If We're Honest

I'm not a resolution maker and I don't have a "life verse." Mostly because (context is important) and also, it's easier. :) But for whatever reason, this whole year of 2016 God has been continually putting these three words on my heart: Tell the truth.

In our social media-driven world, we are so good at filtering. Literally, our pictures more often than not have filters that can alter the true appearance of what we're posting- glossing over flaws and smoothing out wrinkles. Don't get me wrong, I love Valencia as much as the next person, but I have been convicted recently of applying filters to not only my Insta pictures, but how I share and portray my life as well-- not just on social media, but in conversations and relationships.

Sometimes, I make jokes to avoid talking about hard things.

Sometimes, I fudge the truth lie to avoid confrontation.

Often, I react to situations with disdain or judgment when in fact, I am envious or hurting.

I put a filter over what I say, how I react, what I share. I attempt to portray myself and my life as something it is not- perfect. This is a lie. (Cue Maury Povich)

Why do we do this? Why do we say things we don't really mean, or gloss over our faults and struggles? I do it because I'm afraid. I want people to see me in a certain way, but the reality is- well, that it's not. Real, I mean. We all have struggles and issues and by lying about them or glossing over their impact in our lives we hurt ourselves and as the body of Christ, we hurt others as well (1 Corinthians 12:26). We are not mean to do this life alone-- we need each other! Sharing our hurts and pain may be humiliating but it is so freeing- and what a testimony to God's grace and goodness! How much glory could be given to God by us being truthful and honest! I think about my miscarriages-- I had NO IDEA so many families had been through the same, until I shared my story. Why are we afraid to bear one another's burdens?

Being honest with ourselves and others allows God to begin to heal. It takes the focus off of ME (pride) and puts it where it rightly belongs, on HIM. John 3:30 states "He must increase, and I must decrease." By being truthful about my brokenness, about my struggles, I allow the Holy Spirit to enter and begin a good work, perfecting the situation for His good glory (Romans 8:28). Any good thing in my life comes from God. I can take no credit. The beautiful things God has and will create from our brokenness and strife is mind-boggling.

I'm doing my best to drop the filters (see- being honest here, I'm not perfect! Also I really do love Valencia...) and live an authentic, honest life. Prayerfully consider joining me.

If We're Honest by Francesca Battistelli

Stitch Fix! Or, Why I'm Not a Fashion Blogger

I said I'd do a Stitch Fix blog. I'm 3.5 weeks post-surgery so the swelling is finally pretty much gone, so I decided I might as well get it over with :)

I signed up for Stitch Fix because I have three small children and shopping with them is kind of torture. I was specifically looking for a dress to wear to an outdoor wedding that we went to last week- a cute nursing friendly dress can be hard to come by around here. So I decided to see what the stylists at Stitch Fix would send me.

If you're going to sign up for a fix, my number one tip is to be very, very, VERY specific. About everything. I created a Pinterest board and went to town pinning outfits and styles I liked. I also wrote comments under each pin about what I specifically liked about each piece- like, I love boyfriend jeans and chambray and plaid but just don't do scarves. Or necklaces. Or anything my small children could choke me with. I made sure to link to the board on my Stitch Fix profile.

I also was honest in my Style Profile. I put my correct weight and current chest size (nursing mama here!.. more on this later) and how I prefer my clothing to fit. At the bottom of the page you get to write a note to your stylist in a place called "Your Style Bio." Here is where I probably told them too much information, but whatever I did it worked because my fix was right on. I wrote about being a nursing mom so my chest is SIGNIFICANTLY larger than normal. I also shared that I have giant sprinter thighs but no hips so stretchy jeans are a must, as are a shorter inseam because I am actually not quite the 5'5" that I tell people I am. I also shared the stores and brands I gravitate towards (J Crew is my favorite everything) to help the stylist better understand who I am and what I'm looking for.

My fix came two days after my surgery- my friend Shauna was here and I couldn't wait to try everything on. So I did and then marveled at how pregnant I looked 10 months post-pregnancy ;)

Anyway, here are the outfits I was sent! Silas took all the pictures for me this morning. Because I feel like an absolute moron in pictures by myself, my first idea (thanks Claire) was to take pictures of myself interacting with our chickens but a run-in with the rooster this morning put the kibosh on that. So here's pictures of me.... and only me. Eee!

 Here I am drinking coffee because I don't know what to do with my hands in my Market & Spruce Corinna Striped Dolman Top and my Just Black Adorra Skinny Jean. These jeans are ah-mah-zing. The inseam isn't too long (which is a problem I often have) and the fabric is stretchy enough to accommodate my thighs while fitting to my waist. The top is a tunic length so I could wear it with leggings or jeans. The top is very close to a shirt I had pinned to my Stitch Fix board.


 Here I am vacuuming in heels and a wrap dress because isn't that how everybody spends their Thursday mornings? I had pinned a dress, once again, almost *exactly* like this. The wrap made it super easy to nurse in and it was so, so comfy for the wedding last week. This is also a Market and Spruce piece, the Paddy Bird Print Belted Wrap Dress.

Whoops, my head's cut off but eh, my photographer is 6. This is my favorite thing I got- something I NEVER would have picked out myself, a Just USA Morrie Boyfriend Denim Jacket. I am obsessed with it. I'm wearing it with a LuLaRoe Randy Tee and my Just Black skinnies. And I'm outside because wearing a jacket inside feels silly, almost as silly as posting pictures of myself on the internet. Eh.

And finally, the last thing they sent me is a Bay to Baubles Azalia Stone Bangle. I wear almost no jewelry except my wedding ring and earrings so it was fun to get this in my fix. I've worn it a few times and I like it :)

The total retail cost of all the pieces was over $300, but by purchasing all of them I saved significantly and actually spent less than $200. I have a *very small* clothing budget but I felt the investment was worth it-- I've recently weeded my closet out and reduced my wardrobe by at least half. Also, I'm now three kiddos in and my body's different than it used to be (isn't it strange how you can weigh what you did before kids but look so different? Interesting.) 

I highly recommend Stitch Fix. I've signed up for quarterly fixes but depending on where we are budget-wise (things are pretty tight thanks to lots of stupid surgeries) I may postpone the next one until spring. I'm sure I'll get a "bad" fix in the future, but for now I'm pretty happy with everything I've got. I could have never picked out and put these things together on my own... one of the many, many reasons I could never be a fashion blogger.

That and the rooster, of course.

Here's my referral link, if you feel so inclined :) Happy fixing!

Scar Tissue

The reasons for many of my scars :)

I have six scars on my abdomen.

Some are larger than others, but each of them tells a story. A few days ago I was at my post-op appointment for the hernia surgery I had two weeks ago. The surgeon remarked how he had opted to make incisions lower than normal in case I ever "wanted to wear a bathing suit that shows your abdomen."

Leave it to a surgeon to use five separate words in place of "bikini." Anyway.

I got to thinking about it. The past few years have been big for me in terms of body image/acceptance/love. Negative body image and an eating disorder are in my past- not something I enjoy discussing, so I won't go into the specifics of it, but know that there were many years of struggle to overcome some debilitating habits and, more importantly, some deeply held beliefs. For whatever reason, I had come to connect my self worth with the number on a scale or the size of my jeans or how many of my ab muscles were visible. When I got married it got a bit better, but I wouldn't say I was completely okay with myself until the last couple of years. It was probably a combination of things, but turning 30 and having my third son really seemed to mark a turning point in how I felt about myself.

As a Christian, my self worth is found solely in my savior. At 31, I have been a Christian for almost half my life now, but for whatever reason I had been unable to give up this struggle with pride and anxiety over my body image. Last time we went to Florida, I did hide my abdominal scars. Yet in recent months I've been able to step back from those negative thoughts and question their validity- the number on the scale or tag does not determine my worth. A few extra blemishes doesn't make me unworthy of Jesus's sacrifice-- I was unworthy anyway. My entire being belongs to Jesus and he chose to die for me because he loves me. He loves ME. It is finished. Previously, a doctor mentioning all the scars and how I would want to hide them probably would have made me ashamed. (For the record- my surgeon is a great guy and in no way was he trying to imply I should be ashamed of all the scars, he's just a dude saying what he always says and I'm just a woman reading WAY TOO MUCH into everything.)

Anyway, the scars on my belly used to bring me sadness.

Two are from my ectopic pregnancy, the loss of our first sweet baby.

One is from my C- section with Silas, which contributed to my PPD.

And now, three news ones from a hernia caused by carrying my children.

But where I once saw reminders of sad memories, I realized last night that I now see them as stories of strength. My husband pointed out that each of the scars comes, both directly and indirectly, from our marriage, and our children.  The ectopic pregnancy was devastating, but through it I saw miracles and have been able to share the gospel many times over. The C-section wasn't what I hoped or dreamed but it brought me Silas who now is a healthy, vibrant 6 year old. The hernia was excruciating and the recovery hasn't been all roses, but each time I look at these three new scars forming I'm reminded of how my body changed and grew to make room for my sons.

Jesus's scars have purpose- this sermon by Spurgeon explains that his scars establish his identity, they are his "glories" and precious jewels, his trophies of love. When I will look on his scars I can't even imagine the gratitude and love I'll feel.

My scars, in turn, remind me of who I am- what Christ has done for me, the graciousness of God and the blessings he's given me in this life. They tell a story of redemption and life, and I will never be ashamed again.

A Gift Worth Giving

 

If you're anything at all like me, right now you're stressing out a little bit about how much money you should or should not spend on each child to best bless them this Christmas.  How much is too much? How much is not enough? What can I give them to make them feel special and loved, while at the same time communicate the message that gifts are NOT the point of Christmas? What can I give them that won't get broken to bits or, alternatively, eaten by a curious 2 year old?

Since having my third son at the end of October, I operate in a perpetual state of anxiety.  It waxes and wanes, but it's always there, threatening to steal my peace and joy.  Some of this is hormone induced (I cry at EVERYTHING, including episodes of Team Umizoomi and various Folger's TV commercials).  Some of this is self-induced by my type-A personality (last night I re-loaded the dishwasher after my husband so graciously did it, in order to put dirty dishes in their designated areas and best utilize dishwasher capacity.)  A lot of this, however, is driven by fear.  A fear that I will fail, won't do something right, and someone will figure out that I actually DON'T know what I'm doing.  Spoiler: I don't.

I didn't grow up liking kids.  I didn't coo over babies, I thought they were kind of weird-looking to be honest.  Even when my friends all got married and started having kids, I would do the obligatory hold-and-smile, and then quickly hand them back.  What scary, fragile little things! And then I got the baby bug and had one of my own.  Instantly I was sucked in, to the world of selfless love-- where you just automatically love something (someone!) so much that there is NO QUESTION their needs will be met before your own, that their lives are precious and beautiful.  In 2009, when my oldest was just a newborn, I was meeting friends for coffee and on the way heard that Mark Shultz song with the lyrics, "He's not just anyone, he's my son..." I burst into sobbing, gut-wrenching tears because I HAVE A SON and just for a second, I got a tiny glimpse of what God must have felt when Jesus was suffering.  The people of Panera were very concerned during this outburst.  Lots of free hot chocolate ensued.

Having children brought to light my fear of failure.  It highlighted and exaggerated my imperfections (NO patience, lack of grace for failure, a tendency to be judgmental and critical). That anxiety that has always bubbled under the surface of my life came roaring to the forefront and ruled me.  And I fed it.  Colossians 3:2 says, "Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."  My husband kindly and gently reminded me of this, and also of Philippians4:8 where we are instructed: "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."  I didn't want to raise my children in a home ruled by fear and worry.  As we know, 1 John 4:18 reminds us that "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love."  As Christians, we do not have to fear the punishment of God.  I have been saved by faith; the goodness of God's grace and Jesus's death and resurrection have taken the punishment that was meant for me, and I no longer need live in fear.  So why do I still struggle with this?

This Christmas season, I have decided to set my mind on the things of God.  I am choosing to be brave in that I am fixing my eyes on "whatever is pure, whatever is lovely" and am consciously closing my mind to fear and failure.  My hope is in Jesus, and even if everything falls apart in my eyes, I know that God's ways are perfect-- his thoughts and ways are higher than mine, and his good purpose will always prevail.  This knowledge has completely changed how I view my life-- even the rough times, such as when my 2 year old was hospitalized last weekend-- have purpose and give glory to God.  I will still cry and worry,and I will always be far from perfect.  But Jesus is changing me from having a spirit of fear to a spirit of hope and faith.  By the grace of God, I will give my children the gift of growing up in a home ruled by his peace, love, and joy.  This is a present far more valuable than anything I can wrap.

Also, it won't break or get eaten.

Jonas's Birth Story

So, birth.  It’s an amazing, wonderful, miraculous thing.  When I was pregnant with Silas, I had no idea what to expect.  I didn't plan or think about it much, to be honest, and though things didn't go as I had thought they probably should, he was born healthy and safe.  With Oliver, however, I educated myself and prepped and planned to the last minute tiny detail.  I WAS GOING TO HAVE A VBAC, and Lord help anyone who got in my way.  And praise God, Oliver also was born safe and healthy, and I literally got everything I prayed for (you can read Oliver’s birth story here; please know Jamie says the long and horrendous labor is my fault because I prayed for an “experience.”  It’s true.) 

As I approached the end of pregnancy with our third son, to be honest, I really wasn't thinking about birth.  I was still visiting my chiropractor, I had contacted my doula, and I had written my birth plan (aka changed the date on Oliver’s plan) but I really just wasn't thinking about it.  I had a lot going on; lots of MOPS meetings, homeschooling my kindergartner, starting up a homeschool co-op with a friend, and potty-training a 2 ½ year old.  Basically anything I could do to stay busy and keep my mind off of pushing a human through my lady bits.  So when I woke up on Saturday, October 25^th, about two and a half weeks before my alleged due date (by the doctor’s dates, my due date was November 11^th; by my dates, anywhere from November 3^rd- 5^th), the last thing on my mind was labor.

I remember telling Jamie around 7:30, as he left to go work for his dad, that I was feeling a little crampy.  I was still planning on running (I had the day before!), as well as doing several loads of laundry and lesson plans for the next few school units.  At about 9:00 I texted Bethany, my doula, to let her know that the remainder of her fee was in the mail.  As an afterthought I added that I was feeling crampy, but it was really not painful at all so I was sure it was nothing.  She asked me a couple of questions, and as I wrote her back I realized that hey, these cramps are coming in regular intervals.  Hmmm.  But seriously, the pain was so minimal I dismissed it.  At her urging I called Jamie and told him I might need him to come home today.  It was now about 10am, and the cramps/contractions were probably 5-6 minutes apart.  I did throw some laundry in, and made sure my boys had pants on (more often than not, they don’t), and after a couple more contractions I called my parents.  I told my dad I wasn't absolutely sure that today was the day, but just in case—could they please come get Silas and Oliver? My mom was there in 20 minutes.  Apparently SHE was ready.  Me, not so much.

Jamie got home around 11, and I was still communicating with Bethany.  By this time everyone was sure I was in labor except me.  It just really seriously didn't hurt.  I mean, there was pressure and it was kind of intense… but NOTHING like last time, when I wanted to lay down and die for roughly 18 hours.  And in-between the contractions I felt FINE.  Like, great.  I chatted with my friend Trisha on the phone for a while; I had to breathe a bit through some contractions but it was nothing.  A little while later I made Jamie take a walk with me (just a couple of miles).  As the contractions hit when I was walking, I started to slow down and breathe.  I remembered Bethany telling me things were getting serious if a contraction hit and I couldn't move, even if I were about to get hit by a truck.  I kept this in mind and *never actually stopped moving* through each contraction—I would walk super, super slowly instead :)  In my mind, this meant things weren't that serious because hey, I was moving! By this time and when we got home it was about 1.  I realized the 2-mile walk had taken well over an hour- guess I was moving a lot more slowly than I thought! Still, I wasn't convinced I was in labor.  

I made myself some lunch and argued with Jamie about mowing the lawn.  I wanted him to get it done.  We had plenty of time! Seriously, I said, I’m not even sure this is real.  Right about then I had my first contraction where I had to vocalize a bit.  Jamie rolled his eyes and said he was NOT mowing the lawn, we were going to the hospital! No, seriously, the lawn looks terrible.  You should go do it, it’ll only take an hour or so… Jamie stomped upstairs to get the hospital bag.  I moaned through another contraction.  I then decided I would humor Jamie and go to the hospital… they’ll just send us home, and then he’ll feel so stupid, I thought.  It was now 2:00.

I texted Bethany and told her we’d head for the hospital around 3.  Or later, if I could drag my feet some more… and of course, at 2:30 Jamie was ushering me into the car.  Each town we drove through was an opportunity for me to try to convince him to stop.  In Mt. Vernon I tried to get him to stop at Casey’s for some water and gum (apparently we already had that).  In Solon I tried to get him to stop at Dairy Queen (just a snack—for him, not me, because at that point I was feeling like vomiting every now and then.  SO obviously NOT in labor.)  In the outskirts of Iowa City I desperately tried to get him to go to Jimmy John’s: “But Jamie, you LOVE Jimmy John’s UUUHHHHH! Go get a Turkey Tom, I’ll wait here UUUHHHHH and be fine UHHHHHH!”

Those UUUHHHs were the sound of me moaning every 30 seconds or so.  Nope, everything’s fine here.

When we got to the hospital I, of course, refused the wheelchair (stupid volunteer, I’m not in labor BUT DON’T TOUCH ME EVERYTHING HURTS I CAN WALK I’M FINE) and waddled up to labor and delivery.  When we got there the nurse ushered me into that room where they check and make sure you’re in labor before they admit you—as we stepped over the threshold I had a contraction and moaned, and Amanda my sweet nurse said, “I think we can skip this… let’s get you in a gown…”  Now THIS I was fine with, because the fewer people who see my cervix the better, in my book (once again, refer to my last birth experience where roughly 37 people viewed it.  TEACHABLE MOMENT PEOPLE.) I got changed and hooked up to antibiotics because I was group b strep positive.  As I was stuck in the bed, I consented to ONE check.  Seriously, I was convinced the nurse was going to say I was a 2.  Maybe  a 3.  When she said 6-7 I was stunned.  Whaaaaat?  Are you telling me I’m having a baby today? Although, if things went like last time (as I was sure they would), “today” probably really meant “tomorrow,” because it was now 4:15 and my last labor was about a gazillion hours long.  So, plenty of time.  Jamie, go home and mow, you can make it back in time no problem.  He did not obey.

My doula arrived at the hospital right about then.  We chatted—she is in her third trimester of pregnancy as we speak, so we had lots to talk about.  As I labored (unhooked from the antibiotics, and also monitored intermittently which was FANTASTIC) I spent most of my time on the birth ball.  I got in the tub for a while, but the water was a little cold and who wants to take a lukewarm bath The staff at the hospital was great—everyone took the time to read my birth plan.  No one offered drugs, they were all fine with all my crunchiness and even offered to save the placenta (there it is! Placenta! Which we declined, BTW). Time passed quickly; though I was having some pretty intense contractions pretty close together, and though they were telling me I was definitely in labor, I still somehow was having a hard time believing that I was giving birth very soon.  As each contraction hit, I prayed and moaned and leaned on Jamie.  I just kept flashing back to Oliver’s labor; his was SO painful and SO long, I had just assumed it would be the same this time around.  When Dr. Smollen checked me at about 6:30 and declared me fully dilated and 100% effaced, I thought she was joking.  I really just figured out I was in labor a couple of hours ago! Where were the other 14 hours of pain and suffering? At about that moment my water broke (probably another reason I was in denial; in both of my other labors, my water broke at the very start) and I laid on my right side to get baby boy in the best position for pushing (still in my head thinking “but I won’t be pushing for at least 10 more hours!”)

Laying on my side I had one SUPER AWFUL HORRIBLE CONTRACTION—the ONLY contraction I actually yelled through (with Oliver, I yelled for a solid 12 hours).  I turned over and yelled something like “I NEED TO PUSH!” and Dr. Smollen came running back in.  It was now about 6:38.  With the next wave of contraction I pushed…. And pushed…. And pushed… and then, at 6:42pm, my wonderfully sticky and gooey boy made his way into the world.  A head FULL of gorgeous long black hair and a face full of vernix that made it hard for him to open his left eye (maybe they were right about his due date), Jonas Charles Johnson was 6 pounds, 13 ounces and 19.5 inches of beautiful baby boy—my largest baby to date. 

I couldn't believe the contrast in labors—while in total I was probably “in labor” for 9 hours or so, I only actually felt like I was in labor for 3 (I only actually acknowledged I was in labor for maybe 20 minutes).  With Oliver, I pushed for FOUR HOURS.  Literally.  With Jonas, I pushed for FOUR MINUTES.  It was glorious.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucked.  It hurt.  But it was SO much less painful than Oliver’s birth I was astounded (if you didn’t read his birth story, basically he was posterior which meant 18ish hours of back labor and stuck on pubic bone and lot of pain and yelling and weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Unmedicated, of course, because I forgot to ask for pain meds.  Basically.)

I got to hold and kiss my baby boy and snuggle him right away, which I've never gotten to do before.  Jamie got to cut the cord when it was done pulsing.  The placenta (there it is again! Placenta!) came out three minutes after Jonas, which was a miracle all by itself.  Literally, absolutely everything we specifically prayed for concerning Jonas’s birth happened.  It was so graceful, so comparatively easy, so beautiful.  I am so thankful for my husband, who supports me on my natural birth journeys, no matter what issues arise.  He loves me and our boys and is truly the best partner, in birth but especially in life, I could ever hope for.  I am also thankful for my birth team—this time, only Bethany the Best Doula in the Land, as well as Dr. Smollen—who I really only saw for a cervix check and pushing, but really that’s fine with me—it made Jonas’s birth such an intimate experience, much more private and peaceful than I have experienced before. 

Life with three boys has been pretty crazy the last three weeks.  I’m sure I’ll share at a later time about the trials and struggles we've already been dealing with (can anyone say “2 year old regression”??), but for now, I am just so thankful to Got for every blessing we've been given—especially, right now, these three boys with three very different entries into the world.  Jonas, we are so grateful for you—get ready for a wild and crazy experience in this wild and crazy world!

Parking Lot Gospel

Today was not one of my finer days.  It started out well enough-- my kids actually slept till 7, we got a good hour and a half in of school, and the fighting was pretty minimal between my boys.  I decided to load up the kiddos in my big, giant, gas-guzzling SUV and haul them to the library to pick up the books I'd put on hold for our next couple of homeschool units.  I also made a list of birthday-party-items I thought I'd get at Hobby Lobby (my new obsession, even though I am probably the least crafty person on the planet. Do you know how many amazing things they have there???)

I should have stayed home.

First, Oliver fell asleep about 5 minutes into the drive (I don't know about you, but it ruins.my.life when my kids fall asleep in the car.  "I took a 3 minute nap! I don't need another one! But I will cry ALL DAY LONG because I AM SO TIRED!!") When I maneuvered my giant SUV into the library parking lot, of course it was full.  But aha! I spotted ONE open spot... squeeeeezed in between a median and another SUV, which was *slightly over* the line, and whose driver was currently strapping a baby into a stroller.

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant/delusional/same thing, but I really thought I could make it.

Yeah.  Remember my GIANT SUV? Not so much.

I ended up scratching this poor woman's (much nicer than ours) SUV while she and her kids watched in horror.  I was in horror.  Silas was in horror.  Oliver, who up until this point had been taking a nice little snooze, woke up and BECAME a horror.

I have rarely felt so humiliated.  How could I ever think my hulk of a vehicle could fit into such a tiny space?? The woman was actually very kind, we exchanged information and the damage will be taken care of (by us, of course).  The boys and I picked up our books and got out of there, abandoning the rest of the errands I had planned to run today.  The whole time, Oliver (who had calmed down but was now fascinated by what had taken place) kept saying, "Mommy, you hit dat car, mommy? You do dat? You say sowwy, Mommy?"  Thank you, child.

I was shaky, but I really lost my composure once I got home.  I just couldn't believe I'd done something so dumb.  In full view of my kids.

I spent some time berating myself for my stupidity, and then feeling sorry for myself because I was so stupid.  And then I realized that maybe it would be a good time to pray.  So I did-- I prayed for the poor woman whose car I hit, her kids who saw the whole thing.  I prayed for my kids, who also saw the whole thing.  And as I prayed, my attitude about the event began to change.  I started to thank God for things-- obviously, I should NOT have hit this car.  But I did.  I screwed up, and I cannot change that.  But the woman was so kind and gracious, when she really could have chosen not to be-- and I wouldn't have blamed her one bit.  I did not deserve her kindness, but I am still thanking God that she showed me such grace.  I got to thinking about how this is an illustration of how God shows us grace on a much bigger scale.  I absolutely 100% deserve whatever anger and wrath this woman had towards me.  But she chose not to react that way, and I'm so thankful.

I also absolutely 100% deserve the wrath of God.  It's true.  Yes, God loves me, but he is also holy.  This means, in the limited understanding my tiny brain can grasp, that unless I can live up to the perfect standard HE (not me) sets, I will ultimately face the wrath of God.

It is pretty obvious that I do not, and in fact, can not live up to these standards.  But praise God, he has made a way to show me grace-- completely undeserved grace.  2 Corinthians 5:21 says, "For he made him who knew no sin to be sin for us, so that we might be made the righteousness of God in him."  One of my favorite verses, hands down.  The hope of the world, summed up in that there sentence.

Though this woman was exceedingly gracious, there will still be consequences for me (insurance rates go up, money out of pocket at not such a great time).  Though my sins are forgiven, and I am spared the wrath of God, I will still face some consequences for my sinful choices and actions.

However.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ--by grace you have been saved-- and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.  For by grace you have been saved through faith.  And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast." --Ephesians 2:4-9

Words cannot describe my thankfulness and gratitude for grace-- ALL grace, which (directly as well as indirectly) comes from God.

I am also thankful for cupcakes, which I purchased and consumed later to heal my wounded pride.

This is my son Oliver, wearing a helmet while I drive, which is probably a good idea.

..On Failing.

I think it's pretty clear from my posts that I do NOT have it all together.  My house does not look like it belongs in a magazine, my kids are not perfect (or even really all that clean), I have issues folding socks and would really rather use paper plates all the time if I could.  I am a Pinterest failure.

Often as mommies I think we inadvertently (or sometimes ...advertently... ? on purpose, I mean) engage in the competition/comparison battle.  We women (generalization alert) spend way too much time comparing ourselves to each other, and then judging one another--- along with ourselves-- based on what we *think* we see.

In my own small way, I am going to combat this by sharing with you a list of things that I am absolutely terrible at.  Next week I may share a list of things I'm good at, but who are we kidding, I suck at blogging on schedule so let's plan for October. (<--One more thing on the list...)

1. Cleaning high spaces.

THIS is a picture of a cobweb in a window in my dining room.  I do not look at these window corners.  I do not, obviously, clean these windows.  My fans also haven't been dusted in maybe a year.  You can usually find a long dusty cobweb strand or two hanging down from the ceiling in  room corner.  I really don't care.
Maybe I should...

2. Weeding my garden.
I love our garden.  We grow lots of yummy things-- sweet corn, all sorts of peppers and tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, beans, broccoli and cauliflower, etc.  We also grow some not-so-yummy things (KOHLRABI).  Mostly, we grow weeds.  When I quit my job to be a SAHM I had visions of myself spending time on my knees in the garden, my hair pulled back in a kerchief (right? is that what it's called?) pulling weeds while imparting Biblical wisdom to my children, who were playing sweetly nearby.  This has NEVER happened in my almost 4 years of staying at home.  Not one bit of it.  I think I've been in there to weed twice.  And nobody was being very sweet while I was in there, myself included.

3. Saving money/electricity.
I love air conditioning.  As much as I wax poetic about living off the grid, when the rubber hits the road I will almost certainly spend the vast majority of July and August in the basement.  Today in eastern Iowa it's about 92 degrees with 90% humidity.  I spent most of the day outside and really felt like I was melting.  My amazing, hard-working husband works outside, an average of 72-80 hours a week, in this (and worse) heat.  I am conceding my homesteading hat to him.  I am a huge wimp, and am planning on researching solar-powered AC.  Or inventing it.

4. Keeping my mouth shut.
If you read this post, you'll know that I blamed this on my pregnancy hormones.  Most of the time I'm not so rude.  However.  The truth is, if I REALLY and TRULY think I know something to be true, and I REALLY and TRULY believe that you are wrong, there is no stopping me from letting you know.  THIS is something I have to work on.  I am wrong a lot, and it's humbling to admit that-- especially to others.  This is a spiritual battle for me.  I am a know-it-all and I like to, ahem, share my wisdom with others.  If took me a very long time to admit my desperate need for a Savior, despite me *knowing,* intellectually, that I was a sinner.  Realizing that my own justification and reason were NOT enough to save me from the holy wrath of God took several months and years of painful sanctification-- and really still is an ongoing process.

5. Not comparing myself to other women/mothers.
Last year at MOPS I heard something that was a revelation to me.  When we think about our children, and how special and beautiful they are, each in their own way, it would be devastating as a parent to have a child constantly wishing that he or she were a completely different person-- ignoring the strengths and skills and characteristics they were given and spending all their time wishing they had someone else's.  Why, then, as women/mothers/daughters of Jesus do we do this? Instead of being thankful, humbled, and blessed by the gifts God has given me, do I constantly look at other women and envy/covet who they are and what they have? God has created me to bring glory to Him in my current situation-- and I. Am. Blessed.  I need to praise Him and thank Him where I am at, with everything He's given me {and He's given me everything}.

There's a lot of other stuff I'm bad at, but I'm tired.

Is there anything you're terrible at? What has it taught you about yourself, and your relationship with Jesus?