I like words, always have. I find them interesting, meaningful, and powerful. However, words with nothing behind them are empty, and worse—unkept promises that have the ability to turn a person away, maybe forever.
Like billowing clouds that bring no rain is the person who talks big but never produces. Proverbs 25:14
We teach our children to let their actions speak, as opposed to their words. In turn, we try to follow our own advice. Sometimes we succeed; other times, we fail. Praise God for grace and second chances.
Think of the imagery described in the proverb.
But no rain?
A promise broken.
The expectation is set. Rain! Rain hard! Nourish the plants, replenish the lakes, oceans, and rivers. In other words, bring it!
But when nature breaks its promises, we somehow feel shorted. Let down. Out of sorts.
Same with people.
Whether we are referring to public figures, private citizens, leaders, or followers, if you talk the talk you better walk the walk.
Promise made? Act. Put forth an effort. Push for expected results.
Yet, we are human and our success/failure rate hinges on our flawed nature.
Switch gears with me for a moment.
Believers in Jesus claim to believe He is who He said He is.
Son of God.
Followers of Jesus claim an overwhelming desire to pattern their behavior after His. They believe His words, they've accepted His claims, but they've committed to act on His behalf. To allow the Holy Spirit to change their hearts, compelling them to walk as Jesus walked.
And that is good news.
The Living Water brings the rain. Every. single. time.
Promise made? Promise kept.
I feel like this is the repurposed New Year's Resolution question.
What is your word for the year?
Don't get me wrong. I'm a fan. Always have been. Jeromy has a word. Our kids have a word. I have a word. And, I feel as if a word overarching a year provides focus, as opposed to a platform for failure.
So, just curious.
What's your word?
Mine is intentional.
As in, doing all the things in a way that is planned, deliberate, and not on accident.
For a self-proclaimed fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl, this is quite a word. You see, there's part of me that's addicted to the thrill of the moment to moment let's just see what happens philosophy of life.
Sidenote: Proof of God's sense of humor in play? I married Jeromy Williams.
Nevertheless. In my FORTIES, I realize the Dorothy being swept through the Kansas Sky on a whim and a prayer lifestyle doesn't always work. In fact, the consequence looks something like my calendar calling the shots, running me ragged, and kicking my posterior. And then the flying monkeys work their magic and I end up crinkling my brow at those red, sparkly slippers, shaking my head in consternation, and wondering how in the world THIS happened.
God then promptly sits my kicked butt in the time-out chair and throws some truth my way.
It sounds something like this. Time is precious. You have a divine purpose. Stewardship, remember?
Arms cross, slippered-feet stop, pony tails twist. Yes, I get it.
On that note, what's my plan? To pause. To consult. To remember all the good things are not all the good things for me, for my #bffhusband, and my #notquiteirishtwins.
Leave white space on the calendar. Administer and accept grace. Prioritize.
So, there you go.
I will be intentional in 2018.
How about you?
My Little Words Devotional (Little Words Matter) by Author: Michelle Prater Burke and Illustrator: Holli Conger—Cute book with an important purpose!
First, when I review a book, I always look at the age range/target audience. This "devotional" is meant for children ages 1-3. For this audience, the book is incredibly durable, well-constructed, and up to the task of being handled by slobbery, sticky, adorable hands. The illustrations are diverse, colorful, and engaging.
The purpose of the book is to drive home the concepts associated with 19 words meant to increase a toddler's faith-based vocabulary. It's a building block—a tool—in teaching a child about Jesus and what it means to be a Jesus follower. On that point, job well done.
A parent connection section is available in the back of the book as a resource for discussion.
My only criticism/concern/consumer warning is the title, devotional. If you expect this toddler book to be jam packed with Scripture, you will be disappointed. There is one Scripture toward the end as part of the parent connection. However, although the title might be misleading, the concept behind the book itself is strong. Toddlers have amazing receptive language. Having a parent read these paragraphs about Jesus, joy, and creation is meaningful and important to not only the child, but to the parent as well.
Our almost 2-year-old niece, Lily, received the book as a gift from her uncle and I. As you can see, she has no issues handling this little treasure.
I simply cannot adequately describe my morning to you. If you had one of those nest thingamajigs, reality TV would have hit bank. Forty-something wife/mom tackles the THING.
The THING—seemingly simplistic—but profoundly difficult that has plagued me for more than a year. A YEAR. And this morning—problem solved. With the guidance of the Lord Jesus, something stuck is now unstuck and I don't have enough praises to shout to the heavens in thanksgiving.
It's a household issue that is trivial.
It was a lost marble that rolled around in my mind for months and months and months. For whatever reason, today was the day of reckoning. The solution involved bloody knuckles, a sweaty brow, actual levers and pulleys, and acrobatics. I'm not being figurative. Literal. LIT-ER-AL.
And now, the items have been set free, and as a result my mind has been loosed.
My Lord has intervened for me in the big stuff. The life and death, oh my dear God, please, don't let this happen, my heart is breaking kind of stuff. And I am grateful.
God cares about the little, teeny, tiny stuff in our lives, too. The minute. The minuscule. He gets it. He saw my actual tears this morning as I scoured the kitchen for the one thing that might work.
He loves me.
He really loves me.
Our son and I took time to read a Scripture and pray this morning on the short ride to school. We don't always do this. The verse:
The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”Exodus 14:14
Bless my soul, He sure did. And His promise—He always will.
The season of gift giving and gift receiving has come and gone. The decorations are sadly finding their way to the red and green tubs, where they will remain until I catapult myself into the attic precisely the second my family deems decorating for Christmas acceptable. (Our daughter has this thing about respecting Thanksgiving by not decorating early. When did she start having an opinion, anyway? Answer: the age of 2)
Ready or not—January—the season of new beginnings, resolutions, let's try this agains, and invigorating purge-ready energy to finally change our lives for the better is here—along with our new friend, #bombcyclone. (Stay warm, y'all.)
Sidenote: I find it interesting that Valentine's Day is in Feb. My theory is that the greeting card industry picked up on the need to have an excuse to love ourselves after the epic fails of January. Just saying.
Oftentimes, our new year begins with the repair of relationship—extending forgiveness towards those who have wronged us. A crucial moving on step in the healing process, and what better time to utter those three life-breathing words than during the season of all things new? But what about the response? You've wronged someone. They forgive you. Do you accept their forgiveness?
My daughter brought this concept up to me after I shot a Facebook live video promoting my new book, Free and Clear.
"Mom, did you say your new book is about forgiveness?"
"Yes, I did." A little surprised a) she was listening b) she cared
"Do your stories ever address learning how to accept forgiveness?"
"Ummm..." a) when did she catapult from 13 to 25? b) such a great question
"If you haven't, I think you should. I have trouble with that myself."
Mama is no longer thinking about her new book. "You do?"
"Yes. Sometimes it's easier not to forgive myself, to accept forgiveness. Sometimes I want to hang onto the guilt."
I'm left blinking in the hallway, while she bee bops into her room to hang up her new bow she received for Christmas, oblivious to the wake of mind-blowing thoughts left in her path of dropping the mic.
And here I am, knowing I'm supposed to explore this thought a little deeper, and wondering if I'm alone in the truth of this statement: I am not good at accepting forgiveness, because like my 13-year-old, there is some comfort in hanging on to the guilt.
Do you accept forgiveness? Or do you have trouble with this, too?
Please comment or private message me with your thoughts.
Good Boy, Achilles! is a chapter book intended to entertain, yet teach important spiritual truths to eight-to-ten -year-olds. Through the power of storytelling, the author, Eddie Ellis, provides young people a way to learn about God's purpose, sacrifice, and obedience while enjoying a simple tale about a boy and his dog.
As luck would have it, Good Boy, Achilles! is targeted toward my junior book reviewer, Ms. Brooklyn Heath. Brooklyn is eight years old, an avid reader, and a dog owner. Perfect fit. Brooklyn and her mom, Shae, read Good Boy, Achilles! together which Brooklyn, by the way, reported was her favorite part of this experience—reading with her mom.
I know. Precious.
My junior reviewer reports she liked the story very much, especially the ending. Once she caught on to the fact the dogs were talking and who the messenger was, she understood the story much better.
Brooklyn admitted she had some trouble with a few of the words and was glad her mom was there to assist her with the reading and understanding of parts of the plot. Some descriptions in the story made her extremely sad, but to avoid spoilers we won't reveal those specific sections. However, by the end, she felt good about the overall story and learned a lot about Jesus.
From a parent's perspective, this book is extremely well-written. Eddie Ellis does a fantastic job of switching points of view and realistically looking at the world through the eyes of several perspectives—dogs, adults, parents, puppies, and children. The overall truths presented in the story are great points for discussion between parents and children. I would recommend this book as one discussed and not merely read.
The title alone is enough to sell the book.
What person, specifically woman, doesn't crave a moment to breathe–an overwhelming desire for someone, anyone, to meet them in their everyday mess?
I'll raise my hand. Me, me, me! Yes, please, and thank you.
Delightfully, in this particular case, the content delivers what the title promises.
From the (in)courage community, eighty authors come together and offer a glimpse into their stories. Stories that are very similar to yours and mine. The players and circumstances might vary, but the heart behind the sentences—spot on.
Each day begins with a Scripture, followed by a story of transparent faith in the midst of the real, and ends with A Moment to Breathe—a call to action or thought.
382 pages, with a section for author bios and scripture references, make this book the complete package. Perfect for gift-giving during the 2017 holiday season.
You will no doubt find the content relatable. Tears of joy and sorrow are sure to accompany the reading. I would encourage (pun intended) to journal along with the devotionals.
"Babe, this is my favorite time of day. Just you and me. Before the pattering of feet or dinging of phones. Just us and our coffee. No problems yet to solve."
The precious words spoken by my husband this morning. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, snuggled into his arms, and lived in the moment.
And that's where I intend to be from now on. In the moment.
I'm not dissing (not sure if that's a word anymore) looking behind to glean wisdom and looking forward to plan. Nope. Both of those actions are incredibly important.
The moment is where it's at.
It's when I unfold myself from his embrace this morning to hug our blurry-eyed teenagers.
It's when I put on proper undergarments and flip-flops to drive our son to weightlifting in my pajamas. (Before judgement, please be aware this happens at 7 in the am and we live two miles from the school. And I'm 43 and have lost my give a darn.)
It's stopping the car and staring at the mist-covered, perfectly round sun sitting on the horizon.
It's when our daughter asks me to braid her hair.
It's when my husband and I, while brushing our teeth, discuss why the royal wedding takes precedence over discussion about tax cuts.
It's also when my husband and I discuss proper placement of the trashcan on the curb as he is pulling off with the girl who is killing us with her impatient rolling eyes. She REALLY can't be late again.
It's also when she sinks under the passenger seat as mom and dad engage in a tickling match in front of God and everybody in the neighborhood.
It's when I turn on our Christmas lights and wonder why I don't keep the tree up all year. Seriously, it has a calming effect that can't be duplicated. Maybe it's all the memories literally attached to the branches.
It's when I read my devotional and pause to thank God for the simplicities of life.
It's me tapping away at my computer writing my blog.
It's embracing what you've lost and what you've gained.
It's being intentional.
It's chatting with girlfriends just because.
It's leaning in and shutting up.
Live, breathe, feel, and be present in the many moments we've been granted on this side of glory. Each and every one of them count, and by proximation of your person, you are physically present for them all.
Don't miss them.
Moving with Scribbles,
There are times when I just need to unload, unhinge, and be undone.
Times when my heart thumps wildly in my chest and every cell screams to let loose and hold nothing back.
With whom you might ask? Who is willing to see the ugly and not run for the hills?
Nope times five.
All human. All have limits. And none of them have the power to fix me.
I let loose with God Almighty. You might call it prayer. I call it talking to God. Relationship. Sharing the good, the bad, and especially the ugly. You don't think God does ugly? Oh, friend, allow me to assure you, God embraces the ugly—especially when it spews from one of His children targeting Him. Why? One word. Well two. Unexplainable love.
In other words, when I need to step away from the sanitary rainbows and roses version of my life and embrace the full panoramic view of the breathtaking vistas coupled with the muck and mire only found in the valleys, I find Him.
What does fulling embracing faith, yet living in a state of transparency look like?
Years ago, I tried bottling all the junk welling up inside of me and capping it—never to be seen again.
An implosion followed by an explosion of gargantuan proportions taught me an effective lesson.
The end of me is a scary place to be.
The end of me is the beginning of Him working through me, and that my friends, is a force to be reckoned with.
Why? Easy. He can handle my wrath. He knows what to do with my crazy. Y'all, there are times when my prayer life sounds like a one-sided episode of Jerry Springer. For real.
However, that honesty unleashes a tenderness only known in a Father-Child relationship.
So, can I encourage you to push aside the thees, thous, yeas, and amens? Just talk. Be real. Get messy. Don't be afraid to get on your knees, bury your hands in the tear-soaked mud, and ask for guidance, peace, discernment, or maybe just enough umph to get through the next minute, hour, or day?
After all, the Living Water ain't afraid of a little dirt.
Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, 7casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. I Peter 5:6-7
It's been 365 days since I saw you take a breath. A hair longer since I heard your voice. I miss you. And as we approach the holiday season, my heart yearns for those gone ahead.
I've been "celebrating" in the face of unspeakable loss since my 20th year on the planet. There hasn't been one milestone event in the last 23 years where someone significant has not been missing. I don't type those words to diminish the loss. However, I will say I'm somewhat of an expert in looking back with bittersweet memories while cherishing the here and the now. But only because of the grace of God. Only because of the hope I have in Jesus.
To Diana, my adopted mom, my mentor, beloved mother-in-love, Gabba,
Today, I remember and celebrate using your own words. (You always said I turned your words and used them against you.) LoL. Maybe God will let you have a peek today, so you can turn to Carol Hunter and say, "Look at her. Still sassing."
March 19, 2006
Focal Verse: John 15: 7-8
Jesus, I want so much to bear fruit for your kingdom. I want to walk in such victory that people will ask what's my secret to such joy. Your Word says if I ask You these things they will be done for me. I want them to be done for You, that God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost might be glorified. I understand that I must decrease so You will increase and pray You will help me be willing to do so, to not expect or desire recognition, but to give You all the credit. Lord, I've loved this study of your Word. Help me to continue to thirst for knowledge about what You have planned for the world and what your Word imparts. I ask that You bless my circle of important believers. Norma, Amanda, and Liz. Keep them filled to overflowing with Your love and the hope of Your calling. Help each of them to continue to a light in this dark world and help them to lead their families to You. Go with me this day, Lord. Forgive my sins and cleanse me from unrighteousness.
You are cherished, loved, and remembered. Your legacy and testimony lives on. Love you.
"So much more than a coloring book."
Or so the author and illustrator report on the Our Story page of Big and Little Coloring Devotional. That statement is on point. Here's why:
A frazzled writer/mama trying to keep her dishes spinning, while pouring into her children on a spiritual level, prayed a prayer that was answered, unbeknownst to an illustrator who felt a similar burden, but became overwhelmed at the idea of writing/publishing. God does what God does and Rachel C. Swanson teamed up with Jacy Corral to create what I believe is a brilliant tool for the parenting arsenal.
Yes, it's a coloring book for children. Join the million others on the shelves.
Yes, it's a coloring book for adults. Welcome to the newest fad, along with countless other beautiful patterns flooding the market.
Yes, it's a devotional. Between apps, websites, blogs, ebooks, and paperbacks...Lord, have mercy. Literally.
What makes this book unique is that it was created to solve a problem. Life is busy. Parents want to meaningfully interact with their children. Time is limited. What do you do?
This vertical coloring book presents the same scripture focus on both pages of the book. One side is a simple design with the verse only (Meant for the child). The other side is a more complicated pattern with an actual devotion paired with the same scripture.
You and your darling can actually face one another, eyeball to eyeball, color, and discuss God's Word in the interim. Win, win, win!
As a mama of Irish twins who were once upon a time littles, I adore this idea and recommend you buy now for Christmas morning!
Time flies when you're having fun!
Okay, fun might be extreme, but seriously, I feel most excellent coming up on the half way point during this #Whole30 journey.
I'd say I've been 99% compliant, just because there are only so many questions I can ask when I go out to eat without guaranteeing someone may/may not add unwanted moisture to my food.
I'm fitting into pants that were in that pile in my closet. That pile, otherwise known as the I can't button these without damaging a piece or a part/or my hips are now laughing at us rejects, is a sad, sad corner of the world. They are now being reacclimatized into the active part of the wardrobe. Tentatively. (Because we still don't trust them. After all, they betrayed us by shrinking in the first place;)
Cravings—gone! What? Seriously, this might be the most incredible part of the journey.
I tend to not be hungry as much which is kind of amazing, considering I'm never one to miss a meal—ever.
Without going there, I will report a certain time of the month is noticeably more pleasant.
Energy? When I do work out, I'm all in—as in not dragging. I attribute this to replacing the glucose with increasing amounts of healthy fats. Basketball season has kicked off, so two months of practices/games at different times/locations effectively hijacked the second half of my day.
I'm not bitter.
Or, I'm working on not being bitter. There. That's closer to honesty. My mind is shifting to gratitude toward the school system in making me more intentional with my time for working out. See how I just did that? Insert a work in progress expression.
So, there you go.
Progress in the works with Scribbles,
I feel good. I'm not sure about the reported tiger blood yet, but maybe a fast kitty cat.
So, there's that.
My cravings are gone. #miraculous
People are sort of noticing less puffiness.
I disobeyed. The #Whole30 Powers That Be tell you NOT to weigh yourself. NOT to measure yourself. Especially NOT on the days labeled For the love of Gosling, my pants are tighter.
I did it. Cringe. I stepped on the scale. Because surely, surely I've lost 10 pounds by day 9. Surely not putting sugar near my face and swearing off the world of all things processed has resulted in lower numbers.
My heart sank. My mood shifted. I rolled my eyes and may have slammed something down on the counter top. Then, I . . . DID NOT pray, DID NOT read scripture, DID NOT count backward from 10, DID NOT dial a friend for emotional support.
I was just irrationally irritated. First at the scale. Then at myself.
For real, y'all.
The power of that stupid number derails me every time. Thank goodness I had enough moxie to stay on plan and punch the desire to quit square in the face. But still.
I'm not even a fan of math and science, which is what weight is all about BTW. Yet, Argggghhhh!
And that, my friends, is why they tell you NOT to do this. It's not about the number. #Whole30 realizes most people have an unhealthy relationship with food, but oftentimes, the scale. Therefore, focus on the why behind the what and not the numbers.
Not. the. numbers.
I'm confessing, leaving it right here, and will not do it the remainder of these 30 days.
Now, I'm going for a sanity walk.
Moving with Scribbles,
I am going to attempt to do what few others have done before: blah, blah, blah about #Whole30 life (W), articulate my crazy (C), and express immeasurable gratitude (G). Buckle up, buttercups.
This morning began with the standing pajama-clad, news-broadcasting, coffee in bed date with #bffhusband. (G)
Seriously, priceless in all the good ways.
Breakfast with out-of-town family, and in-town family. (G) In a restaurant. Insert big, fat (W) sigh. Ordering has taken on a new level of When Harry Met Sally high-maintenance activity.
And we broke our fast in a diner, where butter and grease reign supreme.
So, when I inquired as to whether or not the hard-working kitchen crew could prepare my spinach , mushroom, no-cheese omelette without butter , the sweet-slammed-I-appreciate-you-but-I-aint-got-time-for-this-nonsense server did a somewhat-believable job of NOT laughing in my face. The fruit was really, really delicious. (W) (G) (C) However, I did bring my (W) coconut creamer in a thermos, so I'm sure no one thought I was a strange, privileged, millennial-wanna-be at all.
We give and receive hugs and kisses with the fam (G), then my husband and I pull into our driveway where I am apprised of his intention for the first part of the afternoon. Quote, "I'm going to unload the trailer, return it, then blow up the cow to dry it out." (C) Because that is a phrase not everyone hears on a beautiful, Florida 80 degree Saturday in November. (B) B stands for bitter because 80 degrees in November is really unacceptable behavior for any state, regardless of whether you boast the sunshine.
Add in the fact the blowing up of the cow (don't think Halloween or Christmas yard decor; think a building Superman would leap over) is taking place in our front yard, and I'm pretty sure the neighborhood association will show up to picket later. (C)
I'm starving. So, I hug our bleary-eyed teenagers who barely noticed our absence during their oh-so-sweet youthful Saturday morning slumber session, and prepare a (W) meal that will last me through a work out and part of the afternoon. As a side note, licking avocado off my fingers is apparently not sexy. The whole green booger-like-imagery did not amuse my husband. (C)
Plus, he's really not a fan of the (W) "tools" being all over our kitchen counters. They are washed, but I will not put back up because I'm only going to use them again in two hours. They are arranged nicely. We will survive. (C) (G) (W)
On his way out the door, my husband decides to do something he has never, ever done before. He takes a bit out of my (W) bowl of yummy before asking me what is in it. He then proceeds to gag and make his way out the front door where he spews what is probably $5 worth of organic-unsweetened almond butter into the dirt. Now, I am not amused. (W) (C)
My son, in the meantime, is arranging a time where his science buddy can come over and make a volcano from homemade play-dough, vinegar, and salt. Lord Jesus, I just cannot. (C)
My daughter is asking me questions clearly not appropriate before I've eaten anything of real sustenance. (W) (C)
I open the fridge for something and notice what looks like a murder scene on the second shelf. The roast. The one defrosting for 3 days. The one I was supposed to cook in the crockpot, but because of the (C)—never happened—has seen fit to seek revenge by BLEEDING all over the glass shelving. I can hear my husband driving away, and I scramble to make this mess disappear. In my world, this is a 5 minute clean-up and look the other way project. In his world, this is a perfect opportunity to detail clean the entire kitchen. (C) (G)
I sigh and get ready to eat my (W) yummy. Then, I hear a strange noise that turns out to be the blowing up of a bovine. (C)
And my husband just told me he feels the need to purge, minimalist, simplify. (I have no letters.)
About-to-be-napping-despite-it-all with Scribbles,
I'm on Day 6 of the #Whole30 journey.
I made it through 5 days of black coffee, decided I could check that grown-up work week off my bucket list, and went and bought #Whole30 compliant coconut creamer. Deliciousness. #notashamed
A little reality this morning? My #bffhusband's first words to me as I'm propping up the pillows? "Babe, what is that smell?"
Never what you want to hear first thing in the AM.
But when you do begin the investigation, you can't stop until the stinky culprit is discovered. Keep in mind I hadn't had my caffeine injection yet.
Long story short. The scallops from last night. You know, I don't know how to make my house NOT smell like seafood after I make seafood. Feel free to leave me tips. Yes, I had taken the trash out, run lemon juice down the garbage disposal, washed all the dishes, and even ran the dishwasher. My kitchen still smelled like a seafood restaurant—except not in a good way.
Before you go there, scents are typically forbidden within our dwelling because of my people's planet allergies.
Desperate situations, y'all.
Christmas candle lit. Check.
According to the #Whole30 feelings barometer, I should be on I Just Want a Nap. Ummm...every day of my life, always. Ten minutes mid-afternoon and I'm golden. So, welcome to my life #Whole30.
Last night's dinner, despite the hangover smell, was really yummy. Veggies and scallop stir-fry with ghee and coconut aminos (I didn't even know this existed. So good).
Here's something you should know about my life, though. There are nights when I can't feed my people the same food. Our daughter has multiple food allergies, seafood being one of them. So, while I enjoyed the colorful explosion of Yum in my wok, Mackenzie and Zachary began their culinary experience with yellow rice and chicken tenders from Publix. Late night=they can't wait for me to cook because they will pass out from lack of calories, so I throw easy food at them and if they want the good stuff, they can have it as dessert.
She couldn't (Her feelings weren't hurt because of the peppers), but he could. And like any food, the boy showed it intense love by helping himself a few times.
J got home too late for me to feel comfortable serving him scallops that had sat a while (I'm a total temperature freak) so he, too, got chicken and yellow rice. He didn't complain. He's still unsure of my adventures.
If I had to choose the biggest hurdle right now, I'd have to say chocolate. I'm a bit of a dark choco addict, but I've combatted this by putting 100% cocoa in my coffee. Again, bitter woman, so it works.
My body's current status is, Okay, I get it. We're doing a thing again. Systems are adjusting and all engines are still operational.
I'm hopeful, y'all. I know I'm honeymooning, but at least it's good, right?
Moving with Scribbles,
Day 5 of #Whole30.
My brain is climbing on board. The neurons are stretching, waking from the detox-induced fog and we are all good. I still feel as if I need to close my eyes for 10 minutes come about 4pm, but that's okay.
On-the-go snacks and a little pre-planning. I'm a fly by the seat of your pants kind of girl, so I've had to slow down a bit. Not a bad thing, just a thing thing.
Sugar-free Bacon! I found the unicorn and it is delicious;)
Coconut Aminos-Non-Soy Sauce creating a flavor bomb for stir-fry, marinades, etc. Yum.
Rekindling my love for avocados and peppers.
What I ate yesterday:
Eggs, almond butter, carrots, a date, tons of veggies, avocado/olive oil, salmon, stir fry, water and coffee. Oh, and some fruit and nuts.
Ummm...not a whole lot of change except there is an awareness SOMETHING is going on.
One moment yesterday had the power to derail my thoughts to a negative place. I saw a picture of me, several actually, and my self-esteem, self-worth hit rock bottom. Honestly, it was sobering. The power of an image. Never mind the lighting, the angle, the circumstances—my entire mood hinged on a photograph. Insert screeching brakes. Are you kidding me? I can't even right now. I'm still muddling through that junk.
I'm more still and am positive this has a thing or two do with the lack of sugar in my body right now; nevertheless, I'm coloring and meditating on God's Word. I'm more aware of relationships. I see more clearly and my ears are bent towards others instead of myself.
All in all, I'm not on the verge of killing all the things. But, I am a bit more introspective. The bandaids (comfort go-to's) have been put aside, so instead of looking out, I'm looking in.
I'm digging it.
Moving with Scribbles,
I don't typically refer to myself in third person, so forgive me for the title. However, I want to make it clear I'm not on my pedestal preaching, throwing out guilt and shame with these blogs about my journey on #whole30.
Just take care of yourself. Whatever that looks like for you.
Being overweight runs in my family. Addiction runs in my family. Neither are excuses; I'm simply recognizing the not-so-tasty morsels in my cauldron of genetic ingredients.
I'm a fan of moving. Always have been. So, exercising is not a stretch for me. (See how I did that?) I get a hit from the endorphin rush, and that high makes it worth the effort. Variety tickles my limited attention span, so I feel like I've checked in to a lot of classes over the past twenty something years. Aerobics, weight training, cross fit, running, walking, HIT, Zumba, kickboxing, the list could literally run on and on and on. Bottom line--
Eating. K. This is a whole other thing for me. Again, I've gone through my cycles. In my adult life, the little tag on my clothes has read anything from 2-12. The middle number on the scale ranging from 1-8. Some of you might read that and be a bit shocked; others may shrug your shoulders and say big deal or I wish. Again, this is just Amanda (forgive me) being transparent. At 43, I know my healthy weight range, and it is not what it was at 25. Here's the thing though, I can manipulate the scale and make it dance. I've been in this body a while now, and although it may respond differently, depending on my age, etc. if I put my absolute determined, this will happen mind to it, the magic number will eventually appear.
So, getting there is not my problem either.
My current issues:
A) I'm struggling to care. As in, screw it. It is what it is.
B) Forty-something hormones plus wacky emotions plus I can't even insane schedule equals emotional eating. As in, get those salty-sweet heavenly whatevers in my belly. Right. Now. I'm a pro at this. Refer to the genetics portion of the discussion.
C) I'm smart enough to know A and B can derail my train and affect the people in my life I love and like and care about, in addition to fulfilling my purpose which happens to be loving others like I love myself. Logic leads me to believe if I suck at loving myself, I will do the same to other people. #epicfail
Therefore, what I dig about #whole30 is the why behind the what. I'm no expert; visit the actual site if you're interested in reading about the plan. Basically, I'm stripping out what is potentially making me feel badly and starting from scratch. As in detox.
Second, and this is my favorite, I'm putting my pacifiers away and toddling through 30 days without them.
I'm on Day 4.
There's this amazing page (The Whole30 Timeline, Version 2.0) my friend messaged me that allows me to be in community with others who might be feeling similar emotions on the journey.
I've gone through So What's the Big Deal?, The Hangover (I almost fell flat on my face and passed out at 3pm yesterday), and am now on Kill ALL the things. This spree lasts for about two days, so I love you all and would never physically harm you—ever. Jesus will forgive me for uncontrollable thoughts, I'm sure of it.
As in black.
And yes, I know I can add coconut creamer, but this is one of those psychological blankies I wanted to pack away, so I am intentionally going to the dark side of caffeine.
So far, okay. I'm functioning.
B) The relentless hunt down for the sugar villain. I'm finding sugarless bacon today if it kills me.
A) Almond butter and carrots. Who knew?
B) Ghee. WoW.
In conclusion, I'm really okay. There is some what the heck going on in my body right now, but you know, so what? I'm in my 40's. If my body isn't used to the roller coaster right now, it's time to exit the theme park. And that ain't happening.
Moving with Scribbles,
An entire month of blogging.
They asked and I said yes. What a ride! That's a lot of words, y'all! And transparency moment: Some days I felt completely empty—as in I got nothin'.
The Lord provided direction and as my daughter would say, bada bing bada boom!
If you've read my scribbles, please know I'm so completely humbled and grateful. Time is a commodity we can't get back and you spending yours with me is a treasure.
Faith, family, and friends in the midst of traveling the peaks and valleys of life.
Landing page in case you missed any. Click here.
That's exactly what these last 31 days have been like. And today, I end this portion of my travels and take step one toward another finish line.
Y'all—tune in because me minus sugar is guaranteed to be entertaining at the very least.
Your prayers WILL be needed. Guaranteed. Remember this one? I'll remind you.
Dear God that Amanda believes in,
There you go. Easy peasy pumpkin squeezy.
Loves and hugs.
Dress up day is here!
Let the massive sugar distribution begin!
I can't believe we are at the end of October.
Buckle up for tomorrow!
Like all my hashtagless hashtags?
I might have just invented a thing.
Finishing with Flourish,
For a girl who doesn't like to cook, I'm kinda digging table time, y'all.
I mean I've known for a while now it's important to share family meals at least a few times a week and Jeromy and I have wheeled, dealed, and stretched calendars to make this happen. However, seasons alter the experience, for sure. And I'll just admit, this is the most enjoyable one yet. Let's rewind--
The Baby Years
Ummm, yeah, our darlings ate WAY before us so we could eventually enjoy moments of peace, intellectual conversation, and "grown-up sanity time". Yeah right. By the time we wiped mouths, cleaned spit up explosions, surveyed the collective damage, bathed them, and tucked them in with loves, hugs, and kisses—DONE. As in, heat up the hot pocket and let's just ingest some kind of sustenance. G'night. Love you. We get to do this again tomorrow. God help us.
The Toddler Years
Or what I refer to as the gag fest chronicles. These were the years where war was waged at the table. Foods were embraced or rejected on a whim. Screams, fits of rage, and thoughts no parent would readily admit to went down on the nightly. But the gagging. Oh. my. word. And, no, it wasn't because of my cooking. Even I can't screw up a can of peas. If either of us had an iota of appetite by the end of that ordeal, angels would be singing.
Date night. Date nights are really important, y'all.
The Elementary Years
Okay, this is where table time momentum begins to pick up a bit. Precious plural are old enough to learn manners, discuss dietary options, participate in conversation, and play cute little table games. A glimmer of light shines through the darkness and we begin to see the benefit of these minutes. Game on.
The Teenage Years
Oh. so. fun! Seriously, it's like hosting our own reality tv show. My husband and I absolutely look forward to eating with our pubescent humans. Why? They are drama-filled, hilarious, easy to embarrass, full of words, and wacky versions of incidents and oh good grief, this is it! We have arrived! Not to mention we are fully basking in the light of the ticking clock. We can count on one hand the number of years we have left until their place at the table is tentative. Precious moments.
By the way, these years have inspired me to up my cooking game a bit. As in, purchase new, funky appliances, cool cutting boards, and large colorful knives that make me happy. I stand in the midst of it all, chopping away, while swirls of you'll never guess and homework sucks and my life is over and this is the best day ever moments take place right before my mommy eyes. My son creeps up behind me and steals something out of the pot. My daughter inspects what is on her like menu and what is not, scheming as to how she's going to clean her plate. My husband happily cleans.
Life. is. good.
And I am profoundly grateful.
Moving with Scribbles,
When I was a teacher, I taught students how to listen. As in break the skill down and practice. We talked about posture and body language, emoting interest and tracking. All the things.
Upon turning the television on or opening up any social media app, painful realization hits me in the face. We've lost that skill with one another. Instead of leaning in, we are stepping out of the conversation, plugging our ears up, and la la la'ing our way into our own world, our own point of view, and our own opinion.
We can't live like this, y'all.
Look at Jesus and the example He set.
I firmly believe Jesus walked the planet thirty years prior to public ministry, actively listening to others. Whether it be in the home with his parents, brothers, and sisters or in the synagogue or maybe in the marketplace, I believe Jesus heard and Jesus saw.
So, step back from this picture and remember Jesus was the embodiment of God and saw straight to the heart.
He still thought listening was necessary. He cared enough to stop, bend His ear, and lean in.
I skimmed the book of Matthew today and read several instances when Jesus listened during his public ministry. He leaned in to:
The disciples of others
The bleeding woman
His hometown folk
The Canaanite Woman
Obviously, Jesus didn't agree with all of these people. He certainly didn't see eye to eye with those diabolically opposed to the fulfillment of His mission. However, they were all beloved creations, image bearers, written on the heart of the Father.
Regardless of approval or consent, they were important—to Him. And He chose to die in an act of obedience toward His Father because of their significance in the Kingdom.
Here's the thing. Listening is not easy; it's a practiced skill set. Those who are gifted with the ability cause me to stand in awe.
But we don't even try. In fact, we stick our ear buds in and intentionally unplug from humanity.
Let's commit to follow the example of the One who walked the walk and talked the talk. Let's lean toward one another and in the process, maybe, healing will begin.
The last 36 hours have been filled with ups, downs, and sideways.
And to be quite honest, I'm emotionally and physically exhausted.
The joy paired with the sadness—necessary, cathartic, and priceless.
My middle brother and I—both in our forties—played with bubbles, took long walks, built waffle-block towers, colored, and read heavy board books. There was an adorable 19-month-old baby girl involved, so it wasn't weird at all.
I read half a book to my niece and she giggled.
I laughed with my sister-in-law as her husband whipped up a gourmet fare I couldn't begin to produce in my microwave, air-fryer, and crock pot culinary existence. Seriously, bro, that couscous—amazing.
We sat around their table, shared a home-cooked meal, and laughed.
The little girl who dreamt of story-telling sat in a chair in the middle of her hometown while people asked questions about her books. Some even bought them. What?!?
I hugged the necks of old (over 25 years, y'all) classmates, dear friends, and new acquaintances.
I visited love personified.
Then, I drove out to my youngest brother's grave, rubbed my palm over the concrete slab, traced his name with my finger, and shed some much-needed tears. The peacefulness of the moment—overwhelming.
I-75 flew by until I finally walked back in the door of our home and caught hugs from my not-so-little babies who had been lovingly cared for by my beloved mother-in-law.
My husband, traveling, called or texted a half dozen times to tell me he loved me. Just because.
The Dawgs won!
And I introduced the story of Mary Poppins to my daughter.
Somewhere in there I slept, ingested caffeine, and ate food not so good for me as I listened to podcasts about everything under the sun.
I don't have much tonight, but a few songs speak the words I hold in my heart.
Tell me about your family.
Our daughter: Daddy runs Chick-fil-A and flies an airplane, Zachary goes to high school and plays football, and Mom does—whatever mom does.
Insert gasp coupled with confused pigeon expression and you've nailed my response.
Now before I pinched that sweet little head off that thirteen-year-old neck, I paused, counted to ten, took a deep breath, and prayed. Then I laughed. Like really laughed.
Because I understood. It's not that she thought I was lazy, twiddling my thumbs on the couch—she just couldn't articulate what mama actually does. And you know what? Neither can her crazy mama!
What the heck do I do, anyways?!?
I care for my children and love my husband.
I tag team with my battle buddy and coordinate schedules, drop-offs, and pick-ups.
I pay bills.
I pour into my faith, my friends, my family.
I talk to Jesus—a lot.
Yep times ten.
That's what mom does. But to my girl—I'm just mama.
When asked about my relationship with God, I'm often as tongue-tied as my offspring. Who is God in your life? What does he do?
Ummm . . . crickets.
According to the Word, God is:
The Beginning and End
And so much more
But, as I stand tongue-tied, I answer honestly.
God is—well, He's my father. And He loves me.
Once I gather my words, I can move forward but initially, that's all I've got.
So, for now, I'll abstain from squeezing my darling until she can't breathe, and instead kiss her on the forehead thanking her for the sweet reminder.
All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us. We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too. 2 Corinthians 1:3 The Message
If you were given a window into our lives, you would immediately call for a comfy chair, popcorn, and a polar pop. Why? Because, it's crazy in here, y'all! We're running and gunning with our careers, attempting to raise a couple of amazing human beings, all the while spinning dishes, standing on one foot, rubbing our bellies, while patting our heads. Throw in words like fitness, balance of life, and quality time, and you might hear some serious screaming at the rain. Sound familiar? Do you live in your own crazy village? I'm sure you do. I pray you do.
"It takes a village to raise a child." African Proverb
Jen Hatmaker refers to people who come along side you and pour into your kids as bonus moms and dads. When I heard that phrasing, I immediately nodded my head in full understanding and agreement.
Our tropical snow globe consists of a motley crew of folks from varying backgrounds whom God has woven together into an enchanted quilt called family. The stitching and design of each square is unique, colorful, and perfectly placed. Whether we're talking moms, dads, singles, marrieds without children, senior adults, people younger than us, older than us; it simply doesn't matter. Whether we're talking blood relatives or friends who are family; it is completely beside the point.
We are not threatened by those who can bring depth and light and wisdom to our kids in ways we cannot. Do these people sometimes reiterate what we've already shouted from the rooftop? Yep. Will we initially bang our heads against a wall because our babies wouldn't listen to us, yet did listen to someone else? Maybe. But, step away from the ledge. What else is new on the third rock from the sun? No thing. We did it to our parents, and our grandchildren will do it to their parents. Bless them. It is the way of the world and that is okay. More than okay. For the love of all that is good and holy, if someone can penetrate the teenage brain and speak truth, praise Jesus, right?
Will we always be their mom and dad? Oh yeah. After all, we were there for the oh-so-fun beginning (wink), the topsy-turvy pregnancies, the post-partum aftermath, and the Oh my word, I don't know if I can survive the infant thru pre-school years. We will forever claim our son and daughter as our own. Besides, our genetic mini-me look-a-likes make them impossible to deny.
No, Jeromy and I are ever so grateful for:
-The mom whose shoulder our sweet girl can cry on and receive unending grace and sympathy
-The other mom who will provide Godly counsel and wisdom no matter the time or place
-The former teacher who will speak truth into their lives
-The principal who texts encouraging words and bible verses
-The young professional who shoots straight
-The youth pastor and his wife who dive deep, but also text and ask for yogurt dates and spur of the moment flag football outings
-The small group leader who shows up to cheer them on during their games
-The forever friend who texts from another state just to talk football
-The twenty-one year old who holds my girl accountable
-The countless adopted aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers, moms and dads who LOVE our kids like their own
-And the countless other examples I simply do not have time to list...seriously, blessed is an understatement
Here's the beautiful thing! When you are part of this patchwork madness, you gain extra kiddos of your own. You get calls from the twenty-one-year-old-the one who you held on her actual birth day-asking for advice. You get a text from a seventeen-year-old junior in high school at 7:15am stating she loves you and is praying for you. You get to walk into your daughter's bedroom while she is Face Timing her BFF and smile as you hear, "Love you, Mama A!" You get hugs and laughter and trust and mentorship and oh my goodness, life-breathing energy knowing you are simultaneously pouring out and being poured into!
It's breathtaking and humbling and exhilarating!
So, to the members of our crazy village:
We love and adore you. Our gratefulness goes beyond words!
If you are reading this and don't have a village, can I encourage you for a moment? Go find one. Plug into a group of people who are life-breathers, not life-suckers and do these seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years together. God created us for community. Plug in and get going. You need them and you know what? They need you, too.
Moving with Scribbles,
I love my fellow Floridians! We are precious, and we are a unique breed.
Most of the time we are easy going peeps, not taking ourselves too seriously. We roll out of bed in the morning, humidity dripping from our veins, and go with the flow when it comes to hair, makeup, etc. None of its permanent and you put good money on two realities: your hair will frizz and your foundation will melt by mid-morning. Flip-flops of all varieties are a staple in every closet, and that whole thing about switching out winter and summer clothes? Yeah, no. Do you have a jacket? Check. Bets are you will be good.
When a chill peeks its head from the Georgia border and winks at us, watch out world.
Just as we can prepare for a natural disaster like no other, we can prepare for fall with equal fervor. We may line up to fill up gas tanks and clear the shelves of bread, milk, and water...but meteorologist, if you dare go THERE (as in whisper the words cold and front together) with your predictions, we will fill up our mugs with anything pumpkin spice and clear our closet shelves of scarves, sweaters, and boots-maybe attempting to wear them all at once.
Erase that judgy expression from your faces. These department stores prey on our inability to say no to the possibility of actual seasons. Tempting displays of anything other than shorts, swimsuits and t-shirts make us drool with hopeful anticipation and pull out that credit card for that mystical moment when Florida's crayon box, which is only filled with a twenty-four shades of green and blue, will suddenly admit a variety of other colors into the contents.
Never going to happen, y'all. But no worries, Floridians may be dreamers, but we are firmly grounded in the reality of our peninsular status. 💁
You see, we truly understand what the rest of the country does not get. This will not last. It is not a season. 50-70 degree weather could be a day, a week, or no we won't even go longer with our predictions because our hopes and dreams will likely be crushed.
If we aren't wearing shorts for Thanksgiving and Christmas we count it as a win. Stay calm, y'all and Fall to your heart's desire. Enjoy that latte and wrap that scarf a little tighter. We are tropical warriors and deserve to take a deep, cleansing breath of 58 degrees. Oh. My. Word!
Moving with Scribbles,
I’m getting better. Deep, healing breaths of fresh air fill my chest. The smell of the grass, the sound of the horses, and the knowledge that I’m discarding the broken pieces of my past, shard by shard. Maybe I’m not leaving it behind. Maybe I’m being pieced back together, and God is destroying the ugly in the fire of forgiveness. I’m not sure. Today, during my session, Katy and I re-visited my earliest memory. I’ve done this before, but today was different—maybe because of the dream. My father and mother—a happy time. The imagery so vivid I felt like I’d been transported. Everything jumped from the recesses of my mind and invaded each sense. The cotton sundress with the tiny daisies blowing in the hot, summer wind. The spaghetti straps repeatedly falling off my spindly arms, and me fidgeting with the knots rubbing my shoulders. Mama, dressed in a long skirt tied in a knot at the knee and a red tank-top holding my hand tightly. The floppy straw hat, shielding her eyes from the sun, threatening to blow away while she stood watching him prep the little two-seater airplane. Daddy, with his wavy shoulder-length blonde hair, walking toward us. So young and vigorous. Full of life. He bends down and scoops me into his strong arms. The scent of Old Spice and soap fills the air. Gently, he places me on my two feet again. Then, he kisses my mother—passionately, as if they belong in one another’s arms for eternity. He tweaks my nose and holds his hand palm-up like a cup. I dump an imaginary handful of kisses into his as he whispers, “Save all your memories for me, sprite.” The screams that came later that afternoon still ring in my ears at times. Looking back, I think my little girl mind took my father’s last words quite literally. Walls of silence were built, and over time, not even the most evil of men could penetrate them. But, yet, the best of men might have a chance . . .
Free and Clear: The Forest Chronicles Book 3
Amanda Williams is a forty-year old wife and mother of two who can still swing her pony tail and display just a tad of sass. She is also a Jesus loving girl who realizes she is nothing without the One who saved her. Amanda has two degrees specializing in serving students with special needs and is currently working in the field of Leadership Development. She is a Christian author, speaker, blogger, and publisher who loves serving beside her husband at her local place of worship, First Baptist Church of Ocala.