Something to Sing About

sing

I could hear her saying something as I buckled the baby into the shopping cart. Okay, so it was actually more like yelling but bless it if I could even tell. I had totally crossed over into the Mom-Zone.

You know, the place where the world could be ending but all you hear is the inner-monologue-of-the-now, “Must get the baby in the seat before a car runs over us.”

The consequence to this stealth focus?

You agree to anything.

And apparently I had agreed in thirty seconds of non-listening to sing a rousing rendition of  “This is the Day” while we moseyed through Target.

Sweet heavens.

Now my girl has got vocal direction down, y’all. I mean I thought I knew the song but I DID NOT. When she started with a “This is the day…” I was all like “This is the day…” And I was met with a sigh and an “Um, Mom, no. You sing ‘That the Lord has made.’”

But sadly, I had entered the Zone again…

So we went through this exact dialogue about five times until she finally she broke through it with a, “Mom, I really need you to focus!”  I mean, c’mon now. Shouldn’t I be delighted that we are singing about Jesus in Target?!?!?

And BAM.

I got my act together, we found our rhythm and we did our thang. But alas, when we hit the “together” part of the ditty, things fell apart. I’m all “This is the Day” and she’s all “Jesus Loves Me.”

Shortly after this confusion and preciously right as we walked up to an unsuspecting cashier, my girl bellows with ear piercing volume, “IT IS NOT THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE!!!!”

And Jesus loves us, this I know.

I suppose you are wondering, “Sara, what in the what does this have to do with an everyday truth?”

Well, I’ll tell you…

We all have these kind of days as a parent where things get ridiculous and veer off course and all we know gets drowned out by the our inner-monologue of “IT IS NOT THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE!”

But it is.

We can go from blissfully happy to my day is ruined faster than it takes us to go from the parking lot into the store. But this is the day He has made. And we have the choice to wallow in our ruin or persevere through and count it all joy.

I’m not talking about some kind of false “Oh, today is magical!” when you are knee deep in poo. I’m talking about being grateful for the gift of a new day. I’m talking about how it’s really pretty great to have the chance to sing loudly in the aisles of Target with someone you love.

Because it’s in those kind of moments that you remember…

He loves me and He’s given me a new day.

And really?

No matter how you look at it, THAT is something to sing about.

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail.

Jesus, Please…

Jesus Please

Life around here has been a bit of doozy. You know that tummy-twirling ride where you spin and spin and spin and the floor drops out? Yeah, that’s pretty much our summer.

And the grand total of my contribution to my children’s spiritual and educational enrichment?

My mad skills and ability to push play on the Blu Ray. I kid you not. But on the upside, I am really awesome at pushing play.

So there.

My auto-immune disease is kicking my bum and my lungs and my heart and I’m sure something else by next week.

BUT…

I cannot say this season of our life was and is without good.

I. Just. Cannot.

In a world that often says our God is good only when the outcome is good, my summer is a living testament to what happens when the outcome is a big, blessed mess.

Love without boundaries. Grace that meets us daily. Peace even when the floor drops out.

It is a road that ekes out not an eloquent, perfect prayer for health and safety and all things lovely but rather a sacred “Jesus, please…”

Standing outside my babies’ rooms after another day of holding frustrated little hearts who miss their mom so very much.

“Jesus, please…”

Watching my littlest sleep, feeling like I’ve lost her first year and in some ways, lost a piece of  her.

“Jesus, please…”

Holding his hand knowing he is carrying the weight of our world squarely on his exhausted shoulders.

“Jesus, please…”

It is in this whispered call that His good can seep into our fear, our frustration, our blessed unrest. Because at the end of the day, we are not called to work out our own good. We are called to be champions for eternity.

And sometimes?

Eternity needs our hard stuff more than it needs our happiness.

Now I know this is not the feel-good sound byte of back-to-school we mamas want to hear. I know it would be easier to pray for things that are safe and comfortable. I know the thought of anything other than happy already weighs on our hearts.

I. Know.

But what if, instead of a list of a million wants, this school year we prayed a “Jesus, please…”

One that said, “Make it good. Make it beautiful. Make it matter for eternity.”

Oh friends, what if?

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out. – See more at: http://www.everydaytruth.net/2015/05/08/beautiful-together/#sthash.MQ5W7JBA.dpuf

 

Beautiful Together

beautiful together

Her sweet little hand grabbed tightly onto mine as she brought a piece of paper right up to my nose and said proudly, “This is me and you, Mommy. You are making me all better.”

“From what?” I asked.

“From this, of course,” as she shoved a little thumb in my general direction and pointed to a red mark the size of a pin prick. I smiled with a “Looks terribly serious.” She nodded a bit and sighed, “So do you like the picture, Mommy?”

I squished her a little and then looked down into her big, brown eyes while I melted into my reply, “I think it’s beautiful, sis.” To which she scrunched up her button nose, looked up at me and said, “Yep! It’s just you and me being beautiful together.”

And just like that, off she skipped…and there I stood, taking in an all too familiar inventory.

My dirty yoga pants. My newly drawn surgery scars. My less-than-lovely purple toenails.

My this and that. My what and what. My blah to the blah, blah, blah…

But something kept tapping at my heart…it was her little voice echoing in my mind with such unabashed certainty, “Yep! It’s just you and me being beautiful together.”

No hesitation. No pause. No time for inventory.

In her eyes, I was beautiful. Not because I was sporting a new pedicure or a perfect body or a fabulous new pair of jeans. I was beautiful because I loved every single bit of her.

Be it in kissing a nonexistent boo-boo or cutting the crusts off her sandwich or taking her to the bathroom at Target four times in thirty minutes. Be it in squishing her close when she cried or playing the Cinderella game 20 times or taking the 10 outfits she’d tried on in a day out of the dirty laundry. Be it in anything so utterly mundane that the world might find it unimportant.

For her, it meant everything.

And somewhere in all that complete and total love, she found beautiful and made me see beautiful too.

For a mama’s beauty isn’t a put-together, perfect picture, chasing-youth kind of a deal. A mama’s beauty is in her broken—be it her body, her heart or her laugh-lined face. It grows beside hospital beds and sleepless nights and broken curfews and shattered little dreams. It is often forged in tears and exhaustion and the precious effort to put one blessed foot in front of the other. It is not reflected in something so insignificant as a mirror but rather, it is most clearly seen in the eyes of Jesus as she faceplants at the foot of His throne.

Mamas, it is this kind of beauty that our sons and our daughters need from us. So that when he endeavors to love the mama of his children, he sees her dark circles and worn out body as something breathtaking and precious. And so that when she looks at her stretch marks, she does not wince or retreat, but instead she sees beautiful.

So. That. When.

Years from now, as she comes to me frayed by the daily of mamahood, I can sit her down, look deeply into those big, brown eyes and say, “Let me tell you the story of a little girl and a picture. Her mama with bouffant hair and she, with googly eyes dancing. Let me tell you about her scrunched up nose, her sweet little hand and the words that changed it all. Yes, my sweet love, let me tell you a story…”

A story of just you and me being beautiful together.

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

First Friday: Everyday Love

elove

Once upon a time, I thought that married love would be all flowers and chocolate and candlelight. I just knew that the perfect man would sweep me off my feet and provide me with a lifetime of romantic gestures and happily-ever-afters. But then I actually got married.

And aside from the chocolate part (my love has that DOWN, y’all,) our love story has been an unexpected one.

We’ve shouldered hard things. Really hard things. So much so that I often wonder if we are screwing up in the “teaching our kids what married love should be” department.

But then something happens that suggests otherwise and I realize once again, that our love is different than most fairy tales but it is love, just the same.

Take for instance two weeks ago, when my husband was out-of-town and I had four kids and a mama puking all week. It was full-on heinous. But even in the middle of the roughest rough, I saw what kind of love story is written when you push through the tough stuff together.

We had finally reached bedtime after a blessedly long day when my 9-year-old came into my bedroom with a pillow and blanket and said, “I am going to sleep with you tonight so I can help you with Maddie…”

Quickly I answered her with, “Oh, honey, you don’t need to do that…you are still sick too and I want you to get some good rest…”

“Mom, Dad is gone and you need help. I am sleeping here.”

Bless it if this child is not president someday.

Seriously.

So I acquiesced and went into the bathroom to change into my pajamas. When I came out, I nearly burst into tears. My girl had made the bed just the way Nathan makes it every night, with pillows to prop up my arthritic knees and two others with just the right squishiness to cradle my shoulders and neck.

But then I noticed the clean bottles by the bassinet and the ice water on the nightstand…

And that’s when I blubbered. Full-on blubbered. For she knew exactly how much I was loved.

She knew.

Even though there were rarely flowers and candlelight. Even though we went to the hospital more than we went on getaways. Even though we bought birthday cards the day of and going out to dinner often meant carryout in bed.

She knew and saw love. Consistent and constant, everyday love. Couple that with her precious heart and I was undone. Completely undone.

For I was reminded once again of another love story, the one where a perfect Savior has consistently and constantly shouldered the really hard things with me. And I fell in love all over again. With him and Him.

Because flowers and candlelight are lovely, but the best kind of love is the one that shows up.

In the mundane…

In the tough stuff…

In the tears…

Everyday love trumps it all.

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

 

 

 

 

No Matter What

No matter what

This post may contain affiliate links.

Ah, the charming family dinner.

I am sure somewhere, someone is having one.

Riveting conversations. People who sit at the table. Food that is actually consumed.

But here?

Eh.

Take the other night, for example. When somewhere in between bouncing the baby on my knee and trying to avoid getting drool (hers not mine) on my plate, I threw out this little gem, “What do you think our New Year’s resolution should be?”

The confusion was palpable. There were blank stares galore. Finally, my eldest saved me with, “Hey mom, what’s a resolution?”

“Oh yes. That’s right, you are only 9, 6 and 4. It’s something you would like to accomplish this year.”

More. Blank. Stares.

Lucky for me, the 9-year-old rescued me again with, “Popcorn. I would like to eat more popcorn.” Naturally, this brightened the eyes of the boy who affirmed his sister by saying, “I’m good with the popcorn thing.” But then, for some reason, I followed up his agreement with, “Now, buddy, you need to come up with your own idea…”

So he did.

“Movies.”

“I’d like to watch more movies.”

It was shortly after this epiphany that I began having visions of my 80-year-old self riding an electric chair down the stairs to find all my children (now in their fifties) still living at home doing nothing but eating popcorn and watching movies…

Thankfully, Nathan’s voice interrupted my random musings with “Sophie, why is your shirt hanging from your neck? And where on earth are your pants?”

Now it was all I could do to keep from adding, “Great. Now I will have three kids in their fifties in my living room eating popcorn and watching movies in nothing but their underwear!” Instead, I was cut short by the pantless one who announced, “Excuse me, I have an acclomplishment. My acclomplishment this year is to take a bath.”

Really, kid?

I mean, I knew it had been awhile. A few days maybe. But had it really gotten so bad it was an “acclomplishment” in this house to take one bath for the ENTIRE YEAR?????

My private angst was finally cut short when Nathan addressed the pantless one with a practical, “Sophie, put on your shirt and eat your dinner. We can talk about acclomplishments later.”

Boom.

My man is all about the business.

My pantless wonder, however, is all about the drama.

A mere two seconds later, she threw her face into her hands and cried, “This is boring, boring, boring.” Not to be outdone, big sister piggybacks with, “You think this experience has been bad for you…how do you think I feel? This is the same meal we had that night I puked. Frankly, I am having a very hard time eating.” Which prompted the third and last contribution from the boy, “And by the ways, I think we forgot to pray.”

It was then I turned to Nathan and said, “WHERE DID WE GO WRONG?” to the tune of simultaneous praying which culminated with someone shouting, “LORD, WE THANK YOU FOR THE CHRISTMAS ORANGE!!!!”

Say what?!?!?!?

Now the point of this very random tale is that even though we didn’t find our resolution (shocking, I know), this little slice of life reminds me of the very thing that has sustained us in 2014…

Grace.

His absolute, unfailing grace.

In diagnosis…

In healing…

In doubt…

In hope…

In tears…

In laughter…

In death…

In life…

In fear…

In strength…

In the gutting…

In the gentle…

In every sweet and bitter second…

His. Grace. Came.

So that even in our weakness I can boast of this as we head into 2015:

His grace will be sufficient for us. His power, made perfect in our messiness. For when we are weak, He’ll bring the strong.

No matter the chaos. No matter the crazy. No matter the year.

No matter what.

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.


Shop Christian Valentine's Day Gifts

Something Precious

A

I have a mommy confession.

Wait.

Scratch that.

It’s more like I have a mommy obsession.

Every fall, I find myself in valiant pursuit of that one precious all-the-children picture.

And every year, there is one backdrop that has never let me down…

The Weston Red Barn Farm.

It’s rustic and charming and surrounded by all things precious.

But this year, as I pulled out my camera, I sensed failure when my husband said, “Honey, do you think we should just go to the grocery store fall thing?  I mean Weston is a hike and…”

To which I interrupted with, “But it’s tradition and lovely and the kids can ride the pony and remember the apple donuts?  DO NOT forget about the apple donuts.  Heaven in a bag, babe.”

(Truth be told, I had him at the word “donut.”)

So we went to the charming farm.

I knew we were toast the second we got out of the van and Drew said, “Mom, I am SOOOOOOO hot.  I think I might die.” But I still shot him my “Suck it up, kid.  It may be 80 + degrees and your long-sleeved black Halloween shirt may be an oven but this is for posterity.”

B

Not two minutes later, I was with him, dying and all.

My sweatshirt was now a sauna. My hormones, a hellish monster. And had another minute passed, I would have wholeheartedly launched into the pig trough for sweet relief but mercifully, I was distracted when I heard the word “pony.”

(Sweet heavens, if I hadn’t promised them all a pony ride.)

The pony was up the hill…the heinous hill of no return.

Combine the not-so-sturdy Snap and Go with pebbled terrain and my not-so-graceful gait and we might as well have been climbing Everest.

Not to mention that I had already said “excuse me” more times in that one hour than I have my entire life.  Every time I tripped and stumbled, I bumped someone. Because to the point, THERE WERE SO MANY BLESSED PEOPLE THERE.

(I swear someone told them about the donuts.)

But for tradition’s sake, we still oomphed and umphed and excused ourselves up the hill. It was only after reaching the top of the precious thing that we came to the tragic realization that THERE WERE NO PONY RIDES.

Bless. My. Sweatshirt.

So we turned around, trod back down the pebbled path and just about the time I convinced myself that the disappointment would build character, my dear eldest pipes in with, “This is boring,” which prompts me to say, “I’ve got nothing, sister…just go jump in the straw.”

C

(Try not to be intimidated by such mom awesomeness.)

It was at this point my hubs felt the need to reiterate, “I think the fall festival two miles away would have been a way better tradition.” I didn’t even protest. “Ugh…you are probably right…why did I think this would be magical?!?!?

The hubs wisely stayed silent.

But as we made our way back to the pumpkins, I barfed the most unholy words,

“Let’s just try for one more picture.”

So we did.

And then it happened…

D

Children screamed.  Babies were almost dropped.  Sophie bolted through the barbed wire.

And I kept promising donuts to anyone who would listen to me.

Then the picture-taking devolved into pumpkin-picking and to the entire public that visited the farm, I wholeheartedly apologize.

We were yelling.

Not “I’m so mad” yelling.  But the “Lord-please-don’t-let-us-lose-a-child-now” kind. We were just so close, so focused, so intent on getting the hoot out of there that we just had to keep it together.

It was ugly. Full-on. U-G-L-Y.

But remember the donuts? Across the street? The ones I referred to as heaven in a bag?

Well, I ate FIVE…and it helped.

Seriously, y’all.

IT. DID.

But even as the cinnamon and sugar dripped most gloriously from my mouth, I came to a conclusion.

Precious pictures are needed.  They remind this memory-challenged mama of how I really feel at the end of day when all the chaos has quieted.  When I can run my hands through their sweaty bedheads and touch their perfect little noses and see the messy beautiful so clearly in each of them.

But I’m finally to a place where I need the 29 ridiculously accurate pictures too.

If only to shout, “WE ARE A REAL FAMILY!!!!”

One that messes up and falters and falls.  One that skins their knees and has to apologize.  One that can plan to have a magical experience and end up with the pumpkin patch on steroids.

One that needs Jesus, people.

Oh, how we need Him.

So as you plan the Thanksgiving dinners and take Christmas card pictures and deck the halls and all that jazz, remember my family and the yelling and the donut therapy and rejoice in this:

Real people have real families that really need Jesus.

And even though we may have more pictures that end up awkward and bizarre and more crazy than cute, in the end, when we’ve tripped and stumbled and fallen all over ourselves, when we’ve tried and failed through all those 29 moments in-between, He surprises us with what we have been looking for all along…

Something precious.

E

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew, one-year-old Sophie, and her new little miracle Maddie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

First Friday: Sending the Bully Home

bully

Photo by Maria Morris

“Mommy, I am being bullied…and it is hurting my heart…”

I couldn’t tell you what exactly drew my gaze as she spoke those words.

Perhaps it was the look in her big brown eyes.  Perhaps it was the crazy, adult verbalization from a 3-year-old who is normally good with a loud scream.  Perhaps it was her tone or the way her whole body melted into mine as she climbed up onto my lap.

But something made me take my attention from a long-awaited adult conversation and ask,

“What words are hurting your heart, Sophie?”

“They said I am different, Mommy.”

And with that quiet answer, a sniffle and a snuggle, she climbed down and headed back to the overrun play place. Now normally, I would have returned to my conversation but something gnawed at me.  Something in my own heart kept my eyes squarely on her.

I watched as she tried to defend herself with her words against those twice her age.  I watched as she withdrew and came back to the booth to retreat into a book.  I even watched as she tried to reengage once more with her mama-bear, big sister defending her.

And even in a few places in-between, watching was not enough so I came to her rescue, employing my fiercest “mom” look and a few carefully chosen admonitions.

But in spite of all that effort, something changed in her…

And the one who had been bullied became a bully herself.

It was in that moment that my heart not only broke for my girl but for a community of people (to whom I belong) that so often gets caught up in a cycle of bullying words and attitudes and even actions.  We quip, we argue, we gang-up, we gossip, we judge (even ourselves) and in turn, we create a new generation of bullies…year after year after year.

I’ve seen it.  I’ve experienced it.  I’ve even (sadly) been a part of it.

It is a community where even those who have experienced the grace of Jesus hold tight to their own criticism and choices. I doubt if I even have to reveal in writing, its players. Or do I, mamas?

Schools.  Food.  Discipline.

Clothes.  Technology. Chores.

Sleep schedules.  Potty-training.  Media exposure.

Immunizations. Curriculum. Doctrine.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

You name it and we have found a way to fight over it.

It is killing us slowly, even if we don’t know it.  It is molding us, shaping us, growing us into the next generation of bullies.  And our kids our watching…

Watching as we choose our choices over the love and grace and mercy that has already been so lavishly extended to us. Watching as we choose insecurity over the knowledge that we are loved by a King.  Watching as we choose fear instead of peace…

Watching as we give up, give in and give way to our cattiness.

“Did you see what she let her daughter wear?”

“I can’t imagine why they send their kids to <any school choice that isn’t mine>, what are they thinking? <My choice> is what is best for kids.”

“Drug addiction, pregnancy and rebellion should not even be a part of a teen’s life if they come from a home where parents are involved.” (SERIOUSLY.  THIS ONE. WITW?!?!?!)

“If I had a day with <someone else’s kid>, he/she would be potty-trained, disciplined and happy (aka pretty much perfect.)”

“Breastfeeding is the only choice a responsible, loving mother makes.”

Or to put it in a catch phrase that makes it seem nicer, “Breast is best.”

“Baby-wearing is just over the top.”

“Why are people having <so many or so few> kids, don’t they know resources are limited or that children are a gift from the Lord?”

And by the by, if anyone is presently excluding themselves from responsibility, we have ALL said something like this, including yours truly, because just like my Sophie, we are continually drawn into this brutal play place of motherhood. We want to belong.  And in that want, we begin to believe the lie that our only choice for survival is to join the crowd and give way to its false security.

But newsflash, y’all…

There are a million different ways to be a good mom…A MILLION…but no one, absolutely no one is ever going reach perfection.  Neither are we all going to be the same.  Jesus allows us the freedom to choose, but somewhere in our insecurity we don’t offer that same freedom to one another.

And yet, we are a community that needs community.  We need a play place where we can feel safe.  We need a well of encouragement from which we can steadily draw.

We need sisters to help us remember that we measured by the content of our hearts, not the product of our faithfulness.

Yes, we still must be faithful.  But the outcome belongs to Him.  Now let me say that one more time…

The. Outcome. Belongs. To. Him.

And the sooner we realize it, the sooner we can work together to finally send the bully home, to enjoy the freedom Jesus gives and to abandon dialogue that would cause any sweet sister to get on her knees and say,

“Daddy, I am being bullied…and it is hurting my heart…”

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew and one-year-old Sophie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miracles Do Happen

sara cormany

Courtesy Maria Morris

The first Friday of every month, I turn this space over to my friend Sara Cormany. She writes from her heart about motherhood and chasing after Jesus. I don’t know if all of you know her story, but in the past few years, Sara has gone through a number of health issues, including stroke and miscarriage. She is always so grateful for the small things that you and I take for granted.

Today, though, I get to share with you the miracle that God has done in their family. You see, after her miscarriage, doctors thought she would never be able to get pregnant again. Yet, yesterday, she announced to the world that they are expecting a baby in September. So, today, I’m asking you to head over to Sara’s blog Where Feet May Fail You and read her story and rejoice in the miracle she’s been granted.

I’m also asking that you pray daily for my dear friend from now until September as this pregnancy is not without risk. Sara embodies the quality of finding joy in the moment and relying on Jesus. I hope you’ll rejoice with me as I rejoice in this amazing miracle with her.

First Friday: Remember When You Were Awesome

Awesome

The longer I live, the more I realize why Jesus thinks little kids are the bee’s knees.

In a world that is cynical, cold and obsessed with junk, it’s our kids that rock the norm.

Not only do these tiny peeps live on the brighter side of life. But warmth also spews out of them. Fighting the cold and telling whoever will hear, “Hey, I’ll share everything and anything—even my boogers!!!”

God bless them.

(And the mamas and papas who must be better than Kleenex.)

Kids sing in the middle of grocery stores. They dance down hospital hallways.  They travel to Africa and back IN THEIR HEADS.

THEY. ARE. FANTASTIC.

And they know it.

Not in an arrogant or pious kind of way.

But in a “If God says I rock, then clearly I do.”

I feel it every day as my son jumps out of the car and shouts back at me, “I’m gonna go be awesome today, mom.  Now you go be awesome, too!”

I see it every time we go to the grocery store and my 3-year-old rocks an Ariel dress, two different sparkly shoes (one that is her sister’s and flops when she walks) and a big giant red bow that only barely covers her syrup-matted hair.

I hear it in the enthusiastic projection of my 8-year-old as she belts out “Let It Go” for the (bless me) 902nd time.  It all screams, “Broadway, I’m fabulous.  And if you haven’t heard me sing yet, watch the hoot out.”

It is an unabashed confidence that  says, “Listen up, y’all. I am fearfully and wonderfully made!!! And if you doubt it for a moment, let me show you what makes me special.  ”

They are the best of us, uncomplicated and without baggage.

And even though they still have moments where even we as parents realize they need Jesus, our kids model daily how to take the truth of our “made in God’s image” selves and rock it.

That is if we learn.

Now the world will work very hard at wearing down that confidence.

It will call them what I often call myself.

Too flabby. Too scattered.  Too slow.

Too against the grain.

But as much as I have accepted those labels for myself, when I see how my kids view themselves and the world God created, I want to fight against those negative monikers.

I want to cast off every piece of nasty baggage and see myself the way my Creator sees me.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

And it’s why I am keeping three pictures for my babies.  Tucking them close to my heart.  And waiting for the day I hear, “I’m too flabby.  I’m too scattered.  I’m too slow.”

Because when those days come, I will break them out and say, “See this…”

Graces note

“Grace?”

Drew Bowtie

“Drew?”

sophie pink

“Sophie?”

“These are words or this is the look of someone who thinks that if God thinks she’s awesome, then it must be so. Chase that. Want that. Wear that. And no matter what happens, don’t let it go.”

Then I’ll hug her and kiss him and pray crazily over all three, eventually tucking the pictures close to my heart once again.

But before I do, I’ll take one long last look at each and remind myself again of a little boy’s drop-off farewell…

““I’m gonna go be awesome today, mom.  Now you go be awesome, too!”

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew and one-year-old Sophie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

 

First Friday: More Than Crumbs

crumbs

My darling eldest girl has a penchant for the dramatic.

And I’ll freely admit my part in it.

My side of the family most definitely has DNA code written for the stage.

My brother. My sisters. My mama.

D to the N to the A.

And as for moi?

Forget about it.

I not only own my drama, I also taught the masses how to be MORE dramatic.

Penchant. Firmly. Planted.

So I hardly balked at the overblown Scarlett O’Hara sighs coming from the living room the other day as I heard her chastise baby sister, “SOPHIE!!!! You got crumbs ALLLLLLLL over the FLOOR!”

Without a beat or interruption of my laundress duties, I bellowed back from above,

“In this house, people are more important than crumbs!!!!”

“Mother, what does that even mean??!?!!???”

“Well, sister, I’m glad you asked…..”

And thus began the crumb project.

A mad gab of input by my three in an attempt to create a little we-love-you-more-than-crumbs manifesto.

The process was in a word, hilarious.  The ideas, a bit novel.  And the hearts behind it, pure if not Purelled.

Call it our own little way of reminding ourselves this holiday season that no matter the busy, the guest, or even the heartbreak, people are our purpose.

Always.

 

MORE THAN CRUMBS

We love you more than crumbs, we do.

We’ll show you how to love you too.

We’ll kiss your boo boo’s before we clean.

We’ll wipe your tears and stop the mean.

We’ll make crazy cool doors for you to walk through.

We’ll share our cows and goldfish too.

We’ll poop in the potty and not on the floor.

We’ll say, “PBBBLT to crumbs, we love you more!”

We’ll give you a show or two or ten.

We’ll even add drums, just tell us when!

We’ll give you Christmas day after day.

And we won’t give up on you if you run away.

We’ll search for you with all our might.

Just like we did for Sophie last night.

We’ll scour the halls and the in-betweens.

We’ll look high and low and over fairy wings.

We won’t slow-up until we see your face.

And then to you we will gladly race.

We won’t care a hoot from where you came.

We’ll just love on you and shout your name!

We’ll break out the goldfish, the best we’ve got.

Maybe even a cow if you like that a lot.

We’ll dance.  We’ll sing. We’ll even shout.

And you can best be guessing we’ll get those drums out!

We’ll wash your hands and feet and face.

We’ll clothe you in Avenger gear or even lace.

We’ll kiss your boo boo’s and say “Don’t cry.”

Pray with you or sing a sweet lullaby.

For it must be said right now, right here.

You are the gift we expected this year.

We missed you like crazy, that much is true.

But more than crumbs, we love you!

 

Sara Cormany guest posts on the first Friday of each month. Sara is mommy to six-year-old Grace, four-year-old Drew and one-year-old Sophie.  When she is not wiping noses, changing diapers or chasing her kids, she is a sometimes writer and a sometimes teacher to teenagers.  But her most cherished role is that of one who is perfectly held by Jesus. She loves watching Him take the broken, the messy and the seemingly mundane of her everyday and turn it into something beautiful. She recently began her own blog called Where Feet May Fail. Be sure to check it out.

 

Inspired Holiday Bundle - 25 products for holiday inspiration at only $25 #InspiredBN