On Heartbreak

"Chloe doesn't really even like me" you explain when I ask who you play with at recess. I ask these things because I like to picture you at school. I like to envision who you run with, what you're chasing, if you're a good guy or a bad guy, that kind of thing. We have these kinds of talks driving home from school, mostly when you're sister's asleep back there and we don't have much else to do.

And since this seems out of sorts, I ask, "How do you know?"

"She never laughs at my jokes." you respond, and I have to catch myself, because as much as I love you, you're still working out "punch lines" right now, so I can totally see how this might affect your audience's reaction.

And at first I think I'll just redirect and talk about something else like whether or not you liked the lunch I packed today but when I look in the rearview mirror, something in your eyes makes me hesitate. You're not crying, Sam, but your eyes - they're so sad. And I realize you're experiencing something from which I cannot shield you. You're feeling rejected.

Sam, man, rejection is the worst. To know that someone else in the world sees you and knows you and still doesn't like you is the worst feeling in the world. So, as your mom, I want to ridicule this Chloe-monster. I want to call her a sassy little brat who wouldn't know funny if it pulled her frizzy pig tail. But I don't, because Chloe really is a cool girl at school and she doesn't have frizzy pig tails. She's actually really smart and funny, and so I can see why you'd want her to like you.

"Sam," I respond after a big, deep, mom breath, "What is the very best thing about being you?"

And you don't reply straight away because this is a weird question. You stare down at your hands folded in your lap and you shrug.

"I mean, when are you most happy about being Sam Halpin?" And I over articulate your name like you're a news reporter or a famous musician. And you've still got your head down but I can tell you smirk a bit.

Then your head shoots up and your nose scrunches as you smile and say, "I really am pretty funny."

And I laugh too loudly as you make goofy faces at me in the mirror and then you remind me to "shh!" because Anna is still snoozing away. And we make it through the traffic talking about other things, like Harry Potter and how you wish you had a wicked scar like him.

I'm so glad you still think you're funny, love. Because rejection can make you feel things about yourself that you know, deep down, are untrue. It can make you feel unlovable, unworthy, inadequate.

I will guarantee you rejection in your future - it is inevitable and unavoidable. The beautiful thing about choosing to love others is there are so many lovely people with whom you will choose to do life. And the frightening thing about this is they've got to make the same choice - to choose to do life with you. I'm beginning to realize the greater mystery isn't that we're rejected by one other. Rather, it seems an unlikely mystery to me that it actually happens: people commit to one another. We do it, everyday, and so everyday we're part of a tiny miracle.

When two people decide to get married, when two friends share a commitment of truth and closeness, when a parent chooses to raise a child, all these interactions, all these choices, they are the miracles in our lives.

Right now, you can't imagine that anyone wouldn't choose you. Because you're human, because you have a really great sense of self, and because you can't imagine someone not enjoying that much awesome.

And having someone reject you seems like a stab to the heart - especially from the likes of a Chloe. The Chloe's of the world (in my day, they were Ashley's), they can make you feel like you're just not worthy of time and attention. And if you listen to them, if you choose to trade what you know for how you feel, you might agree with them. And you might forget that you are chosen, everyday, by so many people who adore you.

And we don't just think you're funny. We think you're hilarious. And kind. And hard working. And creative. And so many, many other things.

The rejection (and the Chloe's and the Ashley's) will always be out there. But love? It'll always be out there, too. So my dear, in moments of like these, when someone doesn't choose you, know this:

We see you.

We know you.

We love you.

On True Love

Anna Claire:

One of our favorite after-school activities right now is park hopping. We've found several places we love: one for the slides, the other for the swings, and our new favorite is this beach at the University Lakes.

You love to play in the sand, to walk the lake trails, and you especially love the pelicans, mallards and geese.

Yesterday, you and I spotted a turtle sunning on some floating bark.

I pointed, "Look, Anne, it's a sweet turtle."

"Where?!" You rejoiced. You squealed and he plopped himself in the water and darted away.

"I think I'll name him Anna," you remarked, "Because he really is cute."

I laughed and you sighed, and we moved along.

I love that you saw something cute and called him by name. Your name. You love your name. You love yourself. You think you're smart and funny and fun. And you are. You are good. You were created good, you have a heart that is good and you love with a deep, passionate love that is good.

And I'm determined to nurture this image you have of yourself because I believe this is how God sees you.

Many times, we adults talk about Jesus and God and make it sound like they're not coming from the same place. Like they're in different camps when it comes to grace and mercy and love.

When I was a teenager, I went to a church function where a youth pastor told me that I was the enemy of God. That I was the enemy of God and God was waiting to strike me down - that God has this bow and arrow in heaven and he's been waiting for my last breath so he can condemn me like the forsaken sinner I am.

And then he told me that Jesus stepped in and took my arrow and God killed him instead of me. So now, I was covered with the blood of Jesus, and when God looked at me, he saw only the blood of his son. And I was forgiven. And then he made us all sing "Amazing Grace" and asked us why God would save wretches. He asked, "Did God get what Jesus Paid for?"

And even at fourteen years old I thought this was crazy. And I hated that he ended the sentence with a preposition. Neither sat with me the right way.

Because I had no idea, up until this point, what a terrible, lost, unhappy, miserable wretch God thought I was. And I had no idea that I was somehow in need of saving.

Because I didn't grow up in church; just with loving parents that told me that I was good, that God loved me, and I was enough, just the way I was.

And I think this church guy felt pretty good about himself. Because he made us all close our eyes and make people raise their hands if they didn't want to be considered enemies of God anymore.

And some people did. They raised their hands, wiped their teary eyes and prayed a prayer that I guess magically got them on God's good side and so he could point his arrow at somebody else.

And I walked away from church and God for quite some time after this, because I was surrounded by teenagers and even grown people who all saw themselves as unworthy of love and acceptance. And there was a lot of shaming and silence and secrecy and judgement. And that was church.

It took me a while to realize the message I received in this place was not the message. Because I finally realized God doesn't have to think like those people and I don't have to accept this theology as truth.

Do you know what I think, Anna? I think God sees us just the way you see yourself right now, at three years old.

I think God marvels at his creation: I think he or she revels in what she's created and says, "Yes. You are good." And I think the sorrow he feels isn't because we sin or screw up. It's because we find these really tricky ways to live in shame and condemnation and judgement that doesn't come from her. It comes from a place deep inside where we long to know and be known and we forget that we already are known and loved. And we have this capacity to know and love God, others, and ourselves.

And I think the message of Jesus was just this - he saw a woman dragged from a tent that was not her own with a man that was not her husband and she was surrounded by shamers who wanted nothing more than to use her infidelity to trap Jesus into breaking the law. And instead of pointing fingers at them or her, he just began to ask questions. Questions of the accusers, questions of the woman, and freed them all from condemnation - condemnation of the self and condemnation of the other. He freed them, not by convicting, but by asking really great questions about who they were and what they wanted.

This doesn't sound like the message of a God or a teacher who want to shame and condemn. This sounds like a beautiful and gentle reminder that we are known and loved and we don't have to live in shame and abandon.

Shame and abandon don't come from God. And it didn't come from Jesus. It comes from us - we do this to each other and ourselves. It tears us apart and makes us broken. We break ourselves and live in this brokenness and the worst part is we were made in the image and likeness of a God who lives in us and breathes through us and we choose to see ourselves as lost.

So, Anna, know this, my dear sweet girl: you are known and loved by a God that wants nothing other than to marvel in you. Who wants nothing more than to see you live a life of freedom and goodness and mercy. Who wants to dance with you and twirl with you and see the world with you and call it good.


You are known and you are loved. And you are enough.

On Fits

Sammy Boy,

You saw me at my very worst this Sunday. My. Very. Worst. And this is one of those childhood memories I hope you  conveniently forget. I pray when you sift through your schema as an adult, this one slips through and falls right down the drain.

Me at my very worst happened at Wal-Mart. We needed some things we couldn't get anywhere else. Granted, we could've traipsed over to Lowes for a shower head and then to the grocery store for some vinegar and yeast, and then back over to another store for dry-erase markers. But I figured it'd just be easier to hop over to the Wal and take care of all our business in one place.

You warned me, too. As we pulled into the parking lot, you said, "Mom, we're at Wal-Mart?".
"I know, I know." I sighed. "But we've got a list of some weird stuff and this is the only place I can think of to get it all."

You side-eyed me with a look that says "okay, but..."

I interrupted your thoughts with a "let's just get it over with before your sister wakes up" because she was still napping in the back seat. I heaved her out and put her, with a pillow, in the basket (classy - Wal-Mart classy). We pushed through the thongs of Sunday shoppers like the frogger in traffic, hopping from isle to isle, avoiding the onslaught and our imminent demise. We made record time, really - it was about 25 minutes, we stuck to our list, and we made our way to the front of the store.

I hope Wal-Mart is but a terrible thing of the past by the time you read this, Sam. But like an unsightly wart, I feel like the Wal is here to stay, unless surgically extracted. There's so much press about this chain - this superstore giant. They don't pay a fair, living wage, they buy cheaply made products from sweatshops in China and India, and they still pay women less than men. And I have so many reasons to hate this place. The reason I hate it the most, though? They give appearance of convenience and ease while existing in perpetual chaos and frustration? Case in point - the checkout.

There are about 30 checkout lanes. Sounds pretty good, right? People can move through quickly, no one is overworked or has to wait? Only, most Wal-Marts with these 30 lanes only actually open about 6 of them. On a Sunday.

The lines snaked and coiled around the front of the store - a nest of vipers, and the shoppers? They were all ready to strike.

"Sam. Sam? Come this way. This line is shorter."
"How can you tell? They all link together?"
You were right. In fact, I couldn't tell how to get in line. I couldn't see how to intersect and really, I couldn't even get past the cart to backside traffic to get into another line.

"This is crazy." I heaved. "I don't understand how this is even happening right now."
The woman I was  attempting to pass in order to find another line laughed a bit. Not like a "oh, I feel you girl" laugh. No, it was like a "don't act like this isn't a normal Saturday at the Wal-Mart" laugh. A "What do you think this is, Target?" sarcastic huff.

"I'm sorry, could we just get through. We don't want in your line, I promise." And I meant it. I did not want to cut in line or to have her line or whatever. What I wanted was to get out of that hell. What I wanted was to get into a time machine and go back an hour and do what I knew I should've done in the first place - NOT GO TO WAL-MART. But here we were.

I could've been graceful and thoughtful and used this as an opportunity to show you patience and camaraderie in a tough situation. But, of course, I didn't.

As the sarcastic sally moved her cart from the center of the isle so we could pass, giving us just enough room to squeeze through, another full-cart hauling, crushed velvet track suit wearing, scrunch clad madwoman darted through our cart slot like a bat out of hell, nearly clipped you and hit our cart.

"NO, please. We're obviously in your way." I don't think she was expecting me to say anything. In all truth, I don't think she saw us at all - the whole front of the store was so cramped it's possible she couldn't see us.

"Oh, I'm sorry" she whipped around. "I'm just trying to get through."

"Yes, yes. I think we all got that. So let's just be a little careful." I shouldn't have said but did.

And the sarcastic sally was now more elated than ever to have a Jerry Springer moment at the Wal-Mart. Wouldn't that just make her line time light up?

Now, Sammy if you've moved far from the the south, this little conversation may not seem as venomous as it actually was. But you see, we southern women don't argue with words - we let our tones do the talking. And trust me, people have tussled over stronger than these. Never forget - I'm pretty sure the Texas succession was all on account of somebody not sayin' "please" at tea.

Sure enough, however, I walked away, disappointing sarcastic sally and leaving the madwoman giving me the stink eye and mouthing things I was pretty sure you shouldn't hear.

We finally arrived in another line and thirty minutes later, we, the madwoman, and even sarcastic sally left the hell that is Wal-Mart.

And now, I should've apologized to you. I should've found some way to teach you something good and wholesome. But, of course, I didn't.

No. Instead, I chose to impart this wisdom:

"Sam." I sighed. "The next time mom says, 'Hey, buddy. Let's just go to Wal-Mart,' I want you to remind me that Wal-Mart is where dreams go to die."

And at six, you smirked at me and only replied "you got it."

I don't have any real wisdom for you here. I know I shouldn't have thrown a fit. I can't clean this up and make it look good. All I can tell you is that there are places and people who bring out your best self, and there's Wal-Mart. It may seem like a great idea to avoid extra stops and travels and just go someplace that advertises ease but let me tell you, it comes at a great cost to you, even if it promises low, low prices.

Find people and places that make you your best self, that advocate you being your best self. And if you find yourself lazily wandering back to the dungeons, have a travel buddy that'll remind you of the last time.

On Owning your Faults

To the both of you:

I won't pretend to know who you'll choose to be when you grow up. Either of you. Parents tend to make predictions: to see one trait or another in their children and select this particular trait and say "Look, there he is - there's my little _________ (fill in that blank with whatever you'd like: boxer, librarian, doctor, CEO, salesman.)." And that's mostly fine, but I'll tell ya, it can also be a real trap.

By now, you've gotten to know me and your dad pretty well. And you probably know that we are polar opposites in so many ways. We've picked up a lot of labels along the way: I'm the extrovert, he's the introvert. I'm the creative one, he's the thinker. I'm the party and he's the meditation. I'm the fighter and he's the peacemaker.

And these labels are mostly true. For instance, did you know your dad and I both only got into one fight each as kids? Only one fight for dad (in the third grade) and only one for me (in the first grade).

According to your dad, his one and only brawl went a little like this:

Some kid got mad at him for a reason he wasn't sure of and told him he wanted to fight him. Your dad said no. The kid punched your dad. Your dad walked away. The end.

A natural peacemaker, that dad of yours. Even as a nine year old boy, he knew nothing good came from slugging each other around and he just walked away. And since you know your dad, you know this is a true story - he just seems like the kind to walk away from a fist-fight. He didn't lose face with the other kids, either, because it's not like he lost - he just didn't engage. And that kid never bothered your dad again.

And then there's me. You see, my one and only fight went down just a little differently. There was this boy who liked to chase me around the playground. Everyday, he'd chase me and chase me. And I know what you're thinking: he just liked me, right? Well, he was big and the only other boy to ever chase me in my life was your Uncle Josh. And when he caught me, I usually got pummeled, so I couldn't take the chance with this boy.

Well, one day this big boy caught up to me. And he pulled me to the ground and my skirt flew up. Then he hollered "I can see your underwear" and pointed at my bloomers, laughing. And his friends (who I guess chased him while he chased me. I don't know what first grade boys do.), they all pointed and laughed and I guess that was just too much for me.

So I stood up and punched him in the stomach. And then he doubled over and I kicked him the one place your grandmother told me never to kick my brother. And I kicked him again, and again, and again.

And his friends stopped laughing. And I said, "Don't you ever touch me again. And you're too slow to chase anyone else, so give it up." And I kicked the playground gravel at his face and walked away.

Kids, I'm just a natural fighter. I am. If I feel threatened or see injustice, my natural inclination is to punch and kick and scream my way out of it. It's a reaction, really. It's my instinct.

And I've hated it. Honestly, I wish I could be more like Dad. I wish my first thought was to bring peace. But it isn't.

I've been a slave to anger in the past: I've chained myself to experiences and circumstances that fueled that anger and gave it legitimacy and purpose. And I've seen the world through very angry eyes. But there comes a time in life where you just have to choose whether that does any good anymore. And I am learning, very gradually, it doesn't do any good to fight for fighting's sake.

If I accept this part of myself I hate and see it and know it, I can choose something else.  I can learn to appreciate the fight within me and I can train myself to use it wisely. Slowly, my anger and fight has turned into something else - a passion for helping and nurturing and growing. It's my source of innovation and allows to take some pretty big risks I'd otherwise be too afraid to take.

Your dad and I have tried really hard not to give you two labels. We don't want to you think you're one way or another because that's what we've identified in you. We want you to choose who you are - what parts of yourself to cultivate and train and what parts need refinement. That's up to you. All we're planning to do is support you in your journey to craft yourself and give you an "attaboy" or an "are you sure?" along the way.

The fight within me is still there. It'll never go away, and now I really don't want it to. I like knowing there's a fire in my belly. So, if you're like me - if you've got it, too, don't worry. You can choose to use your fight for something good and beautiful.

I just want you to know you don't have to be a slave to your faults. And you were created to use those faults, not just deny them or cast them aside because they're not manly or ladylike or proper or even beneficial. Because maybe they're not faults at all. Maybe they're just trainable traits you can use for the good.

On Loss

Dear Anna Claire,

I must begin first by apologizing to you. Everything you're about to read is entirely my fault.

Your brother cherishes his teddy bear. He's had it since he was born and, though he's received many a stuffed animal gift, he has always adored this little teddy. He sleeps with it even now (at six), and your dad and I always thought you'd  have no favorite.

You see, you have always loved all your stuffed animals without much discretion. One moment you're into the dolphin, the next you're carting around an elephant. This was, until, the unicorn.

For your third birthday, your Aunt Sara bought you the most adorable, sparkly polka-dotted, wide-eyed unicorn I've ever seen. If I were you, it'd be my favorite, too.

You took this thing everywhere. From the grocery store to Sunday School, this little bundle of joy was your left-hand conspirator (I hope you're still left-handed. Just because I think it's awesome.).

And here comes the sad, sad story. One Saturday afternoon, your brother, you, your unicorn, and I all set off to the hardware store to buy sand for your sandbox. And as fate would have it (and as is statistically the most probable scenario for parents everywhere), as soon as we loaded four hundred pounds of play-safe sand onto a dolly, you clutched that unicorn and said,

"Unicorn needs to go potty."

"Of course she does." I sighed glancing at that four hundred pounds and then to the opposite corner of Lowes, toward the bathroom I'd visited many times. But this time, I was alone with you and your brother (and that unicorn), and four hundred pounds of sand.

So off we went. And in the restroom, you decided you had to go, too, and handed me your unicorn for safe-keeping. I stuffed it into my purse and we finished all our business. We paid for the sand, loaded it into the car, and started for home.

Three blocks away from our house, it dawned on your brother the unicorn was nowhere in sight.

"Mom, Anna's unicorn is not it in the car."
"Oh, it's in my purse." And I glanced over and that purse was missing a unicorn.

I took some time at the stoplight and looked under the seat. No unicorn. Sam had scoured the back. No unicorn. In the rear-view mirror I watched the realization come to your face: your unicorn was gone.

"My UNICORN!" You were horrified.
"Anna, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I said.
"We just have to go back." Sam resolved.

And as I turned the car around, you began to panic. Sam did his very best to calm you: told you he'd be the team leader and we'd go back and we'd find it. We would. Because he was just sure nobody would take a unicorn in a store filled with dad stuff. Who'd do such a thing?

While we drove the 25 minutes back, I spoke with the gem of a lady in Customer Service who, without empathy and quite annoyed I was wasting what I'm sure was her full and busy day, told me there was no way she could help me. We went back to the store and (surprise, surprise) we scoured every inch of that place without finding your unicorn. And how you cried. It wasn't the cry of a petulant child. It was sorrowful and devastated and honest. Your heart was broken.

I had a real choice to make in this moment. I could've turned toward the nearest Target and replaced that unicorn without a second thought. It would've been so easy to turn your sadness into happiness in an instant. And I probably should have: you didn't lose the unicorn, I did. And it would've erased your pain. You would have been so relieved and gleeful.

But I didn't. I let you experience loss. And I'm not sure that was the right move. You see, even now as I type this, I think that was a terrible thing to do to you.

And so now, if you're fuming, or if your recurring dream of searching for a magical unicorn suddenly makes all too much sense, know that I was totally wrong. I admit it. Your therapist will be pleased - it really is the mother's fault.

But here's what I really hope happens. I hope you know I don't ever want to cause your pain. But I did. And you weren't angry at me at all. You were too busy mourning your loss. And this was two weeks ago and this morning you woke up and said, "Mom, my unicorn." That's all you said. You mentioned that loss at least once every day for about a week. Then, every other day. And you remember the feeling of losing something (for you, someone) you love desperately. And the absence leaves you searching for your friend.

This is your first loss. I can promise you it won't be your last. Loss sucks the air out of the room and leaves you doubled-over, gasping for breath. Loss is visceral and real and makes your body ache. And your brain scrambles around attempting to do what the brain does best: trying to make sense of something that does not ever make any sense. Ever. Loss doesn't get easier and it doesn't go away. It is the most terrible and painful part of living.

You felt your first loss at three years old. And  I will never forget. But in your loss, the last thing I want you to believe is that I can fix it. I don't want you searching for some solution. Because the brain is a powerful thing: it stores every moment of our lives and gives us these attachments and strings that guide us back and back until we reach that moment where it all began. And your first loss could have been fixed. But fixing this loss might just mean you'd be hoping I could fix your second and your third and your fourth. And maybe this wasn't the best time to teach you. But maybe it was.

And I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I caused you great pain and loss and didn't fix it even though I could have. I let you feel pain and loss and I still don't know if that was the right thing to do. But I do know this: parenting means I will screw up and I will make mistakes. And sometimes, those mistakes are easy to spot and others, well, other times they just aren't. I will not always do what is best for you and for that, I cannot apologize enough.

But here's my promise: I will always try. I will always think and reason and feel toward what is right and best for you. It will not always be what is easiest or prettiest. But it will always come from a place of love.

I want you to know that in your loss, you showed great grace and forgiveness. You hugged me while you cried and your brother was your champion, scouring the aisles and even asking if we could search a third time around the vast expanse of hardware and garden hoses. He adores you. And so do I. And in your loss, I hope this is the moment your brain and heart remember. I hope you remember that while we didn't fix it, we loved, and we hugged, and we mourned with you.