Ain’t no shame in feeling a little mom guilt

I wasn’t a cheerleader, but I don’t have anything against them. I mean … I might find them a tad annoying, but just when they overdo their performance beyond the average person’s tolerance level for perkiness.

It only takes a quick scroll through any popular parenting blog site to find cheerleaders of another squad than your local high school baton-twirlers. Mommy bloggers ’round the Internet are stepping up to the social game, rooting for fellow beleaguered moms in the trenches with empowering posts that chant for us to bring on the solidarity, sister:

Good job, mama! Hang in there, mama! You’ve put up with your whiny, messy, unswervingly disobedient children all day, mama, so when bedtime rolls around, treat yourself to a glass or four of your best $7 Cabernet and binge watch the heck out of a season of “Gilmore Girls.”

One major impetus for this maternity pep rally is retaliation against those who shame other moms for any and all possible reasons, making them feel awful and look like sad sacks of child-rearing-failing crap.


Read full article at Her View From Home.

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When you can’t use a gift because you’re giving another

reading-kids-narnia-gifts

I have an unusual entry in my Top 10 list of favorite Christmas movies. Growing up, during the insufferably lengthy holiday break, my mom tried to snatch a moment of sanity by popping in a VHS of the luminous masterpiece that is the BBC’s version of “The Chronicles of Narnia.” My siblings and I merrily binged on the B- grade videos, captivated by the monstrously sized animal costumes and enthralled with the child actors’ British accents and whiny line reads.

One of the memorable scenes in the first movie, “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe,” is when Father Christmas makes a surprise appearance and delivers gifts to the children – to Peter, a shield and sword; to Susan, a bow and horn; to Lucy, a dagger and bottle of healing cordial. The St. Nicholas doppelganger explains that the presents “… are tools not toys. The time to use them is perhaps near at hand. Bear them well.”

While Peter and Susan use their tools/weapons shortly afterwards, Lucy doesn’t implement her potion until much later in the storyline, right after the battle, when she dispenses the remedy to save her other brother, Edmund. The youngest character – and inarguably, most loyal believer in the Lion/Redeemer Aslan – has to wait through most of the plot to use her incredible gift of healing.

There’s a gift I had to wait many Christmases to impart. I knew it was an ability I possessed – a longing God placed in my heart – I just lacked the opportunity to carry it out because I could not conceive or carry a child.

God did what He does, in providing mercies beyond what we ask or deserve, and blessed me with two loud, energetic boys that allow me to fulfill the gift of motherhood and engage my skills of nurturing, teaching, and cleaning all manner of messes.

Now, the tension between which gifts I want to give and which gifts I can give is different. Being a mom is gratifying and challenging and joy-bringing and humbling, and it also takes a lot of time. Sometimes I wish I could do more, cultivate other talents – specifically, writing. But my parenting style and annoyance threshold are such that I can’t ignore the chaos long enough to concentrate at the computer. So I can’t do more; I can’t give more.

And honestly, it can be frustrating. Buried talents bear no fruit.

Others might understand these feelings of gift neglect. I know individuals who are talented speakers, teachers, and medical professionals who cannot readily implement these skills because they’re caring for their families, and tending to sick loved ones, and guiding important ministries – doing hard and good things to serve others at the cost of letting certain gifts lie dormant.

This holding back can make you discouraged, upset that your current commitments are stifling your other abilities … making you ashamed for feeling discontent about your present acts of service … making you become disillusioned with the idea of who you thought God created you to be … making your work now seem labored, overwrought from all the overanalyzing you’ve done about this whole gift thing. Or maybe that’s just me.

Maybe God is simply stashing away our gifts to mature us, or to teach us some truth during our wait, or to preserve them until the exact moment someone needs saving, as in the case of Lucy and her cordial.

Regardless of the reasons for His timing, we know from God’s Word that gifts should be used for the common good (1 Corinthians 12:7) and for building up the body of Christ (Ephesians 4:12). Sure, we can find joy in our jam, but the main purpose for any special abilities God grants us isn’t our personal gratification. They’re for the edification of others and the exaltation of His name (1 Peter 4:10-11).

There’s encouragement to be gained when we recognize the ultimate goals for our gifts and focus on the truth about God’s character and our worth in Him.

Be patient. God is honing that beautiful bent of yours – the one He gave you through the overflow of His abundant goodness – and He will not fail His purposes for it, and for you.

Live now. Each day is full of new mercies and opportunities to draw on the Lord’s strength and diffuse His blessings to others through whatever services your hands find to supply.

Walk by faith. The Spirit gives gifts as He wills according to His manifold grace. We can live assured that His love poured out to us for others will not be wasted.

We can bear our gifts well regardless of whether or not we can yield them immediately. All we must do is trust God to let us use them when and how He wants and take the present step of obedience glorifying Him as the Giver of life everlasting.

Out of muddy water

My friend Jessica and I went to college together years ago. We lived in the same dorm, and she served as my sister’s RA our senior year.

Since our days as Ballard Babes, Jessi has endured some incredible ups and downs in her family life: marrying her husband, Ryan, giving birth to her first son, Lucas, losing her brother, John, and facing the breast cancer diagnosis of her mother, Cyndi. Earlier this year, she experienced another heartache: delivering and saying goodbye to her second son, Brody, in less than the span of one week.

When someone is slammed with such tremendous tragedy, those of us who have not lived through that kind of loss often find the only words we can utter are an admission of our incomprehension: “I can’t even imagine what that would be like.”

 That is my heart with this post. By sharing Jessi’s story – the story of Brody’s life – I hope to help those of us on the outside, looking in, to imagine and thus better empathize with the thoughts and feelings and daily life motions of one family navigating the loss of their child shortly after birth.

 I thank Jessi and Ryan for courageously sharing their son’s life, granting us a glimpse into their sorrow, and demonstrating how those who know Jesus can grieve with hope.

Boschma family interview infant loss remembrance

Brody was born on February 20th. He was with us for five days.

Those five days were very much up and down. They were doing everything they could to save him, and thankfully, the doctors were making sure he wasn’t in pain. Before his birth, they prepared us that we may not even be able to touch him at first. We were grateful when they told us we could touch him; we just couldn’t caress him. When we placed our hands on his little foot, he would stretch and reach out, craving that touch.

Ryan and I were able to stay in the hospital with him for three days, until I was discharged from my C-section. On Brody’s last night the doctor said we could go home, reassuring us we could call anytime. We agonized over it, and decided to go home. On the way home, we talked, trying to grasp what this was going to look like. Brody was going to be in the NICU for a long time. How would we juggle it?

We got home, showered, called in to check. They told us things weren’t looking good.

We rushed back to the hospital and spent the night in his room. The next morning the doctor told us what they were doing to keep Brody alive was starting to cause irreparable damage. His little heart was strong; he was a fighter. He did not want to give up, but his body just wasn’t compatible with life.

An organization called Forget Me Not came in and asked if I wanted pictures. In their experience, they said, most families appreciated having the pictures, even if they don’t want them taken at the moment.

I didn’t. In my mind, we were praying for a miracle. We wanted a miracle. Everyone was praying for a miracle. When they handed him to me, I was going to hold him, and he was going to be healed.

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Two summers ago, in August, we shared the news with family the day we took the pregnancy test.

Our 20-week appointment was the week before Thanksgiving, and there was a huge windstorm. We took Lucas with us.

The ultrasound tech did a couple things and started acting flustered; she didn’t come out saying if it was a boy or girl, which was fine because we didn’t want to find out the gender. The doctor came in and said things weren’t looking right, red flags had popped up. She threw a bunch of possibilities at us, told us we needed to see a specialist. I started bawling.

Ryan was supposed to be leaving for a Young Life retreat, and I was supposed to join him later, but I wanted to isolate myself. He talked me off the ledge. People at the retreat prayed over us. It’s crazy when you’re experiencing pregnancy issues, how many people come out of the woodwork and share similar stories.

The next week we met with a genetic counselor who ordered series of tests. We got our results back after Thanksgiving and everything came back negative. We were ecstatic, and thought that if it was something like learning disabilities, it would be OK; we could handle it.

After two great months of scans, I went for an ultrasound in February. The doctor said there was fluid in the baby’s lungs, and that the point had come where the baby would be better on the outside than on the inside. That brought up the issue of me wondering, Why can’t my body take care of my baby?

The doctor said we needed to do a C-section. I had wanted a natural, vaginal childbirth, but I also wanted what was best for my child.

They brought Ryan in right as they were doing the swipe across my stomach. A team of doctors swooped in to take care of the baby, and another team came to take care of me. Watching those doctors work on my baby – they were so amazing with what they did. The anesthesiologist held my hand the whole time after Ryan left to be with Brody.

Ryan got to announce that it was a boy. Beforehand, we had picked out a couple names.

We decided to name him Brody, which means “out of the ditch,” “out of muddy water.”

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After Brody died, when we were driving home from the hospital, Ryan and I talked about how we were not going to get a divorce. We were fully aware of the statistics of how some couples who lose a child struggle in their marriage.

The week leading up to Brody’s service, we didn’t have family in town, so we had to make all the funeral decisions on our own. That helped, though, keep Ryan and Lucas and I really tight together.

We buried him in the same place as my brother. I love the idea of Brody being close to John.

I didn’t go to church for a while. It’s not that I didn’t believe in God; I just didn’t want to be around people or large crowds. They would look at me with sympathetic eyes, scared to say something to me, scared to say his name. But there was one woman – someone who had gone through several miscarriages – she’d ask me all the time, “How you doing, Brody’s mama?”

Right after he died, a ton of people poured out their love on us – bringing us food and flowers and gifts. One set of friends chipped in funds to send us on a trip over the summer. Another friend got Lucas a bike trailer so he could ride with us. We were absolutely blown away by people’s generosity.

When people ask me now how to help someone who lost a baby, I tell them, “Just do something.” We know how much it meant to be on the receiving end. And when people didn’t do something, or seemed afraid to say something, it was really lonely.

I wouldn’t say that anytime, through any of this, we questioned our faith. We know through thick and thin, we may not like what God allows, but that He does love us, and is there with us. We didn’t have a crisis of faith, though there were times we were questioning God a lot about what had happened.

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It took us awhile to go back and do more genetic testing. We found out Brody had Noonan syndrome, a genetic disorder that prevents normal development in certain areas of the body. Noonan syndrome is a spectrum – some people can live a full and happy and healthy life, perhaps facing some learning disabilities. Brody was on the other end of the spectrum. He also had fetal hydrops, and those two things together put Brody in a spot that made him not compatible with life.

The five days he was with us, Brody taught us so much: the need to fight, to not give up, that life is short. We don’t know when our last day will be, so we’re not going to do things we don’t want to do.

I have been a high school teacher since 2003 and have enjoyed (almost) every minute of teaching, but we made the decision for me to stop working and stay at home. My heart wasn’t in it like it used to be, and I wanted to be home with Lucas and supporting Ryan. I now share essential oils with people and am able to work from home.

Two words that we have clung to – described in the intro of a devotional called “The One Year Book of Hope” – are manna and grace. Just like when the Israelites were wandering in the desert, and needed their manna, we also need our manna to survive, getting into the Word somehow every day. And grace – we need to show people (and ourselves) grace. Some days are harder than others to do that.

{Ryan}
One day we were pretty upset with each other, and then realized it was the month anniversary of Brody’s due date. When we recognized that, we were much more understanding of why we had bad attitudes.

Every day we have to be mindful of why we might be angry, and to be honest with our emotions. It’s helpful to know the times I am upset because we lost a child, not because someone didn’t pick their shoes up. It keeps me in check to show grace to my wife and son.

{Jessi}
Our immediate family has gotten so much closer through all of this. I am so thankful for Ryan and Lucas.

We have pictures of Brody around the house, and an ultrasound picture of him in Lucas’s bedroom – Luc was insistent we put it there. When we told Lucas that Brody is in heaven with Jesus, it was funny; he’d point up to the sky and say “Brody with Kevin” (not sure if he was meaning “heaven” or a character from “Despicable Me”).

There’ve been times when I’m reading him books before bed, and he’ll look at me and ask, “Momma sad?” and I’ll tell him, “Yea, momma misses Brody.” He’ll run and get a scrap of toilet paper to dab my eyes. Then, he will ask, “Happy now?”

I’m learning to find that balance, letting him in on my grief.

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There’s a place in the hospital called the angel room. It’s where you go after your baby dies, so your family can come say goodbye. You can be there as long as you want with your child.

The Forget Me Not people earlier had recorded the sound of Brody’s heartbeat and put the recording in a Build-A-Bear type stuffed animal. I picked a monkey. It was neat for Lucas – he called it his Brody Monkey.

Lucas Brody monkey Boschma family infant loss remembrance

I was worried about bringing Lucas into the angel room, worried about his little spirit. We decided if he started to freak out, Ryan would take him and leave.

Right away Luc asked to hold Brody. He tried to drive one of his little cars over Brody’s face. The Forget Me Not people took lots of picture, cut a lock of his hair, did footprints – those in-the-moment activities that were the farthest thing from my mind.

It was so hard to call the chaplain. It was late in the evening when we finally did. We gave up Brody to this sweet, gentle old man. I have that memory so clearly – I can see him, holding Brody, standing in the angel room as we walked away.

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I want to remember Brody. I want his life to help other people. He taught us SO MUCH about what it means to have true grit.

We want people to hear about Jesus as we tell Brody’s story – because without Jesus, I honestly do not know how we would be facing each day. We had prayed for a miracle – that Brody’s life would be spared – but the true miracle is that we were given five days with our sweet boy.

Years ago, I started the John Eagon Scholar-Athlete Award as a way to honor and remember my brother’s life. I run in marathons and half marathons and raise support for the scholarship. All the money is managed through a local Community Foundation and is therefore tax-exempt. A few weeks ago I ran in the Hayden Lake Half Marathon in honor of John and Brody. It was therapeutic doing something physical to remember Brody. And it brings comfort thinking of Brody in heaven with his uncle.

If you feel led to donate, please visit https://bmcf.fcsuite.com/erp/donate/create?funit_id=1136.

Jessi invites anyone who would like to talk through their losses or ask questions about Brody’s story to contact her at jessiboschma@gmail.com.

Blogspiration and the nudge-nag phenomenon

People blog for all sorts of reasons. Political, religious, financial; about sports, about entertainment, about how to cook beef bourguignon, or solve the Syrian refugee crisis, or upcycle a thrift store-salvaged dresser into a shabby chic armoire.

IMHO, the ultimate motivation underlying all these reasons for blogging is rooted in a universal human presupposition. We like to think that what we have to say matters to someone else. Our quest for significance drives our compulsion for utterance of our thoughts, feelings, and opinions.

I started blogging in 2008 for no greater reason than peer pressure. Everybody was doing it, way back then. It was part of the normal life pattern many of our friends followed after graduating from college – get married, move, get a job or get more education and then a job, start a blog, have kids, post their pics on said blog. My husband and I pursued this chain of events until we hit a snag.

This snag/pit of despair was characterized by years of longing for but not being able to conceive a child. After attempting to deal with my grief in my own strength and failing to find hope through that strategy, I began reading a friend’s blog describing her struggles with these issues. Her demonstration of vulnerability freed me to wrestle with my anguish more honestly and reinvigorated my passion for writing with a renewed purpose: to let others know they were not alone in this profoundly painful trial.

Once I had written about our failed IVF cycle, amazing adoption story, and surprise pregnancy, I became less motivated to blog except for occasional times when, as a good evangelical, I should describe as “God laid it on my heart.” My label for this is the “nudge-nag phenomenon.” God nudges my heart about a specific topic at a specific time and nags me until I write about it. His still, small, unrelenting voice is not like the nagging I do to my kids to hurry up and get ready in the morning. It is gentle, insistent, assuring, and dare I say, a whole lot more effective.

nagging

That’s where I’m at now. God is nudging my heart to share my reflections about a variety of topics, not just infertility, though that is and always will be part of my story.

I don’t really have a gimmick to draw readers in; I don’t craft or cook or exercise or ruminate about politics or put together a wardrobe in such a way that would inspire others. I don’t even have a Southern accent with which to issue a “y’all” call to action. I just have my words and a desire to console, to teach, to encourage, and to preach.

While I’d like to feign indifference and declare that it wouldn’t matter to me if anyone ever read my blog as long as it glorified Jesus – adopting a creed like “I write for an audience of One” or some such spiritually conceited nonsense – I can’t, and I won’t. I do care if people read this; otherwise, I’d pick up where my 5th grade self left off and just continue ruminating in my personal diary (but probably with fewer contemplations on which of my friends has the cutest jeans … probably).

My preschooler served as my muse for how to explain my ultimate reason for blogging when he burst into an enthusiastic and surprisingly on-key rendition of the chorus to Big Daddy Weave’s “My Story.”

If I should speak then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in
To tell you my story is to tell of Him

I want to tell you about my life to tell you about my Redeemer. I want to share my unruly weaknesses, sanctified discoveries, and sarcastic annotations on life so that others can find some measure of encouragement that refreshes their faith. I want to preach the gospel to myself and anyone else who cares to listen.

This is my story; this is my song; praising my Savior, all my words long.

this-is-my-story-this-is-my-song

Swan song for the little season

As the leaves are shifting colors and the millenials are rushing to grab their long-awaited pumpkin spice lattes, I’m passing into a new season that’s eliciting emotions as variegated as the shades of fall.

I’m now a school mom. My kids are going to school. One in kindergarten, one in preschool, which means that for six hours out of the week, there are no children in my home.

That’s cause for celebration, you might think, and you’d be right. Not just for me, gaining valuable “time for myself,” but for my sons, who are growing in knowledge and facing constructive challenges and discovering more of this big, beautiful world God created. I’m excited for them, excited to see how they will flourish in these new adventures, and excited for me to be able to go grocery shopping and not have it be an adventure.

But honestly, I’m also sad. My season of motherhood is changing. Six hours without children means I’m mothering less. That’s not to say that a mom who works full-time outside the home or a SAHM with all school-aged children is any less of a mom – their children are continuously present in their minds and hearts and daily activities. They’re just in a different season or situation.

As my oldest stepped foot inside his kindergarten classroom, I crossed a threshold of another kind, entering the school phase, starting to leave the early childhood phase.

I’ll miss this phase – the getting down on the floor building train tracks, shaping Play-Doh cuisine, reading and snuggling on the couch, soothing hurts with kisses and tickle fights phase. It is a time when – to my ever-living vexation, as well as my gratification – my kids were almost always with me, and needed me for so many different things. It is a role I longed for, for so long, and finally got to experience, and enjoyed immensely.

That’s why, when I waved goodbye to my son and stepped foot outside his kindergarten classroom, I let the tears loose and marveled at how five years passed by in a blink of milestones, building upon one another, leading to greater possibilities.

It is the beginning of something new; the closing of a chapter of something precious.

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I took my youngest to toddler story time at the library the other day. Yea, I know. Potential big mistake. Spending time with younger mothers, or at least, mothers with younger kids, might be a painful reminder of what once was – their tiny scampering tots and snappy strapped baby carriers and swelling belly bumps a blatant, flashing signal: THIS IS NOT YOUR WORLD ANYMORE.

I smile at them. I watch their little ones waddle around, fall down, cry.

I remember those days, caring for two 2 and unders. They were hard. I was exhausted all the time, frazzled half the time, probably legitimately semi-crazy.

I’m glad I’m not currently in that season. I loved my babies when they were babies, but I don’t need them to be babies anymore. I don’t need to turn back time. Getting past spit-up and tantrums and potty training is a blessed thing.

Why, then, do I feel this twinge of sadness knowing all that is behind me? I see these other sweet mamas, scooping up their children and cradling them at the hip, and my heart bursts with thankfulness for my own children – that, and a sort of wistfulness for the times I used to scoop them up and cradle them.

This amalgam of emotions is hard to explain. The best comparison I can come up with is perhaps a woeful commentary on what we all now hold dear: our own entertainment. Imagine Netflix (because network TV is mostly terrible) just announced it is still airing your favorite show, but with four fewer episodes. You’d be bummed, right? This means you’ll have less pre-prison flashbacks, alleyway fight scenes, and stranger things to savor. Your enjoyment has been diminished.

There’s another way to think about it. I have several female friends who are amazing craftswomen. They create exquisite works of art with ink, with thread, with wood, with both inert and organic materials. They pour their love and lifeblood into their designs – you can tell – and in doing so, bring pleasure and beauty to those around them.

Being a hands-on mom of young children is like that for me. It’s where I thrive. I have hobbies and other creative pursuits – writing being one of them – but this mothering gig is my favorite. Of course I’m not perfect. That’s not the point. It’s simply something I enjoy. One of the best things in the world for me is making my kids laugh, and laughing with them.

God gave me this gift of motherhood, and I have relished it.

motherhood-gift

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I have a list of approximately 142 topics I want to blog about, and this isn’t one of them.

I don’t know why I’m writing this jumble of words. Usually, I have some type of higher purpose for writing and sharing personal reflections beyond mere emotional appeasement.

Certainly, it’s not to make other mothers who disliked the early childhood phase feel bad about themselves. We all have ages and stages that aren’t our cup of tea. Middle schoolers scare the crap out of me.

Perhaps it’s to encourage young mamas to “cherish every moment.” *Gag* No, that’s not it.

Or it’s to warn others about idolizing their children and seeking satisfaction in ways that only their Savior can fulfill. Oh wait. Been there; done that; felt the regrets; blogged about it.

Lacking a solid concept, I go to the all-wise Internet for guidance. I find a reassuring article by Jen Wilkin talking about the back to school blues and Christian mommy guilt – that is, the tension a mother feels as she questions if she loves Jesus as much as she loves her kids. She explains that although we might view love as limited and quantifiable – like a “cosmic batch of heart-shaped cookies” – our love for our kids can express our love for Christ; we take the cookies He gave us and give them to our kids, which, ultimately, gives the cookies back to Him.

cookie-quote

That’s a lotta cookies and a lotta love. I like the sound of that. Maybe that’s my point.

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Besides that part of me that wants to turn this into a moralizing mommy lecture, there’s the part that wants to slap myself upside the head and shout “Pull yourself together, woman! This is not a Bachelorette breakup-level crisis! It’s not like your boys are going off to college yet.” (As a word of advice, do not read Jen Hatmaker’s Facebook post describing when she dropped off her oldest son at college. Just don’t. It’ll destroy you. Same goes with the Nicole Nordeman slow-the-heck-down-time song.)

Really, this is not a crisis; it is a process. We are transition-ing, adjust-ing.

My boys are adjusting to the lengthened time apart from one another, and figuring out how to manage their divergent strategies for coping with that separation (wrestling vs. talking). I’m adjusting to having a modicum of peace and quiet. My husband is adjusting to me having a modicum of peace and quiet during which I plan new cleaning and organization projects for us to work on.

As the four of us continue adjusting and learning and growing individually and together through this new school phase, I look forward to seeing how God continues writing our family story. I anticipate discovering what my kids will learn in school, who they will love and marry, how they will bring light and goodness to the world around them.

Through all of that learning and loving and light-bringing, I will thank Him for giving me this family and for making me a mom. And as I thank Him, I will fondly, gradually bid farewell to those early childhood days and a season of life I will treasure forever.

swan-song

How my blog was almost called ‘My A Cup Runneth Over’

I heart words funny emoji meme

Lemme tell you about this brilliant intro I wrote for the post that I had planned to publish when rolling out my new blog name. It was distinctively captivating, inspired and innovative, bursting with terrible puns suggestive of Top Chef writers with Tourette’s.

I had planned to publish Heart to Pen: The inside story, but then I wrote a grimly navel-gazing essay on wanting a third child, followed by an amusingly self-mocking piece on the benefits of comparisons. And then I got sidetracked with the Chewbacca Mom, Olympics memes, and various other fascinating diversions on the Internet webs.

Even though it’s dated material, I have to share at least a portion of the post I wrote depicting the debate that went on inside my head when pondering a new blog name. I challenge you to read it and NOT think it was an excerpt pulled from a Shauna Niequist memoir.

Me 1: What do you think of the blog name “Heart to pen”?

Me 2: Um, OK. That is … something.

Me 1: What does that mean?

Me 2: It means hearts are cheesy. You don’t even like them. Remember how you “accidentally” broke those sweet but American Girl-sy heart earrings Colin gave you when you were dating? And how you barf a little every time you see someone post multiple lines of emoji hearts in their Facebook statuses?

Me 1: I thought the whole thing was eloquent and all-encompassing. And it’s catchy.

Me 2: This title would only seem catchy to the inspirational wall art-pinning, Duggar family-loving crowd. It might as well be the name of a Hallmark channel original series.

Me 1: Wow, that is insightful. And rude. And completely wrong. People eat up cute crap on the Internet all day long. Exhibit A: minion memes. See also: baby hedgehog videos.

funny minion meme Internet humor

Pretty fantastic, right? Only problem is, neither Me 1 nor Me 2 nor any of the other voices in my head really likes the name Heart to Pen. It’s just too froofy. And if you know me, you know I’m not froofy. Anxious, absentminded, OCD, hypercritical, yes; froofy, no. (Please disregard the fact we own a toy poodle.)

So I’ve decided to axe the maudlin heart shtick and go with something more witty, imaginative, and true to form.

“Jestify” came to me like so many other clever ideas – randomly popping into my head while I was vacuuming. The word, which is a portmanteau of “jest” and “testify,” conveys how I write: with a style that is sometimes satirical, sometimes serious, and often a strange mixture of the two, and for a greater purpose beyond reporting Current Household Events – to affirm the redeeming work of Jesus in my life.

Astute readers will notice the resemblance to the churchy word “justify,” which I appreciate from both a Scriptural sense – meaning “to judge, regard, or treat as righteous and worthy of salvation” – and a typographical sense, meaning “to position text so that the edges form a straight line.” Both definitions capture the irony of how my sanctimonious fastidiousness falls a few hundred miles short of being anywhere close to salvation-worthiness.

Christian inspiration salvation meme

The tagline “Teasing lessons from life and faith” – which carries a double entendre that should enchant fellow word nerds – describes my plan to unravel strands of significance from my frizzy tangle of personal experiences, covering topics like motherhood and adoption and infertility and spirituality and perfectionism/anxiety and all the swirling emotions that accompany these issues. I also hope to explore Scripture and delve into the glorious tension of the BOTH/AND that proliferates paradoxes throughout our lives.

As I get preachy on these topics, I occasionally lapse into a mocking tone, which I chalk up as creativity and my husband labels as “pun-ny chick humor.” (This is coming from the man who proposed I call this blog “My A Cup Runneth Over.”) I do this because I think some Christian bloggers take themselves and their subjects way too seriously, and because I think a little humor can help cast a tone of much-needed levity and humility, and because it’s more fun this way. And really, isn’t that the ultimate motivation for which any sanctity-aspiring Christian has been called to uphold? #sarcasm

So there you have it: an artfully updated, corny-downgraded blog name. I pray that the reflections contained herein will encourage and propel others toward love and grace in such a way that causes them to feel multiple lines of emoji hearts.

Kindergarten

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This boy is going to kindergarten.

This boy is a little nervous, more than a little excited, and so very eager to learn and engage in the world around him.

This boy has an inquisitive mind, a servant heart, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye that both disturbs and delights those entrusted with his care.

This boy has challenged my authority, besieged my sanity, and turned many a hair on my head a lovely shade of gray.

This boy was the answer to numerous prayers, a testament to God’s prevailing faithfulness, and a living expression of the meaning of “worth the wait.”

This boy will grow up, look back and read this sappy post, and likely be mortified by my mushiness – and I will nonetheless write it, because I love him.

This boy – the one who leaves messes in his wake, who embraces new adventures and leaps into opportunities, whose hugs come in the form of a tackle – the one who made me a mama – is going to thrive in school, in vocation, in life in general, all while bringing light and laughter and hopeful enthusiasm to those around him.

This boy is going to kindergarten, and I am going to miss him.