From Anger to Glitter

We've all heard it: life is a journey. But can we agree that it's sort of a bummer? Journeys are hard work, uncertain at times, and last a reeeeeeally long time. I'd rather life be a vacation, a party, or a never-ending plate of french fries.

Anyone who I've ever talked to for more than seven minutes knows I'm a fan of therapy. One of the reasons for going was because I was angry. I didn't realize how angry I was until I quit my job and stayed home with my kids everyday. I didn't have anything to distract me and I had everything, er, everyone, to push my buttons. I realized I had a problem when one day I kicked Olive's portable potty across the room because I so frustrated with her. I would call this a really low point in parenting. Not only did it freak her out, but it freaked me out. As if all of this wasn't awful enough, it turns out it wasn't an empty potty. After apologizing, cleaning up pee, and then crying in my room, I knew I didn't want my kids to pay for something that wasn't theirs--my anger issue--so off I went to therapy.

In my first session I was ready to get a bullet-point game plan for how to change my life, and hopefully this would only take a few weeks. My therapist laughed a little and told me it's a journey. Change will come--I can't tell you how or when, but it will come. It always does. I wanted to believe her, but without a syllabus, I didn't know what to do. I wasn't great at rolling with the punches.

It's hard to see change in the midst of the journey; it's so much easier to look back and measure progress. Just the other day, as I set the kids up to play with a concoction of shaving cream, glitter, and confetti, I wondered how I got here. Glitter used to turn me into a Mom-ster freaking out the entire time my kids played with it and then for a few hours after as I cleaned it up. But as I went through therapy I realized that I'm not going to get better if I don't do some intentional "homework assignments" to practice what I was learning. One of these self-induced assignments was a scheduled time for my kids to play with glitter. My goal was to not raise my voice and to not micromanage their craft-time. I think there's a quote out there that says if you don't like someone, you should spend more time with them. I can't confirm that it's an actual quote because I'm the one person in the world that can't figure out how to use Google efficiently. Nonetheless, I felt this way about glitter. I needed to spend more time with her (it's a girl) because I really didn't like her.

Two years later, glitter doesn't make me angry anymore. And actually, I'm a lot less angry in general.  It wasn't the glitter itself that made me feel angry, it was the mess it made (which created a messy house, which ruined the idea of an orderly home--Perfectionism.) and it was the way it went everywhere and stayed everywhere for weeks (which made me feel crazy because I couldn't contain the madness--Control Issues).

And it wasn't just the glitter that helped me become a less angry person. Selling 80% of our possessions when we moved to Mexico was one of the best things that happened to me. And I say happened to me because I'm not sure I would've had the motivation to do it if it hadn't been necessary. My kids have one basket and two shelves of toys; we have 5 dinner plates, 4 knives, 2 sets of sheets per bed, 2 pots, 2 pans, no microwave, no vacuum....you see where I'm going with this. Stuff was making me angry, even though I kept accumulating it because I thought it would do the opposite and make me happy. I no longer have piles of clutter, toys in every nook and cranny, endless dishes, or appliances taking up space. I actually feel lighter and less stressed with less stuff.

I'm a work in progress like everyone else. I desperately need grace, love, and forgiveness everyday, and I can only extend grace to others when I can accept it from the One who freely gives it. Even though this journey, my journey, hasn't been pretty or easy, and it's certainly not over, it's been sparkly. Really, really sparkly.

-M

The importance of pulling a wagon

A few Saturdays ago, we held a Flash Mob Block Party in one part of the Red Light District in Mexico City. I have an aversion to "Outreach Events", for several reasons, the most prominent being the memory of the Reverse Trick-or-Treating event in youth group, circa 1998. Here's how it went down: Instead of participating in the act of wearing a costume and receiving candy from kind neighbors, we were going to flip it and reverse it! So out we went, maybe 10 of us, with a wagon of our own candy and some christian pamphlets. We knocked on the door, and just as the person tried to give us some candy, we declined it, and instead gave them our candy and a little pamphlet about Christianity. I remember staying back, feeling super weird about the whole thing, so I made it my job to pull the wagon because I knew I could at least do that well. But at the end of the night, I didn't feel like I had done anything because the only thing that was praised was the people who went to the doors. No one thanked me for doing a thankless job, which based on the term makes perfect sense. The whole thing was awkward. My chest is getting tight just thinking about it.

So as we were driving to the Block Party, my friend looked over to me and must have gathered that I was feeling nervous based on the rodent-like way I was biting my fingernails, and asked "Hey, how are you feeling?" I was honest and said I was nervous and that these things aren't really my thing. He didn't answer and I didn't say anything else, but I did continue to bite my nails. There were about 75 of us that showed up to be a part of the Block Party [of Love] and I was going to be overseeing and coordinating the manicures. I had a whole system I created of hand-washing, hand-exfoliating, hand-massaging, and nail-painting. Secretly, I was a little nervous to be in charge of this because I am really bad at painting nails. Thankfully there were plenty of people that were capable of both painting nails well and loving people. Whew. Crisis averted. No one was going to walk away looking like a blind-folded 3-year-old painted their nails.

Since I was coordinating the manicures, my experience was just a snippet of what went on that night. Some people invited the prostitutes; some served the food; some ate with them; some heard their stories; some prayed for them; some talked with pimps; some took pictures; some hugged each other; and some cried together. At the end of the night, my one friend, who was one of the people just talking and listening to stories, said "That was SO much fun! I could do this every night!" And I knew she wasn't lying because I saw her at different points throughout the night and I could tell she was loving this, like it was something she was made to do. I also got to watch as my friends gave manicures to many many women. I watched them care for them through washing their hands; I watched them accept them, just as they were; I watched them listening to their stories; I heard them showering them with words of love. It was beautiful.

As I started processing the event I had this small twinge of guilt; this feeling of being not enough. "All I did was coordinate--I didn't do anything important" was the monologue in my head. I thought back to  youth group and realized I had felt the same thing then. I don't like this feeling of not enough--I know it's not true and it's definitely not from God. So as I worked through why I was feeling this way, I realized that I was believing the lie that only big things matter. And I was also believing the lie that I needed to be someone that I am not.


I am really good at coordinating events and I actually really enjoy doing it. I am not really great at speaking spanish or painting nails, so why do I feel guilty about doing something I love doing? If I am only willing to do the things that receive recognition or that seem like a big deal in that moment, am I really being authentic? Is it really out of a heart of service, sacrifice, and love or is out of guilt, pride, and vanity?

And so these are my thoughts, as I am learning to daily shift my inner-monologue from guilt to freedom and my actions go from pride to love: The world needs me to be me; when I live as I actually am rather than what I think I am supposed to be, I, along with others, will experience freedom and joy; it isn't about doing big things for God but doing small things for a really big God; we all possess unique talents and abilities and every single one has value, even pulling a wagon.

That one time I jumped off a boat

I’m not a huge risk taker. Partially because I don’t want to die from something like hitting my head when I jump from a waterfall; but also because I just don’t care that much about jumping off of waterfalls. Which is probably why I don’t want to die that way—don’t we all want to go out with a bang, doing something we love? So if I die while talking or reading a memoir, I’m okay with that.

I feel this pressure though, to seize the moment, and participate in these “once in a lifetime” opportunities. I live in Mexico City. I’m surrounded by so much history, art, nature, and culture that I should be soaking in everyday. However, I’ve been to three places so far in these first 9 months, two of which ended with one of our kids yakking in the backseat of the car. Not cool. For this reason, and my low level of excitement for things like “ruins”, otherwise known as a pile of rocks, we’ve stayed pretty close to home.

Also, this one time I complied and did the Once-in-a-lifetime activity, which was jumping off the side of a boat in some crystal clear ocean in Brazil, where I could literally see 2-foot starfish just hanging out at the bottom, most likely waiting to attack me. I agreed to it for three reasons: It was our anniversary and Alan really wanted to make a memory or something; I thought I’d finally have some story to share when everyone else talked about swimming with sharks and climbing volcanoes. It seemed of the same caliber; and it was a Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Little did I know, I would get two stories out of the experience. Yay...

First, I had to put my bathing suit on in the tiniest boat bathroom I’ve been in. In related news, it is the only boat bathroom I’ve been in. Back then, I wore a two piece. I have no idea why—I always felt super uncomfortable in it, but I was 20-something so I guess I thought I was supposed to. Mistake number one. Then, Alan and I announced to some people on our team (we were on a Mission Trip) what we were about to do, so they got the cameras ready and stood by to watch this romantic Anniversary Plunge. Mistake number two. We held hands, counted down, and JUMPED! Mistake number three.

 I realize the water looks dark in this picture.
It's only dark compared to our pasty white bodies.

I should’ve stuck with my first 7 answers of “No thank you. I really don’t want to jump.” But I got sucked in by this once-in-a-lifetime stuff and did it anyway. God gives women, specifically, a sixth sense. We can feel when things are a little off. I ignored this warning. Mistake number four. As we went down under the water, so did my bathing suit bottoms. Like, to my knees. I’m not sure if you’re following me or not--the water was *crystal clear*. Oh, and people were watching. Remember that? I whip around, yank my bottoms up and sheepishly announce what just happened. I figured it’s better for me to acknowledge what had happened rather than pretend the starfish didn't just see my bid'ness—it makes it less embarrassing, right?

As I was facing the boat, announcing this embarrassing, but not-too-embarrassing moment, I looked down to make sure my bottoms were secure. In that moment, I learned that not only did my bottoms fall down, but so. did. my. top. My top was not doing it’s job. It has one job and it was not doing it. The entire time, which was probably 6 seconds but felt like 6 minutes, that I was explaining about the mishap with my bottoms, I was flashing my fellow teammates in *crystal clear water*. Everything is a blur after this. I remember seeing my teammates walk away, not saying anything. I'm pretty sure a laugh would’ve been better than a silent walk off.

This pretty much solidified that I don’t care about once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. The following year, when we went to Costa Rica, I refused to cave in when everyone told me that zip-lining through a rainforest was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I could only imagine which article of clothing would rearrange itself, exposing something I’d rather not, hundreds of feet in the air. No.Thank.You. Instead, I painted my nails in a giant tree-house. That was a once in a lifetime experience--I had never done it before and I’ve never done it since.

I’m not really a risk-taker. Not because I am afraid. Okay, not entirely because I am afraid, but mainly because I value privacy for the things my mama gave me.

-M