Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 22

For Mothers Who Make

This is a post for mothers who make. Make whatever -- art, soup, nonprofits, gardens, buildings, plays – it doesn’t matter. This is for you. Especially when you want to make free, not as a child of Donna Reed or Martha Stewart, but just a child of your own creative heart and your God. This is a post for mothers who are hungry for the work of their own hands.

Be encouraged!

I know how hard it is. Believe me. I’ve lived every end of it, from the brave days when I packed my babies with me into design meetings, to the isolation of a stay-at-home-mom with kids too young to talk. I’ve lived the busy, and the frantic, and the excruciatingly boring. I’ve lived the can’t-ever-ever-get-a-moment-to-concentrate. And I know that day when all you want is to drink one cup of coffee hot and you can’t even get that.  

So, here’s the first thing we have to do. This is number one: tell the truth. Tell the truth to ourselves and each other that this is hard. It doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It doesn’t mean you’re selfish. And it doesn’t mean you’re not praying hard enough. 

What it means, really, is that everything about this life is hard. We’ve got some magnificent illusions that convince us otherwise, but all those illusions fall apart at the beginning and the end of our lives, when we’re fragile and unmade. Birth and death remind us of things we’ve forgotten, about where the ultimate power lies, and how temporary each one of us is, really, and honestly, a crying baby absolutely must be kept out of the halls of power, because the power of birth and death makes those halls look like sandcastles. Mothers and sometimes fathers of young children have to carry this dissonance on our backs. And that is not a joke.

Let’s tell the truth. 

And this is number two: pain happens anyway.  

There is no parent who gets through this without hearing our child wail: in grief and in physical pain and in frustration. I’ve been known to make some frantic paces trying to get the pain to stop, but I can’t. 

I hate that. 

But it is what it is. Do we spend our days trying to carpet the entire earth? Or do we wear shoes? Learn and teach how to live in the grief, work in the frustration, heal in the physical pain. Learn how to be the broken people we are, because that doesn’t go away, not with sleeping through the night, not with potty training, not with finally going to school, or even graduation.

If we wait until our children’s lives are free of suffering to do the work we have to do, we will wait until eternity.

This is number three: art is always and always and forever an act of will. 

You may not remember this, but it wasn’t easy before you had kids, either. Maybe you thought it was, but then it was just the surface stuff, or somebody gave you a gold star and you remember the fun part. I believe that we all want this: the sense of deep satisfaction you get when you make something and are satisfied, when you lean back and you look at your work and say, “That’s good.” To get that, you will always have to engage the will against resistance.

Remember this, when the only way to work is to get up at 5am, or stay up until midnight. Remember this, if you get to your canvas or your keyboard at the end of the day and your eyelids have to be propped open. Remember this if there is only one hour that the little one is asleep and the big one is in preschool and you want that hot cup of coffee so badly, but also somewhere deep within you, you know you need to work. 

Engage the will. You can. Overcome.

And this is number four, the last and the hardest: we have to bend.

It isn’t fair: how women in particular how to go through all these phases: how the power of birth ripples through us, and changes our shape. I can’t write when I’m pregnant. Can’t write at all. And I’ve got some choice words to express my frustration over that. 

But this is real. I am actually different. When blood and bone is being fused into life inside of me. When I have a tiny fragile infant who depends on me for food. I’m different. And then, a few years (or a few minutes!) later, the ripple passes through and I’m just supposed to pick up where I left off. 

This is hard for me. But then I’ve got to go back to number one, and tell the truth. Babies break through our illusions, and the truth is none of us is static and unchanging. Maybe the shell is frozen, but our true selves are in flux. And it would be wise of any of us to learn to bend. 

Bend in the day to day, when the schedule isn’t what you planned, but somewhere in there are always minutes for rest and prayer and creativity. Find those minutes like little secret gifts, like easter eggs. And bend in the year to year, because the time adds up, and your life is made up of all those moments.

Mothers who make, be encouraged. The whole ride is ugly and rough and excruciatingly beautiful. But it is exactly what we are here to do. And all we can do is give our best.

// 

Esther Emery was once a freelance theatre director in southern California. Now she is pretty much a runaway, living off the grid on three acres of Idaho mountainside. She pursues creativity and authentic life, and writes about it at www.estheremery.com.

how will you feed the river?

A few months ago, I thought to myself that I could write about two to three posts a week. Maybe even more during weeks where I felt particularly prolific.  

Now here I am, writing less here than I've ever written before and it's okay with me.  I think I've finally let go of that expectation to be someone here. 

I know this may surprise you. 

Maybe it doesn't? 

In any case, I've let go presumptions about my place here in the blogosphere and allowed myself to simply be—it's a great place to rest.

I imagine my posts will continue to morph into something completely different than where I was a year ago. I imagine I'll continue to write about writing [because I can't help the meta] and there will be many, many posts about how my creativity intersects with my faith. 

But I'm okay with who I am here. Finally. I'm okay with the once-or maybe-twice a week posts and on good weeks maybe-four. I'm okay with the guest posts on Saturdays from the women in Story Sessions who are working out what it means to be a mom and creative. I'm okay with finally stepping back and letting others take the place I so wanted to fight for and cling to less than six months ago.  

Because here's the thing: I'm not that person.  At my core the INFP-ness oozes discomfort at the soapboxes and the yelling and the twitter fights and the drama that happens on the internet. And if you are that person who loves to get in the middle, who loves to shout loud that it's just not fair and people need to listen and why aren't you engaging in that hashtag?! then be you.  

I'm learning this: we all feed the River. And so I need the fighters. I need the peacemakers. I need the poets. I need the feminists. I need the artists. I need the cynics. I need the hopefuls. I need the Millenials and the Baby-Boomers and the Gen-Xers and every one in between.  

You all make my words better. You make my characters rounder. You firm up my belief and quiet the roar of worry sunk low in my chest.

.::. 

At the beginning of August, I went live with registration for the fall session of Story101. I didn't know what to expect. The summer session blew me out of the water with the response and so would I need to aim for higher numbers? Expect a rush of people to sign? Would I even need to limit the amount of people to join? 

I've had a few sign up. As soon as I went live with the link there were those who signed up immediately.  

But in the past week and a half, as I've upped the game with my "marketing" and trying to convince people to just sign up, I've realized two things ::  

- I'm absolutely exhausted
 - A grand total of zero have registered for the course

I remembered this morning, as I shoved my head in my hands and wondered what I was doing wrong, that for the summer session, the magic happened when I just let it go. I sat on our couch and told my husband, "I don't know how to get these seats filled..." And he looked at me and smiled.

"Don't worry about it. People will sign up. I know it." 

The next morning I had fifteen new people. By that evening I added twenty total—twelve more than I expected.

.::. 

My life is not meant for cold calls and rejection slips. Some of you will need to go this route. I understand.  

I'll need your steady hand in moments where my feet just can't find the ground. 

But I choose to go the route of mysticism and things happening that just don't make sense.  This breathes life to me. This speaks movement.

Hope. Promise. 

Allowing the space for divine connections and the season for magic and that mystery-induced laughter of how in the world did I get here?  — this catches my breath.

It's how I feed the River. Mystic and hopeful, creative with a dash of monastic. How will you? 

the tree.

I saw the tree yesterday when I walked out back to let the dog chase some birds around our small yard. 

Its leaves are green—even in this humid yet dry central Texas summer. Every season the leaves turn. The dark green of spring makes way to an eventual light dusting in the summer. In the fall, the leaves break away from the branches, bright oranges and reds sprinkling the lawn around the base. In the winter, the limbs reach toward the sky, a yearning for new life.

I think this is what drew my attention to the tree a year ago.  

I snapped a photo of her then, thinking of the change I could feel in the breeze and the transitions I saw in the color. I remember breathing deep and letting out the tension slowly—because in the middle of summer doldrums, sometimes you can just feel the exhale of cooler air. 

I took the picture days after our very first referral and weeks after signing with my agent. The contrast of leaves beautifully indicative of our changing fortune. A mother had chosen us. An agent had picked me.  

In other words, things were looking up, ol' Sport. I wanted to mark the time. Stand witness. 

.::. 

So yesterday, as I sat in one of our withering porch chairs and stared at the leaves beginning to change against the backdrop of lush green,  I closed my eyes against the breeze brushing my skin.

Sometimes, hope really is a revolutionary patience. 

You know what these seasons have been like for me. You know the fall broke me and pushed me into the great winter of discontent. Spring breathed new life—for a spell—and then summer dried that hope right up, right when I was about to grab it whole.

And these are just the things you know. The disappointments I chose to share. The betrayals I held open for you to see.  

.::. 

I've had more than a few people tell me "Elora you can be so hard to read sometimes..." and part of me laughs when I hear those words because for someone who feels everything and fears the twist of a lip can reveal my deepest secret, it's good to know I can hold on to a few things.

Even though I can't hold on to anything. The leaves still fall—remnants of what was and what I hoped would come.  

I think of time and seasons. I think of the tree, still standing there in spite of storms thrashing against it and the way the wind makes the leaves seem alive with song. That's what I want. To feel alive even in the midst of the messiness of every day life—even through the storms and the changing seasons and what they don't bring. Because these branches in my heart will always be reaching toward the sky, bare and begging, hoping for some kind of new life waiting in the next breath.

how do you answer?

“Do you have children?”

It’s an innocent question, really. One people ask in order to make conversation or to begin to get to know you a little better. Ever since Seth was made in the image of Adam, we’ve been defined by our progeny, and people seek out your status in relation to them as a way of putting in place the edge pieces of a puzzle. It frames the picture.

My husband has taken to responding to that question simply. “No,” he says, and the conversation moves on.

But I have a writer’s mind and a mystic’s heart and I can’t leave the question simple and untroubled.

“That’s a complicated question,” I respond.

I’m not being cruel or rude. I’m not setting out to make my questioner—who has, with great courage and naïveté, stepped into a much larger story than who gave birth to whom—feel awkward. I’m insisting on particularity, relationship and the creativity of God. I’m insisting on the existence of a certain fellowship of women, and my membership in that group. And I’m remembering our children, wherever they are.

There are a lot of women out there like me, you see. Women for whom the question, Do you have children?, is complicated and requires quick calculations—who is asking, are they safe, can they handle something beyond the obvious, how am I holding my own story today? Although I don’t carry this grief myself, I stand beside sisters who have carried children within but never without, sisters who have held babies only to bury them, sisters who ache for children they will never hold. And I stand beside sisters who, like me, mother children they bear but didn’t birth, children who stay the weekend or the week, children who came into our lives suddenly, without the transition of birth, and became ours but not-ours. 

I am a step-mother to three adopted children, and a step-grandmother to one, adorable grandson. Altogether, my (adult, mind you) children have six parents and twelve grandparents, not including the in-laws. I came into their lives when they were 16, 17 and 21. I am my husband’s second wife, and he was the second husband to his first wife. He adopted all three of her children, giving them his name and a new middle name that reflected God’s heart for them, a name that they arrived at together through prayer.

For the most part, my children, my motherhood are both invisible and qualified. I spend a lot of time and creative energy thinking about how to love my kids well, how to honor their other parents, how to be a part of their lives without being intrusive, wondering about things like if I should have started that clause with calling them “my” kids. Looking at the life that my husband and I lead, you wouldn’t necessarily know that we have children (except for the college loans.) But the space they inhabit within me is larger than anyone would imagine.

I wonder sometimes if step-parenting is like a reverse pregnancy. In place of waiting and preparation, you are suddenly, irrevocably a mother. There are no baby showers, no intrusive questions about birth plans, no physical transformation to mark this entry into parenthood. You have a child. You are a mother. 

The labor pains that mark your children’s entry into you don’t build slowly. The beginning is bloody and painful, full of the screaming and thrashing that accompanies transition. And yet, because your children are coming into you and not out, there is no one there telling you to push, no one holding your hand saying, “Just one more big one!” This is a place navigable only by breathing, a silent, lonely struggle to manage the pain and accept what has already come. The work of making space within.

In time, the labor stops, sometimes with the rush of water, sometimes, surprisingly, it is only after weeks without a contraction that you notice it is gone. Holding your fullness, the gift of this new parenthood, becomes a little easier, even though you feel like you’re waddling around, carrying lives that no one else can see. You feel large, awkward, unable to get comfortable in this new life. But it’s in you, pushing around your internal organs, creating constellations of care in this negative space within that no one, not even you, can see.

It takes a lot longer than nine months, but eventually the bearing becomes less awkward, takes up less space inside. Or, perhaps the reverse is true: you have come to a place where the fullness has consumed you instead, the love and grace have expanded from within to the place where they no longer push against your ribcage but instead are your ribcage, your womb, the blood pulsing through your veins. This new life within you, this holding of these children who are both yours and not yours, has become you, and it is you who have been reborn. 

The trick of invisible motherhood is that it is negative space. At the end of this reverse pregnancy, you are still yourself as far as anyone else can see. And it is easy, so easy, to become convinced by this invisibility either that you haven’t changed at all, or that you must continually act, reach out, prove you have changed, that you are, indeed, a mother. Both of those temptations grip me regularly, and just as regularly I succumb, striving to demonstrate that I love my step-children or falling into the despairing place that tells me I am not a mother, after all.

Now, trace back over these words. Instead of mother, insert the word “writer” or, if you prefer, “artist.” Let the questions of children become questions of art. Have you published? Are you famous? Are you, really, an artist?

How do you answer? How do you live?

I dance this invisibility in front of you, because I live it both ways. I am an artist. I am a mother. The gift, the pain of step-mothering is that each day I must choose to believe. Each day I must consciously embrace the life that’s made it’s way into me from the outside, and I must own that these things aren’t just roles, that I’m not less than because I don’t fit the way the world believes that mothers are made. In the same way, I must own my words—artist, mother, I must let the worlds within me fill me until I am speaking creation into being, remade in the image of God, letting word tumble upon word until all things are made true once more, the rifts made whole, the life restored.

How will you answer?

How do you live?

Do you have children?

 //

 Tara M. Owens, CSD is an author, speaker and spiritual director living in Colorado Springs with her husband, Bryan, and their rescue dog, Hullabaloo. She blogs on her ministry website at Anam Cara Ministries, where she comes alongside others to facilitate healing and soul care through the work of spiritual direction. She is also the Senior Editor of a spiritual formation journal founded by Larry Crabb, David Benner and Gary Moon called Conversations Journal. She has a book coming out in 2014 with InterVarsity Press. You can follow her on Twitter at @AnamCaraTO or @t_owens.

because i'm into you, july.

Sunset cruise off Rockport beach. 

books read ::  

An Abundance of Katherines - Creating story out of a math equation. Brilliant. I gave this one five stars, mostly because I was deeply relieved it wasn't one of his more depressing books. It's funny and heart-warming, though. Highly recommended. 

Faking It - This is the second in the Losing It series and I liked this better than the first one (go, Cora!). A darker story led to characters who seemed more human.  

Eleanor and Park - My favorite book of the year so far. Haunting, hilarious and has an ending that makes me swoon with the messiness. 

Risking Everything - A few months ago, I asked the poets of twitter which books they'd suggest for poetry. This title was offered, and since it includes my word for the year, I figured it was a sign. I loved this book. So many of the poems spoke directly to those deep spaces I hadn't found words for these past few weeks.

Of Poseidon - Fun little YA about mermaids. I mean, come on. It's summer. Great beach read. I'll check out the rest of the series

The Artist's Rule - One paragraph in and I was in tears. Two pages in and I decided to organize the entire Story201 course around this book. If you write, if you paint, if you consider yourself an artist in anyway, get this book. 

Anathema - I met K.A. Tucker via twitter and have linked to a few of her other books here. Anathema was her first and such an incredible twist on the typical vampire tale. Fans of Discovery of Witches would enjoy the story. 

The Liturgical Year - Coming from a place where I knew nothing of the liturgical calendar, I loved this book. Highly recommended, especially if you want to learn more.  

The Rock That is Higher: Story as Truth - This was definitely not my favorite Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water takes that position. But there were some really good sections in here I appreciated. 

 books still reading :: 

East of Eden, John Steinbeck (my yearly re-read)
To Bless the Space Between Us, John O' Donohue
The Cloister Walk, Kathleen Noriss
Penguins and Golden Calves, Madeleine L'Engle
remembered rapture, bell hooks
The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron
The True Secret of Writing, Natalie Goldberg
City of Bones, Cassandra Clare
Lean In, Sheryl Sandberg

(yes. I realize this is a long list. I'm multi-tasking. Or something.)  

for the love of poetry ::  

In the time of great tension of splendor, 
I knew not whether I was joy or grief, 
Whether swung out on madness or belief,  
Or some difficult truth to bend—or
Whether it was the relentless thrust
Of withheld poetry bursting my chest. 

(from The Cold NIght, May Sarton) 

music ::  

Have you heard of Lorde? No? Let me introduce you.  

Also, I've been listening to this playlist  a lot because of well...edits. 

Other good listens - The Neighborhood, Daft Punk's Get Lucky (because duh) and Heroes and Monsters by Penny & Sparrow. 

television ::  

I may have started watching Buffy for the first time ever. The first episode, I giggled because Voldemort. By the third episode, I was convinced that I am hooked and that some series are just meant to watch in their entirety decades after they air.  

I'm also watching Orange is the New Black. Watching this series may take longer than normal because even though it's riveting, it's...intense...and so I can only take one or two episodes at a time. 

What shows are you watching? 

  the internets :: 

Bethany Suckrow with Walking the Tightrope totally sucked the air out of my lungs and broke me a bit  -- "It is scary to feel [hope] because it means I’ve made myself vulnerable and admitted that I want something, and by admitting that I want something, that means I have conjured an expectation and the reality is that expectations can shatter in an instant. And my reality is that the thing I wanted most in life, the prayer I prayed hardest for, the thing I invested all my hope in, withered away in my arms. And try as I might to defy it, I absolutely internalized that experience. My mom died, and the part of me that believed Good Things Can Happen feels dead and buried with her."

And then I read In Which We Do It Anyway from Sarah Bessey and it put me back together kind of --  "Ireneus wrote that the glory of God is man fully alive, and we all need you to be fully alive for your life. It will matter in the world, more than you can imagine or dream perhaps, a ripple effect going on and on, touching the other shore, but it will also matter because you matter. You bear the image of God." 

Also? Read When This is About Insecurity and Writing Books from Preston Yancey because I swear when I read the words because Christians aren't sarcastic or self-deprecating. Ever. I laughed until I cried and then did a Holy Ghost dance because yes. This post rings true. So much.

Finally, please don't miss Ebenezer on the Internet by Seth Haines :: "I am growing weary of the internet and social media. There is the good stuff, no doubt. There is also the clanging clamoring, the ranting and railing, the shaming words. The words. There is no great lack of words for consumption. Words. Words. Words. There are Tweets upon Tweets and statuses upon statuses. Words. Status. Words. Tweet. More words. Status. Tweet. Blog post. My blog post. My tweet. My status. Advertisement. Tweet tweet."

on  the blog :: 

Grief bludgeoned and tangled and burnt away all the pieces that just don't fit. And some of it still hurts. And some places will have scars.  

But I'm done being the poster-child for anything other than what I know He's called me to do. And so I'll write and I'll breathe and I'll love and I'll hope and I'll mother and I'll whisper push-push-push when it's time for your own words to have their birth.  -  Here I Raise My Ebenezer

everything else :: 

Best birthday idea ever? Private party at LUSH Cosmetics. I may do this every year. 

feeling the sand in between my toes and hearing Mama Ocean's roarhappy hour(s) with JR, Antonia and Shaneynew books  planning the curriculum and goodness of story 201, available to those who've completed story 101 and want to write their damn book already.collaborating with some talented writers and dreamers and pushing out an incredible book for those of you with kids, those who want kids and even those without kids  - check it out?sending off a reviewer-made-friend as she leaves the country with tex-mex and a perfect Austin vibeincredible friends who make kick-ass editorsfinishing the edits to Every Shattered Thing and realizing this was the book I was meant to write when I began it four and a half years ago...spending time with the Louthans and #thehappiestboy Eli 

the depth you never knew.

Motherhood took me by surprise in so many ways.

There’s the very literal aspect because neither of my children were really planned.

I was never the type that just loved kids or was really great with kids, so I spent most of my first pregnancy in silent anxiety, crying tears alone, ashamed because I should have been excited but instead I was terrified.  Not because I didn’t want her, but because I was certain I would fail her.

But there was that last push after 24 hours of working on her delivery, and I could not believe that miracle had just come out of me.  They laid her on my chest, and I fell in love.

How could I have known at that precise moment?  How could I have known I wouldn’t get to hold her for hours?  How could I know of tests and pictures and MRIs and surgery on a tiny 3 month old spinal cord?  How could I know of a pile of medical bills so staggering in their totals that they paralyzed me for months before I could face them?  How could I know trying to navigate this season while still maintaining my teaching job in a high stress environment would suck every last drop of life out of me?  How could I know that just as I was beginning to see the slightest glimpse of my sanity returning, I would find out we were expecting number 2?

That window of time, up until baby number 2’s first birthday, is mostly a fog.  If it weren’t for the miracle of photography, I don’t think I would remember much at all.  To say creativity took a back seat at that point is an understatement.  I wasn’t even thinking about any attempt to be creative; I was just trying to survive.

And to the exhausted new mommy out there, feeling bad because she knows she should keep being creative to be healthy for her children but just can’t even muster an ounce of energy, I want to say, Breathe.  It’s ok.

Your story doesn’t have to be just like mine to be overwhelming and daunting in its own way.  Give yourself time.  You will find your creative self again, and it will be sooner than you think. (Definitely well before your children are grown.)

As I reflected on that season, I was surprised when I realized what my survival mechanisms were.  I read.  While I nursed and later when we switched to bottle feeding, I held my babies and read out loud to them.  Psalms.  Poetry.  Winnie the Pooh books.  Pride & Prejudice.  All that time I was too exhausted, still I kept the words flowing.  Still I kept inspiring things in front of me.  (And added bonus: both of my children love books and words!) 

It wasn’t intentional or strategic; it was my soul’s gut instinct.

Now I have an almost 4 year old and a 2 year old.  I’m still tired, although the fog is lifting!  And I have stumbled onto another surprise.

Children offer a portal into creativity unlike any other you will ever experience. The magic of seeing the world through a child’s eyes will unlock deep places for anyone who will pay attention.  Everything is a marvel and a wonder:

The lone flower on a bush in early spring.

The slight shimmer to a bug’s back or wings (something I had never bothered to notice in my eagerness to see them smashed!).

The song of the wind and how it changes when it blows through different sizes of leaves.

The way you can see the clouds moving if you watch very carefully.

The discovery of a new word and how it feels in your mouth as you say it over and over again.

The sounds of all the musical instruments, their unique shapes and sizes and textures.

Perhaps it is now a rare luxury to hide out in a coffee shop with a good book and a journal.  Perhaps the only way now to get through a good book is to stay up way too late.  Perhaps they sometimes prefer something a little more conducive to a crazy dance party than Debussy and Chopin and Brahms.  Perhaps they prefer the silliness of Jabberwocky and Dr. Seuss over Shakespeare (although really, do we ever outgrow loving Dr. Seuss?).

But one day at a time, I am unlocking this secret: as you seek to nurture creativity in your children, you own creativity will be nurtured as well.  It will change shape.  Some days you will have to fight for it.  And yes, some days it will have to sacrificed in order to take care of their needs.  But it does not have to be lost or buried or shelved.

Breathe, sweet mother.  Embrace the seasons as they come.  Open your heart wide, and let those tiny ones inspire in you a depth of creativity you never knew you had.

// 

Adela is a wife and mommy learning daily to find the beautiful in the midst of the ordinary. She blogs at adelajust.wordpress.com. 

.  

 

two types of moms.

Two types of moms tend to garner my attention. First, the supermoms who play and sing and read and craft with their children while making learning an instrument fun and carrying all needed supplies and snacks in an unobtrusive but Mary Poppins-esque tote bag. Second, the well-meaning, unintentional slacker moms who nevertheless convey the important life lesson that love and a sense of humor can help you overcome all manner of logistical mishaps.

However, the real wonder and awe I feel for people who mother creatively often wells up when I consider women I know who are not technically mothers at all. Women who have no biological or adopted children often dig deep into their soul resources and end up mothering others in the best senses of the word, becoming extra mothers, so to speak. Have you known some extra mothers who are generous of spirit in these ways? Perhaps your own mother embodied these qualities and yet you also encountered them in an extra mother or two along the way. Maybe your childhood felt less than idyllic and an extra mother helped you keep alive hope in yourself and your future. Or maybe you didn't realize you wanted or needed an extra mother until she turned up. In any case, extra mothers show forth what we think of as the most desirable aspects of motherhood.

I enjoy seeing extra mothers love unconditionally. Teachers often become extra mothers, walking alongside children in their neediness, whether intellectual, emotional, or physical. These extra mothers have the ability to see past behavior and find root causes, but beyond that, they skip judgment or disapproval and go straight to genuine empathy and care. Grandparents tend to excel at this type of extra mothering. Sometimes a friend's mother offers a listening ear and sound advice. Cartwheel had an extra mother when he lived apart from us; she noticed that he seemed to have considerable free time, and she helped him fill it in her home with her family. Her food, kindness, and love helped Cartwheel make sense of those years.

Extra mothers give of their resources without thought of what it costs them. This is not to say that extra mothers bankrupt themselves or become martyrs, never allowing themselves the same consideration they accord to others. No, extra mothers recognize that authentic relationship is both costly and worth the cost. When giving a tangible gift will help, delight, or re-energize someone, extra mothers give. When attention will refresh another's soul, extra mothers pay attention. An older woman in the church I grew up in never married, but her unfailing kindness to children in the church took the form of encouraging children to become readers and thinkers. I remember her cheerfully taking the time to speak to me about my books (and my life) almost every Sunday. She died years ago, but the children's collection in that church's library is named for her.

Support and encouragement from extra mothers lead to growth and wholeness. Theirs is a love that sees a hopeful future ahead and focuses on long-term development of gifts and talents. I know a woman who never had children, but who earnestly prays for young people and their generation, based on her discernment of issues facing them. This woman teaches Bible study and brings cookies. She does this because she wants to see young people take hold of their own relationships with God and become healthy people in an emotional and spiritual sense, not because she wants to change their diets or have a say in what major they choose. Her care for them, as with many mothers and extra mothers, does not depend on a checklist or completed goals. It becomes even more valuable with hindsight, but these extra mothers inspire us and help us believe we, too, can make a difference in this world. Blossom befriended a woman who inspired her to pray for Children Heads of Household  in one particular region of the world. This dear friend encouraged Blossom's perseverance and also made her feel helpful. Blossom is, however, still a sucker for a good accessory, and she knew she'd found her extra mother when she received a necklace stamped with the imprint of the region Blossom prays for.

Extra mothering is not easy to undertake or to maintain. There are no legal requirements to fulfill, and in a moment of conflict, even extra mothers may need a break. However, extra mothers who love and serve the Lord (and others) keep coming back for more time with "their" kiddos. They employ their gifts as a service, not as showboats. One extra mother I know has prayed that her life would be effective in sharing God's love. Her priorities help her not to get bogged down in a "what-if?" scenario of whether she should have given birth herself. Instead, when young people cross her path in her profession, her warmth and sense of humor draw them to her.

We may dismiss women who are not mothers in a strictly legal sense; often, we do minimize their contributions or even their life's worth. But when we do that, we do extra mothers a disservice.  They are some of the best mothers I know.

// 

Jennifer LeBow is a Native Texan; lover of Jesus; happy wife of Honey, a Diplomatic Security Special Agent; mom of four (mostly) delightful kids: Cartwheel, 21; Einstein, 10; Blossom, 8; and Ladybug, 4; voracious reader, whose appetite for books is reluctantly subjugated to other duties in her life. 

 

here i raise my ebenezer.

I usually feel them coming in the core of my chest. It's a tightening. A shortness of breath.  

When the relief doesn't come, when I don't sit and write and find out what it is I'm supposed to be saying, the pressure takes to my throat.  

Then it just feels like I'm constantly sucking back tears.  

Words have always been a way of release for me. When I was younger, I'd grab my journal and cry the tears of disappointment or frustration or confusion and write to my heart's content. And when I was finished, when my wrists were cramping and my nose was runny and I was choking back the halted breath of finding myself in the way words form, I would close my eyes and rest.  

But lately, I haven't wanted to go there. 

I have stories from these past few months, I just don't want to share them. 

Because if I share them? Then I have to go there. And I don't want to—I don't want you to see my messiness. I don't want your vision to hone in on the vacancy sign blinking in the background of some of my relationships. That's too raw. It's too broken and I've yet to find the holy.

.::. 

I sat across some friends these past few days and they listened as I hemmed and hawed about writing and voice and lack of wanting. 

"I'm so done," I said. "I'm tired of the fighting and the bickering and the pointing fingers and yeah...I'm just tired." 

A friend looked at me and smiled. "But you'll still write. You can't not write. I know this." 

.::. 

Grief bludgeons down the sharp edges.  

The vacancy sign will still blink and I'll have the ache in my chest of wanting to do something but the vitality is missing. The wherewithal to get up and move so friendships are salvaged goes where the sun don't shine and I'm left with wound upon wound because I'm nothing if not consistent.

And I think of the voices telling me I'm believing lies and taking them as my truth and I remember—faintly—the sassiness of maybe I have fight in me yet.  

But then I look at the closet stuffed to the brim with a crib and changer-dresser and swing and baby boy clothes and well...the fight just leaves because if I don't have the answers about that, if I was so wrong about that—where else can I be wrong?

.::. 

Grief tangles you.  

You think you're okay, and then you remember something and suddenly anxiety sucks the air out of your lungs. You can't breathe and you don't know why and you realize it's just your brain playing tricks because surely you can't be making such a big deal out of (fill in the blank). But yet you can't get a grip on things. No amount of baths, walks, journaling, painting or crying will help you level out. 

And when you do? When your heart-rate levels and your vision clears, grief is waiting.  

Because that's when you realize what really happened. Schedules don't negate the hurt. Vacations won't erase the memory. And you'll find yourself sitting in your therapist's office, heaving and snotting and exclaiming and sighing because what the fuck. Why. 

Why and how and when and all of the words but yet none of them because nothing really describes it or comes close to capturing the pain and confusion and messiness of this and that and the monster waiting over there. 

.::. 

And yet, with all the bludgeoning and tangling, grief has a way of refining. 

It doesn't always feel that way. Most days the manic laugh is right under the surface, waiting for the question of "how are you? It's been a month for you guys, huh?"  

But occasionally, and usually when you least expect it, you'll gain the moment of clarity.  

Mine came in a coffee shop across from a friend, when I realized I didn't fit the mold and I was more than okay. I'd rather be a warning on someone's lips than stuffed into a box where I can't even breathe. 

And here's where I wrap everything up and lay out my Ebenezer for you to see.  

You see, I'm learning to let the soft animal of my body love what it loves. And I'm embracing this skin of artist and mystic and I'm the happiest-yet-saddest I've been in a long while.

Here I raise my Ebenezer.  

Grief bludgeoned and tangled and burnt away all the pieces that just don't fit. And some of it still hurts. And some places will have scars.  

But I'm done being the poster-child for anything other than what I know He's called me to do. And so I'll write and I'll breathe and I'll love and I'll hope and I'll mother and I'll whisper push-push-push when it's time for your own words to have their birth.

 

fostering imagination

What is that mystical urge to bring into existence something that lives only in your mind?  And how is it this invisible spark has alighted itself on all seven members of my family, in such obvious ways?  Is it mere genetics?  Does creativity emerge by virtue of stopping at Michael's, where they generously give me bottles of acrylic goodness in exchange for a reasonable donation?

I think creative desires lie in all of us, but they need to be encouraged and affirmed in order to clearly be seen.  Creativity has become a bright thread woven into our family's fabric.  It's not relegated to a single drawer that we open for an hour after lunch.  No, being creative is a messy way of life that overflows the drawers, is strewn across bedroom floors, lines our walls and supports our bodies at night.

Creativity permeates our life, and I asked my kids how it affects them: 

It's fun. - Eli, age 5

Being creative is with your brain.  It's important to have fun.- Sydney, age 6

I draw, we cook, Sydney plays with Barbies and builds homes for them, we build stuff and paint and draw.  It makes us feel good. - Baelin, age 7

It can help you with stuff.  When I try to be creative, Alysa yells at me.  Like, when I use sticks as weapons, she yells at me for no reason. - Aiden, age 10

Sydney is creative by being a drama queen.  Creating is important because otherwise you would die.  Everything would be very, very dull and boring. - Alysa, age 12

As an adult, I know that being creative is part of what it means to be made in the image of God.  I know that living a creative life is more than painting or writing.  But kids don't necessarily know that.  Part of being a parent is pointing out all the ways in which we are creative.  It's showing them how crying incessantly over such trivial things! could be training for acting, or how stick swords can end up as fodder for stories.

Parenting is opening our children's eyes to the fact that there is more to the world than they can see.  There is something deeper that occurs as we begin building the habits of creating in our children.  I want my kids to know that being creative isn't just something you do when you're bored.  It can be a very intentional way of living that can have far-reaching effects.  

But sometimes it looks like affirming creativity is simply prioritizing wasting time.  Are there more important things they could be doing besides wandering outside playing with sticks and building forts?  When a bedroom is messy but they are playing quietly with Barbies, should I make them stop?  

I have to remind myself that so much of seeking creativity is letting them develop interests and maybe grow talent.  But regardless of whether or not they 'do' anything with their creative bents, I hope they never doubt that creativity is important.

One of my goals as a parent is for them to know our creative urges have roots extending back to creation.  They are all enamored with the outdoors, and as we catch insects, watch birds, and grow flowers, they are reminded that God's creativity is more than just coating the world in color. There is usefulness, there is design, architecture, science, math, and yes, art, involved. Creativity crosses educational subjects, and can be encouraged in any way of life.

As my kids grow, I want to teach them that their specific tendencies can be the basis for their life's work.  It is part of my calling as a parent to teach them that the road design their dad does is as creative as the furniture he builds is as creative as the words I write as the paintings they make as the plays they create as the Legos they build with.  As different as each person's mind is, so too, will our creative efforts be.

As my daughter said, when talking about why she builds tents in her bedroom, "If you share a room with a little sister, you have to have an imagination or you'll go crazy!"  And, as George Bernard Shaw said, "Imagination is the beginning of creation.  You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last you create what you will."

// 

Caris Adel is passionate about loving people, defending the oppressed, and being a voice for justice.  She’s been married for 11 years, and with 5 kids, somehow finds the time to write about affirming the humanity at www.carisadel.com.

  

the mystery of it all.

I didn't write much in June. 

I edited some. I scratched a few entries in my journal.  

But write? Yeah no. It wasn't happening. I couldn't wrap my brain (or heart) around words long enough to accurately pen what was going on around me. The words were flying around though, bumping against my heart and begging for some type of release. I wasn't ready though. I didn't have the strength to face it.

I would surf the internet, read some books, fling some paint and the whole time I heard the roar of Silence in my spirit. I needed answers. I needed something pretty to wrap the past few weeks in—but louder than the roar was His quiet breathing as He sat with me during one of the most difficult months I've ever experienced. 

In the middle of all the messiness, I understood a little bit more what it means to have Him as Father.  

And then I got an email from Brandy. You see, I had a deadline looming for  Wild Goslings and the words just weren't there. I couldn't find anything to say about teaching kids the importance of story when I didn't like the Story being laid out in front of me so I was experiencing an excruciating bout of writer's block. As always, she got straight to the point. 

"What do you think about writing something for God as Father?"  

My heart skipped.  

I responded immediately. "Yes. Yes. I'll do it. Done."  

There's probably a really large chunk of my inner writer that recoiled from any type of difficulty in word-forming during those few weeks. And who can blame me? We're all human even on our best days and no matter how many times I tell people to write through something it doesn't change the difficulty level of actually doing it when it's my turn. 

So I grabbed at the chance to write about God being Father because hello, it's been my past year. The words came easy. Fast. Fluid. 

And then, I wrote the last three sentences ::  

"What would happen if you just let Him love you?"  

I know the answer now. The whole world splits open and rests in His arms as He waits for me to join Him on the biggest adventure yet.  

I'm not sure I have the market covered for How to Know When it's Time to Write Something and Share It, but as I wrote these words it felt as if my world split open. I could see them—all the janky bits broken from the past resting in His arms—and there He was smiling. 

I think one of the biggest issues we face as believers is wanting to know everything.

We want answers and black and white categories. We want checklists and to-dos and ways to make ourselves more Holy and well...I just think it's all a bunch of hogwash, really. 

The more I get into this relationship with Jesus, the more I see Him for who He is and what He's done for me, the more I quiet myself so I can hear the Holy Ghost, the more I understand the mystery of it all. And so I cringe when people begin to give me a ten-step process to overcome anxiety or to be a better mom or to get over something devastating. I'm learning, through grief and recovery and allowing Him to just let Him love me, that this whole thing we do—this relationship with Jesus? It's incredibly intimate. It's personal. And I figured I'd be writing these words while bouncing an infant in his carrier but I'm not and I may never know why and finally–finally—it's beginning to be okay. 

This is what I hope to share with our kids one day. A relationship with Christ isn't about rules or regulations or whether or not you meet the monthly quota of [fill in the blank]. It's magic and mystery and breathtaking and hard and worth every minute. And most days?

You won't have the answers but you'll make it because the sound of His breathing will overcome the Silence. Always. 

//  

I'm super, super excited and stupid-proud over what my friends and I have been working on the last few months. Brandy Walker, the brain-child+creator+curator, will be publishing Wild Goslings July 15. Check out the video below ::