but it is everything and I can’t breathe for the gratefulness that winds its way into my heart and nearly crushes me in the glowing aftermath.

No time for glorying in my victory now though, little teeth need brushed and poopy diapers changed and wet bath-time eyelashes admired. And the girl-child is gearing up for another round with her (perfectly appropriate) childishness.

I have come to a certain conclusion, and it is this: that in this motherhood gig, I am doing a terrible job. Except for when I am dying. I die to selfishness and I glory in selflessness and it’s all a glorious mystery of Christ in me and over me and through me. One moment’s victory is worth a hundred thousand more battles and worth dancing for and I sing and sway and stretch my arms out and weep, thankful for the One who rescues me from myself.

I am a mother.

I am a good mother.

Breathe. Breathe. Patience. Breathe.

Later when bellies are full and jammies are on and sleep is in sight, I sit right where we are in the hallway, and read Little Blue Truck while wiping drool from the teething baby’s chin. I announce that it’s bedtime, they tumble into my bed while I sit in the chair and nurse the baby in the dark.

They giggle and roll over and announce in very loud whispers that they are “firsty” and need a “dwink”, then the firstborn needs to pee, and the baby is distracted and I lose my shiz.

Sighs and whispered yelling give way to arghhhghh and STOP IT RIGHT NOW AND BE QUIET and finally I stop, I pause, I sigh. I deflate like a pinpricked balloon, and I begin to die again.

Another minute, another battle. Each time is a teeny-tiny bit easier, and I breathe deep, more oxygen into this heaving chest that beats with this wretchedly gory love.

I am a good mother.

I carry on in this glorious mystery.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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I declare a mutiny on the rush and stress of the Christmas season.

I’m tired of it. It flies directly in the face of every ideal I hold for what Christmas is actually all about, and this year – I’m doing something about it.

Christmas is a time to slow down, reflect, and worship the tiny babe in the manger who came to earth as Love incarnate.

That’s hard to do when you’re immersed in your exasperation over finding that mythical creature called Mall-Parking-Spot at Christmas-time, or when your calendar during the month of December is harder to manage than the President’s. Too many well-intentioned events, activities, and traditions can easily crowd out that time for properly preparing our hearts for the season.

Here are five ways that our family is choosing to simplify this Christmas season so that we can slow down and savour the beauty and magic of the Emmanuel.

1. Finish Buying/Making Gifts by November 30

Since advent starts at the beginning of December, I want to be totally available and focused on preparing my heart for His coming, and in order to do so I don’t want to have to be rushing around, checking off names on my Christmas list. Plus, it’s easier to give meaningful gifts when you aren’t doing it at the last minute.

Some people advocate opting out of gift-giving altogether, but I strongly believe that the gift-giving tradition can honour Christ if you are intentional about what you give (another blog post altogether!).

If I procrastinate (as per usual) and have to rush at the last minute, at least it will be November instead of Christmas Eve when my attention should be elsewhere. We will save wrapping for later though – it will be a family activity one day in December.

2. Electronic Christmas Cards

I have amassed a rather large amount of guilt each year by the week before Christmas because of the stress and inevitable failure in reaching my Christmas-card-sending goals. Sending Christmas cards – even just photo cards – is a huge commitment of time and energy. You need to take a family photo (a feat in and of itself!), choose a design, have them printed, make a recipient list and gather mailing addresses, address envelopes, stamp them, and get them to a mailbox all before the postal service holiday deadlines! That stresses me out just writing about it.

This year – I’m going to use a photo that we took in the summer with all five of us in front of Lake Louise in Banff, design a little Christmas greeting on it, and post it on my blog (and maybe email the link to a few people). If anyone really wants us on their fridge they can feel free to print it out, but otherwise we will save trees, money, and time by doing it this way!

I’m not knocking regular Christmas cards (I LOVE receiving them), but this year our family is simplifying by going electronic.

3. Choose Simple Decor.

There are some seriously intense holiday decorations out there, but if I recall correctly, Jesus was born in a smelly and dirty barn, not a Martha Stewart Living holiday display.

This year we will put up our mini-lights in the living room as always, along with a Christmas tree a few weeks before Christmas. We will also display our new advent candle wreath for the first time this year, with great excitement, and the beautiful manger scene handcrafted by my grandfather. I’ll probably do a few quality crafts with the kids that will double as decor and holiday memories for years to come.

I have nothing against Christmas decorations – I’m against Christmas decorations that do not ultimately point our hearts back to Christ. This year, we will adorn our homes with simplicity and intention.

4. Celebrate Advent.

I grew up with advent being a time to light a candle once a week during the Sunday morning service, each week of December. This year I want to bring advent home and make it the focus of our days leading up to Christmas.

I discovered an incredible new resource this year called Truth in the Tinsel: An Advent Experience for Little Hands. You get 24 days of Scripture reading, ornament crafts, talking points and extension activities. I bought a copy for myself and am so impressed – I am super excited to do this with my two and four-year-old. I think they will completely love it.

5. Stay Home on Christmas Morning.

In years past, we’ve always done a mad dash from one family to another, beginning on Christmas Eve and ending several days after Christmas. Since our families live just 30 minutes from one another, we’ve often tried to split Christmas Day right down the middle, counting the hours and dividing, trying to spend time with each family equally. One especially crazy year I believe we spent as much time bundling everyone up and driving somewhere as we did relaxing and enjoying the day.

This year, we are staying home on Christmas morning, and visiting one side of the family (who live 2 minutes away) in the afternoon for turkey dinner. We’ll see the other side of the family the day after Christmas. That’s it. And all the parents of small children said AMEN!

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There are lots of ways that you can choose to simplify Christmas and focus more on what really matters. Whether you join me in these ideas, or go a different direction altogether, the point is to be intentional about it.

What are you doing to make sure your attention is on the right things this year?

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Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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Confession: I’ve been on the fence for years now about Halloween. On the one hand the glorification of evil really bothered me, and I hate the nasty corn syrup and food dye laced throughout my kids’ loots bags. On the other hand I loved the fun of dressing up, knocking on neighbour’s doors (how often do we actually do that in this day and age?) and the exhilaration of getting treats.

Desiring to make an intentional and informed choice, I’ve been thinking and praying for several years now about how we will respond to Halloween as a family.

Halloween’s Origins

Trick-or-treating, dressing up, carving pumpkins. Some say it has its roots in pagan practices. Others claim the exact opposite. What’s true? Is it even relevant to our modern-day participation?

Despite the disagreement, everyone can agree that the day after Halloween (November 1st) is All Saint’s Day. A day to celebrate the union of the saints with Christ. Kinda like a President’s Day or Remembrance Day where we remember many different people at once. According to this source (a fascinating article) the word Halloween comes from All Hallow’s Eve, with the word ‘hallow’ meaning ‘holy’ or ‘saint’. Thus, it is simply the eve of All Saint’s Day.

Halloween As Celebration of Victory in Christ

The concept explained by the article linked above is enlightening.

On October 31, the demonic realm tries one last time to achieve victory, but is banished by the joy of the Kingdom. What is the means by which the demonic realm is vanquished? In a word: mockery.

The one thing that Satan hates more than anything else is to be ridiculed. As Christians we can do this because we know that he has lost the battle already. Dressing up as a devil or a ghost while laughing and knowing it’s all a big joke is the best form of mockery. By doing so we say to the demonic realm that we have no fear because we serve the victorious Jesus Christ who conquered even death! It is no longer to be feared!

This is a totally new perspective on Halloween for me, and I must say: I love it. It resonates so strongly with my beliefs and my desire to acknowledge that THIS is the day that the Lord has made, my urge to NOT hide out in my basement, afraid of the evil forces.

What About the Non-Christian Version of Halloween?

I totally get that most people these days are not participating in Halloween as a celebration of Christ’s victory over evil. They revel in the creepiness and gore and evil overtones without a thought as to why. There may be some customs that have less than stellar roots and past uses. Yet as another fantastic article reasons:

Yes, it has a weird history (so did I before Jesus). Yes, it’s mostly about buying stuff (like everything in America). But for most ordinary people it’s just a silly holiday where kids have fun and we satirize things that normally make us uncomfortable. American culture doesn’t have any real answer for death or demonic forces. So, Halloween is just one attempt to cope with those fears.

This really makes sense. If you believe that Halloween is a celebration of Christ’s victory (as I do) and that people don’t really understand the true meaning (most don’t), then you are in good company. It seems to me the same thing happens at another very important holiday. The one involving fat guys in red suits and lots and lots of shopping.

Yes, Jesus’ birthday has been sacrificed on the altar of consumerism by so many, and yet we don’t give up on it. We redeem it. We call it what it is, and we celebrate the Truth. A celebration of the incarnation of Hope, Joy, Love, and Peace. He has come, he has been victorious, and we can celebrate His grace and glory and power for ALL of our days!

So What Does This Look Like, Practically Speaking?

This year we dressed the kids up and had a lot of fun doing it. We did it kind of last minute due to the last-minute evolving of these convictions, but we jumped in anyway. Our kids are still little (4, 2, and baby) so we kept it minimal. We trick-or-treated on our street then drove 2 minutes to trick or treat at Grammy and Grandpa’s house.

The worst house that we saw in terms of gore and yuck was my parents’ neighbours. The bloody skulls and severed hands and everything else was a bit much for me. Next year we’ll just avoid that house, and when they’re old enough to notice or care then we’ll talk about it.

We had perfect opportunity all day to have some deep conversation with the four-year-old. I gave a basic explanation of death and evil, and how Satan is a bad guy, but we don’t have to be afraid of him because Jesus beat him already. Jesus is the winner and we’re on his team! The conversation will deepen as the years go by, but for now this is a great way to introduce the concept of principalities and powers to your children.

The worst part of Halloween, in my opinion, is the candy. I know, I know… harmless fun, no? But really – that stuff is nasty. The ingredients in those things? Mostly unheard of and unpronounceable, high fructose corn syrup solids, artificial colourings that have been linked to behavioural issues in kids, and loads of highly processed sugar in all forms.

A few ideas to deal with this:

• Eat a few treats the night of and throw/give the rest away.
• Do a trade-in for a new toy the next day.
• Host a costume party for a few friends with homemade (waaaay healthier but still yummy!) indulgences, and also hand out candy to the neighbour kids that come to the door.
• Go around to the neighbours handing out homemade hot chocolate mix, then come back for your own party with homemade treats.

I know one thing for sure: I missed out on pumpkin carving this year, but I’m already looking forward to Halloween 2013. But I think it will have to settle for being my second-favorite holiday… 

Do You Participate in Halloween?

PS. Happy All-Saints Day!

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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Let’s be serious here, you are a kid in a grown-up’s body. A Mom Bod nonetheless, and with the muffin top to prove it. You’re wearing chevron striped flats with your skinny jeans and yet you’re sure *something* will give you away. You’re not as cool and collected as you desperately want to be, and so you quake a little as you walk into the room. Eyes round and heart bursting with nervous energy and a tiny bit of hope that you stuff down deep lest you trip and land on your face or say the wrong thing or worse: have absolutely no one to talk to.

Let’s be honest here, you’re a daughter of the most high king who declares you worthy regardless. He hand crafted you from dust and nothing into something, a beauty bestowed with all of the authority of heaven and earth. This glowing planet, sun rising above gold-specked trees sings to the wonder of creation, and those trees whose stunning beauty you drink in today are but ashes compared to the exquisite creation of humanity. You are one of these, and Oh! You are bursting with God-breathed beauty.

Let’s be real here, you have no idea what you’re doing. You just want to be noticed, you want to be invited, wanted, accepted. You want to be genuine and understood. The sisterhood of women is strong and you feel it, hearts thumping and pumping and crying out to Jesus to praise him for the precious treasure of connecting our hearts to one another in an act of worship to the One who created community at the very beginning. Gritty and raw and real and glorious.

Let’s be optimistic here, your heart and soul, your bones, they cry out a primal calling to join together in heart-pounding love. See the ones who are like you. See the ones who aren’t. See the girl in skinnies and the one with fabulous hair and the one without. Inhale and beckon them in to unity, to acceptance to a celebration of God-breathed beauty in all of us, and peel open your heart in layers. Strip away the pretense and the vanity, the pride and the fear. Hold gingerly your heart of hearts out to your sisters and risk it all.

Inhale.

Open your heart.

Exhale.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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Sorry about all the silence. You may have noticed that I totally flaked out on my 31 day series. In some ways, it’s totally killing me that I’ve let myself down by failing to meet my goal. In other ways it’s a total relief. I wanted to write and explain why I stopped posting, but I seem to have melted into a puddle of quiet, the words won’t come, they can’t come, they aren’t there.

(deep sigh. pause. a sip of water.)

My kids are creeping around the living room roaring with blankets on their heads calling themselves monsters. They have bed-head, they’ve eaten their breakfast already (I cooked eggs without getting grumpy: small victories, people), and they take my breath away with their cuteness, right here in the flesh, how lucky am I?? I can hardly believe I have a “good sleeper” (currently napping), even when he’s not sleeping well for him it’s better than the older two’s best nights as babies. And praise Jesus for coffee. I like it and the feeling’s mutual. I’m a happier person when coffee starts my day, and that just can’t not be a blessing straight from heaven.

I guess, what I’m trying to say, is that I’ve been busy living. I’ve been reading my Bible every morning and journalling my thoughts and prayers with it and easing into a habit gingerly and with trepidation and trembling. The scent of failure is fresh in my nose as I recall the bajillion times before that I’ve attempted to acquire this habit and failed miserably, but I feel like it’s different this time somehow. Why? Because I want it to be.

My life is slowly rounding out and becoming more 3-dimensional than ever before and I am on holy ground here, shoes off, this meeting of God and housewife. Bed-headed woman with morning coffee breath and my spirit caught in my throat as I read words like “my times are in your hands”, “the Lord blesses his people with peace”, “The Lord is my shepherd, I LACK NOTHING”, “my eyes are ever on the Lord”…

These words hit me down low and deep and I catch myself marvelling and the laughter bubbles up as I realize: I believe it. I really do. I believe those words beyond a cerebral understanding, I feel them in my guts and I love them, I love Him. I can’t tell you how much because I haven’t yet reached the extent of it.

It’s beautiful, this life and those words and these image-bearers of Christ, imago dei, that surround me in these four walls along with the messy evidence of a life lived in a gritty and technicoloured world. The dirty dishes and sibling fights, learning forgiveness and the aching bones and warm hurried showers and the prayers and grumblings and clamourings and all of it, all of it cries out in praise.

It’s all joy, the real kind, and it’s all here and now and straight-up in my face and I can’t turn away at all and what I’m learning right now is that I don’t want to.

***

(31 Days Series on hold indefinitely… thanks for understanding)

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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“It is the heart that makes a man rich. He is rich according to what he is, not according to what he has.” - Henry Ward Beecher

Honey and I have been ebbing toward a minimalistic and simple lifestyle for years now. We are coming up on our tenth wedding anniversary in the spring. I can look back on the last decade and see the slow evolution of our ideals and values in this area: every time we’ve moved (8x!) I start packing and wonder “why the heck do I even own this?!”

We believe in having less so that we can live more. We choose to have less stuff in our house – less to clean, less to organize, less to sort through and eventually sell at a yard sale, or worse – send to the landfill. We choose to resist the consumeristic addiction of our culture.

“The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.” - Socrates

In early July we made a decision to pack up and move back to our home province approximately 3,600 kilometres away. We’d  been living in Tiny Town on the Canadian prairies for 2.5 years, and the time had come to uproot again.

Pack, toss, or sell?

It was the question of the summer in our house.

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” - Leonardo da Vinci

Stuff takes time. That what it boils down to for me. We’ve created a stuff-focused culture in which we shop, we consume, we sort, we organize, we clean, we de-clutter, we replace, we curate, and we collect. All of this distracts from breathe-deep-joy and real-life-living.

There are just 24 hours in a day, no matter who you are or what you do. How many of those hours are spent on things that do not add to the richness and depth of your living? Each of our answers will be different, but it is a worthy question to ponder against the backdrop of your own unique story.

This is how I plan to get rich: Find contentment in my present circumstances (even when it’s tough). Fine-tune my heart to be kind, generous, loving, and full of grace and humility. Spend time in self-improvement through relationship with my Maker.

It’s the only get-rich-quick scheme that works.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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Today I am privileged to host a guest post from Jenny at The Southern Institute, a darling crafty-type blog with projects that make you swoon and wish you actually knew how to use the sewing machine collecting dust in the closet. She and I have gotten to know one another through ye ol’ blogosphere lately, and in addition to being uber-talented and crafty, she is kind, sweet, and honest, and I appreciate her sharing here today while I continue to come to terms with the fact that I am now a mother of THREE children (holy moly!). Please enjoy, and share the love in the comments below!

There is something extremely humbling about a child’s capacity to forgive.  We are big on extending forgiveness in our home.  When someone wrongs another (usually a sibling… today it was me) and says that they are sorry, we have taught our children to say “I forgive you” rather than “That’s okay”, because it’s not okay, and it’s okay to acknowledge it.

Today I asked my son for forgiveness, and he forgave.  I felt like dirt.  Somehow I am not so ready to extend forgiveness to myself.

Each night at bedtime, we ask the children “What was the best part of your day?”, then “What was a frustrating thing about your day?”  It’s a tradition we borrowed from dear friends of ours.  The kids love it.  We then ask them to tell us one thing that they are thankful for.

Tonight, after the way I had treated him, my son said “I’m thankful for God giving me a great mom.”  He wrapped his arms around me and touched his nose to mine.  He didn’t mean to do it, but his words humbled me to the point of tears.  I wept at God’s goodness.  In spite of my worst, God protects the hearts of my young ones, and I’m so grateful.  He heals the wounds that I inflict, and keeps scar tissue from forming.Tomorrow is a new day, and as sure as my children are growing each day, I too am growing.  I’m being pruned, and it hurts at times, but more often than not, it is a joy.  My children are my teachers.  Sometimes it seems they teach me more than I teach them.  They teach me how to love and forgive with childlike abandon, and I am eager to learn.

***

Jenny is happily married with three spirited children. She became a Southern girl after moving from Chicago to Nashville to attend college. These days you can still find her in Nashville, keeping busy with her children, sewing, crafting, reading and writing. She has just released her first eBook this year, called Unbound Birth: How to Have a Natural Birth in the Hospital, and blogs at The Southern Institute and Unbound Birth.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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This past Monday I reached the 38 week marker. The evening prior found me reflecting on this pregnancy and the upcoming birth of this babe, surrounded by amazing women who spoke words of life and beauty over me, pampered me, and celebrated with me, sharing in love and life.

The blessingway originated from a Native People traditional ceremony (some call it a mother-blessing instead when it’s not done by Native Peoples). It is now used in non-Native culture as an alternative or addition to the typical baby shower. It focuses on the spiritual aspects of the pregnancy and birth, rather than the typical gifts and such.

In the words of the blessing way book website, it is “a ceremony that can be designed to provide a deeply meaningful and transformational experience for a mother-to-be while honoring her personal belief system”.

My own blessing way, hosted by my amazing friend, Ashley, was exactly that for me – deeply meaningful and personal to my own relationship with the Creator God and Jesus Christ. Rather than just give you a rundown of the evening, I want to share a few favourite photos with you. Some of the photos are from my friend Katherine’s blessing way, held just 3 days after mine, as she’s due 4 days after me. The symbolic elements varied slightly from mine and hers, but each evening was similarly rich with meaning and beauty.

Burning fears, written out on slips of paper and released into the flame.

Beautiful henna belly art, kindly done by the amazingly artistic Ruth-Anne and Ashley.

Foot soak for the tired mama’s feet, followed by toenail polish and massage (she said it was her first foot massage – she’s a total natural – it was amazing!)

A candle tied with strings brought by the women, each unique and colourful, reminding me of the unique strength of womanhood of which I am a part, to be lit and focused on while I labour.

The blessing.

My personal favourite part of the evening – a simple ceremony in which we all stand together in a circle, and bind our wrists together with one long strand of string, beginning with my left hand and ending at my right. Each woman wraps the string several times around her wrist, and passes it to the next woman. While we are bound together, they prayed over me and the baby and the coming birth, then the strings are cut between women and each tied theirs onto their wrists, to remind them to pray for me in these last days and weeks until baby is born. (I now have two – my own, and Katherine’s).

Another significant part that I loved was the words of encouragement/quotes/verses that were chosen and read aloud to me (and Kat) as we listened. The words that were given to me will continue to bless me in the days to come as I finish this pregnancy and prepare for birth. There is such power in an intentionally spoken word of love and encouragement – it was rich and meaningful.

*

I didn’t mention the laughing and the (glorious!) food and the fabulous-as-usual girls’ night atmosphere that permeated the in-between moments, but that was all there too. It was lovely and perfect, and I couldn’t ask for better friends to have blessed me so as I prepare for this new little person about to change my world forever for the better.

{I love you already, dear one}.

*

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Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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The wise old soul that resides in my little babe’s not-yet-four-years-old body is beautifully made. The little person that made me a mother by his very entrance into the breathing world on a sunny September afternoon has a heart and a soul that are rich with depth and feeling.

Sometimes I forget that.

I see his whining and immaturity, his tiresome dependency on me, the clunky slow-dance of learning that we do together, and I am tired. I think of his simple child-like play and the way I can make him smile again with just a tickle or his favourite muffins or a hug. I over-complicate my own thoughts, and I forget that he has complexities of his own. I forget that he’s a person with Big Feelings like mine.

Then sometimes, like today, I see it.

It turns out that our hearts are not that different after all.

My heart beats for acceptance. For unconditional love. For feeling wanted and understood. Oh, how I long to feel deeply understood. By my hubby, my peers, my children. The things I do, the ways I fail – the fact that I’m trying hard to do right.

As does his.

Today he watched a Frankling the Turtle episode on my laptop in which Franklin acts out. The reason he is acting out is because he feels sad and left out of his group of friends. The teacher doesn’t stop to understand and just gets exasperated with Franklin again and again, until the end when all is finally resolved.

My sweet-souled little boy slid off the couch and wandered away from the laptop a few times during this 12-minute story. After a minute he would go back and continue watching.

I paused the show and questioned him a bit. Flags were waving all over my intuition, and I pulled him onto my lap and asked if he felt sad because the teacher was upset with Franklin. “Yeah” he said, sucking his thumb and rubbing his ear as he sometimes still does in anxious situations.

“Do you feel sad when Mommy and Daddy get upset and mad at you?”

“Yeah” he says with emphatic feeling.

Distracted and wanting to finish watching, he un-pauses the laptop and sit back in his spot. I kiss his head with a tight and fervent hug from behind, a whispered I-love-you, and continue on with my crocheting, my mind all-a-whirring.

It is a terrible feeling to know that someone is upset with you for something you’ve done. To feel that you’ve disappointed someone, and that you have all kinds of emotions inside that you can’t quite figure out how to explain. As an adult I can generally avoid those instances much easier than my sweet children are able to do, considering that I’m supposed to be the one “in charge” around here.

Because they are doing the tough work of growing up and maturing, and I am doing the tough work of growing into the kind of parent for them that God is to me, sometimes our worlds collide in a crashing and grinding kind of way. It is so difficult to refrain from insinuating that he has disappointed me or made me upset. I want to own my feelings, and him to own his. 

He should not feel that he is inadequate and has disappointed me by his natural immaturities or sins. 

I want him to feel loved, encouraged, and accepted no matter what. Unconditional love. Unconditional grace. As my Heavenly Father washes over me. 

And it starts with remembering that our hearts are really not all that different after all.

His feelings mirror my own and as we dance our way toward understanding, we remember that God’s grace is sufficient for a nearly-thirty-year-old homemaking mama just as it is for a nearly-four-year-old little boy-soul with big brown eyes.

Growing. Learning. Understanding. Giving each other grace.

His heart and mine.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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You know how they say to keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? Well sometimes I think that applies perfectly to motherhood. Sometimes you feel like your children are The Enemy (I know they’re not really and yet in the moment there are some Big Feelings involved). They frustrate you and make you want to lock yourself in the bathroom crying with a large tub of ice cream and brownies and not emerge until they’re gone.

Sometimes I get so angry and worked up about things that I just want to (and sometimes do) yell. Loudly. I feel frustrated and helpless, and I feel like I should let them know how annoyed I am so that they don’t repeat the behaviour next time (no, I don’t actually advocate this technique, I’m just psycho-analyzing my own parenting failures). I think locking myself away with brownies would be a much better option for all involved, but for some reason it doesn’t ever actually happen.

Anyway, I digress. I wrote a while ago about praying for your enemies, and I realized that sometimes once we’ve hit that discipline stage it’s not just about prayer… forgiveness needs to be involved.

Part of gentle parenting is to respect your children as human beings with needs and wants, like adults. My children have the right to be spoken to respectfully, and the right to be restored to relationship. I often act foolishly and find myself in a position of needing to apologize and get over myself in order to have harmony in a relationship. For whatever reason I don’t particularly love the taste of humble pie, and I find this really hard.

The other day my kids were driving me nuts and I stomped away in a huff after raising my voice. I was rocking the bad mood like a grumpy emo rockstar when I realized that there’s this little (minor, really) commandment in Scripture about forgiving your enemies. Then it occurred to me (oh, you’ll thank me for this bit of brilliance) that it also applies the under 3-feet-tall crowd. Also? Those birthed from my very own loins. Yeah.

I swallowed my pride and came out of my funkiness, and rejoined my cute little family.

The 3-year-old’s eyes were big as he looked at me, wondering if Crazy Mom was gone yet.

I took a deep breath and smiled at him. I still felt grumpy and annoyed with him, but I knew I had a choice: I could choose to let go of the frustration (that he doesn’t even totally understand anyway – he’s a preschooler!), or I could hold on to it and ruin the rest of our day with grumpiness.

It felt unnatural at first, but after a second the smile reached my eyes and I said “Hi Sweetie, are you having fun with your trains?” (For the record, I often will apologize for my bad attitude and rude words as well).

He answered in the affirmative and smiled back. All forgiven (from both of us). A disastrous and unnecessarily bad day avoided, and more importantly a relationship restored.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. It’s better that way, I’ve learned.

So much better.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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A few of my newer readers who have checked out some of my older stuff have found those posts and have asked whatever happened to part three, so I’ve decided to rewrite the posts and publish them again.

***

Can any of us truly say that we are consistently doing the best that we can every single day? I have my doubts. I’ve learned recently that constantly trying to be enough (a good enough wife/mama/homemaker) is not only exhausting, it’s fruitless. There are just so many ways that I fail every single day.

Today we were barely through breakfast and I’d already clenched my fingers together and raised my voice because my toddler babe takes about a billion years to push through each and every tooth and OH.MY.GASH – the insanity. The ceaseless crying and whining murders me. It’s like a ghastly crime scene and the victim lying unceremoniously in a puddle of death is MY MIND.

There was some serious wailing and gnashing of teeth right there on the kitchen floor, and it wasn’t even 9am yet. Daddy was not due to come home for another 7-8 hours, by which point there surely would have been total and utter annihilation of all sanity.

Is this really my life? Trying not to yell at a teething toddler and a three-year-old acting like SUCH a child (sarcasm alert). What part of my childhood sunshiney plans for motherhood included this scenario? Who clued me in to the fact that my job would be a daily repetition of the most mundane and mind-numbing tasks one could imagine? Who warned me that the gritty day-to-day of motherhood would be a constant dying to self and trying to understand and shepherd the irrational minds of several precious creation-gifts from heaven who cannot even wipe their own butts?

This is the point at which I ask God if he’s sure I should remain in this whole mothering gig. Perhaps something went awry in the factory packaging, and I didn’t get a big enough portion of patience or sympathy or keep-it-togetherness.

These words from Kathleen Norris struck me deeply a year ago, and they remain as profound today:

“The fact that none of us can rise so far in status as to remove ourselves from the daily, bodily nature of life on this earth is not usually considered a cause for celebration, but rather the opposite. The daily routines that provide a modicum of discipline in our lives are perceived as a drag, a monotony that can occasion listlessness, apathy, and despair” (K. Norris, The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy, and “Women’s Work”).

What if I stopped perceiving my daily mundane as a monotonous drag?

The laundry that never ends, the dirty dishes stacked, the toys scattered and the cluttered closets. The whining toddler, the disobeying preschooler, the constant touching and climbing all over me and never-a-moment’s-peace and why-can’t-I-go-pee-without-an-audience? The errands and grocery shopping and cooking and cleaning and scrubbing and oh yes, breathing and sleeping and sitting once in a while? The dirty boots and mud tracked in the house and crayon on the walls and orphaned lego pieces that I find underfoot.

Can I find peace and contentment in these mundane realities? Or do I have to find it in spite of them? Layered in between the popcorn crumbs and the dismantled couch cushions and the tantrums and the discouragement, there is joy. It’s not a rosy-all-is-well feeling and it’s not a satisfaction that finally I did everything right all day long. Waiting for that kind of a feeling will leave me waiting forever and ever. Instead, I have this crazy idea that if I lean a little deeper into the quotidian realities and the gritty spectrum of humanity that I find there that I will at last find peace. To believe wholeheartedly that this exact mundane moment is full of beauty and heart-pulsing life.

In same work quoted above, Kathleen Norris writes this little bit of wisdom:

“But, like liturgy, the work of cleaning draws much of its meaning and value from repetition, from the fact that it is never completed, but only set aside until the next day. Both liturgy and what is euphemistically termed “domestic work” also have an intense relation with the present moment, a kind of faith in the present that fosters hope and makes life seem possible in the day-to-day.”

My desire, in my role at home (as home-maker – literally: making the home) is to be wholehearted (wholehearted: “undivided commitment or unreserved enthusiasm). I seek joy right smack dab in the middle of the daily grind, not in spite of it. Not during naptime. Not after the kids are finally in bed (though those times are certainly refreshing in their own way). I breathe deep in the reality that lives within our little prairie house and I see it. I really truly see it. And I whisper my thanks.

Every day I create as many messes with my stubborn ungrateful heart as I clean up from my precious and mischievous children. And yet, I am loved. I am growing. I am learning. If I were not a hot mess of humanity all broken and dry and weak, I would not know grace nor would I need a Saviour.

This is my mundane life full of beauty.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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It’s a incredible group, but we have this one major flaw. It’s a woman thing, I think, and it is this: we apologize.

When we go around the circle sharing our prayer requests (otherwise known as our life updates), we often apologize for chattering on too much and taking up too much time, or for breaking down emotionally and crying over an issue that is particularly heavy on our hearts. They’ve done it. I’ve done it.

“I didn’t want to cry, I’m sorry” (sniff sob, pass the kleenex)…

“I will stop now, sorry for talking your ears off!” (after unloading a heart full of burden).

Apologies left, right, and centre… all for being open and vulnerable and transparent. For opening up the nitty-gritty and trusting each other with our hearts. To do so is rarely neat and tidy, passionless, or brief, and yet somehow we’ve come to believe that it should be. Why do women do this? Why do we apologize for letting our beautiful messes show?

Do we believe that a good woman is able to always keep it together?

Do we believe that a good woman is never burdened so heavily that she spews out her cares in a torrent of words and soul bits onto trusting friends while going over the unofficial (nonexistent) allotted five minutes per person?

Do we believe that a good woman is properly schooled in the art of manners and propriety and would never break down with vulnerability to unload the gritty realities of her life? Especially is she were to be “overly” emotional about it all?

I don’t.

I just don’t.

I believe that a good woman is one who shares her heart and admits her struggles to those who love her. I believe a good woman is one who can be vulnerable and brave enough to bare her heart’s cry and messiness. I believe that a good woman is one who will let the overwhelming emotions pour out in an honest and healing cry instead of bottling them inside. I believe that a good woman is often genuine, honest, vulnerable, and rarely prim and proper.

There is so much grace and loving in this way of living.

I think it’s time we stopped apologizing for being women who share our hearts.

Let’s stop being sorry and start being brave!

Let’s be unapologetic and let’s live open to joy and grace and love and all of the beauty that comes along.

(Let’s ignore the clock and pass the kleenex…) 

***

{Galatians 6:2 – “Carry each other’s burdens and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ”}

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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I have been trying so hard lately. To be “good enough”. I add quotation marks with irritation because I don’t even understand what that really means, let alone find success at it, and it’s all just a bit heavy and burdensome after a while.

Patient enough. Healthy enough. Spiritual enough. For my kids, for my husband, for myself. For Him. And always failure. Hot shameful failure that courses through my veins with a rhythmic beat that tears me up inside and leaves me desperate for a do-over. And when it’s only 9:15am.

It’s an out-of-body experience as I watch myself yelling and slamming doors and indulging in my hot-tempered mess of humanity. And all over a pair of boots which are a thin veil for the gritty reality which is that in that moment I lacked gratitude. It’s a cosmic battle waging in the inmost parts of me, and I snap to myself to get a grip but I don’t and I pout and rant and give in to weakness. I think that the problems are happening to me and I ignore the fact that the problem is me. I lose perspective and I am not enough.

I’m not enough on my own. And in that, inexplicably, I find… grace? Yes – and joy. And thanksgiving…

In the first chapter of One Thousand Gifts, Ann writes “I wonder too… if the rent in the canvas of our own life backdrop, the losses that puncture our world, our own emptiness, might actually become places to see. To see through to God. That that which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave… But how? How do we choose to allow the holes to become seeing-through-to-God places?”.

And now I realize that this is exactly the problem: my pathetic attempts to rid myself of the “thin, open places”. To try harder and be better at it all and to finally overcome my struggles. My own emptiness is uncomfortable to me because it is such a precise demonstration of my weakness. My flesh struggles with all its might to resist and yet somehow, strangely, I am drawn to embrace the emptiness, that I might be filled with something other-worldly, something beautiful and poetic and so much more than what the flesh can offer. Because it’s obvious that my way isn’t working and so why not try the crazy upside-down way?

And how, I ask? How can this be that I could dare to hope for more? That I might dare to say yes to embracing my torn-open holes and weak spots, and break bread and drink the wine in thanksgiving for those very weaknesses. Believing that they lead me to the One who is strong and who loves with an unquenchable desire for my heart, and gives unspeakable joy…

Dare I believe that I can revel in that joy? Really and honestly that I can live with such thanksgiving in my heart?

My heart is pounding and I fear hitting the publish button. My gut is wrenching me in that uncomfortable-God-speaking kind of way and my eyes are tired but alive with hope and dare I say containing a hint of joy.

Oh! That I may stop trying to be enough and start living in gratitude for what I am today! Gratitude for all of it. The growing pains, the desires, the hard and mundane. The God who is there in all of it, real and raw and close. Oh so close.

Lord, let it be so.

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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Since I live in the cold Canadian Prairies, I’ve loved this quote since I first laid eyes on it. This has been a milder than usual winter here in Tiny Town, but we’ve had a recent dumping of fresh sparkling snow, and enough days with sub-zero temperatures to make me long for warm summer days.

The thing about winter here is that it’s kind of like a survivor situation. People band together and commiserate about their housebound days when it’s minus forty, taking twenty minutes to bundle the kids into their snowsuits every.single.time.they.leave.the.house, and how we all just can’t wait for spring. We learn much about ourselves, and our ability to handle less than desirable situations. Some ride out these months with ease, always looking for the joy and gratitude in each situation. Others handle themselves with slightly less grace, finding reason to complain behind every snowy and windy corner. I see a little of each in myself on most days.

But, at the end of the day, I sense a wild and untameable hope poking up. An invincible summer, as it were. I knew this to be true when my honey went away for nine loooooonnnng days to sunny California, leaving me, the kiddos, and my pregnant belly behind in our arctic-ish surroundings, it was certainly a winter of our own. Both literally and figuratively.

My goal was to not just survive, but to thrive. Strangely enough, I did. It was nine days of peaceful interactions, fun planned activities, and more patience than I ever knew I had. I grew as a mama in those days. I learned that when necessary, I can be more of the mom I want to be. Even for my roughest day running on little sleep I found a way to intentionally get through without melting down or checking out (ok, unless you count the two hours of American Idol we watched on the laptop).

It seems that I learned an important lesson in those days: that even in my darkest winter days, the times tempting me to react in an ugly and fleshly way, I still possess that invincible summer within. So often in the rhythm of life and days when Daddy is coming home at supper-time as per usual I find myself tempted to check out mid-afternoon, and just quit trying so hard. He’ll be home soon and can take over when I finally give in to Meltdown Mama, says my subconscious. This is not a helpful way of life, nor does it do anyone any favours. Grumpy mama always begets grumpy children, which always results in one very unenjoyable whirling cycle of grumpiness. When hubby was away and I was the only adult left, I simply could not afford to melt down. I knew what that would lead to, and I was afraid of what could happen with no “back-up” coming my way. So, I picked myself up by my bootstraps and got ‘er done.

The question is: why don’t I do that every day?

Perhaps I could plan to start supper earlier, so that when 4pm hits and the kids are cranky, I can sit down on the floor and play with them. Or maybe making sure to respond to any typical toddler messes (“on purpose” or otherwise) with an extra dose of grace and calm so that I don’t allow the day to escalate into the Grumpy Zone. Or just being sure to have fun things to pass our days, like special art projects, chores or baking that we can do together.

Two young kids and a pregnant belly is my life right now. If I want to be That Mom everyday, and not just as a once-a-year survival effort, then I need to be intentional about it. By this summer I will have birthed three kiddos in less than four years. When I say it like that it seems crazy that I wouldn’t always have my game face on and ready to go. I know that I am capable. How badly do I want it? Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. {mmm, pudding…}.

There is an invincible summer in all of us. Shall we set it free?

Beth

Beth is the creator and editor here at Red & Honey, a lifestyle blog for the naturally-minded homemaker. She recently began a passionate love affair with coffee and her life will never be the same. She has had three babies in less than four years, is a professional laundry-avoider, and loves to stay up way too late making weird stuff from scratch that normal people tend to just buy in a store. Hence, the coffee.

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