The gap between where I long to be and where I am stirs up winsome heartache. Causing me to fight for still, quiet moments when all my mind hears is noise, noise, noise. I must wrestle serenity into my soul and cling to it for dear life. This sweet serenity resembles a butterfly captured for its gorgeous wings, only to be frozen in death for the gaze of others. A grotesque beauty—made for our delight, but never for our dominance.

As I walk this mild trail listening to this babbling brook, I will savor what is mine to hold and release what is not. May my body remember this precious kind of peace. May it flow, flow, flow with me all the way back to gum-stained sidewalks and fluorescent lights.

Joy Bomb

I love music. My soul thrives on the sounds of a good beat and catchy lyrics. Music and dance are highly valued in my family. I can’t get through my work day without one of my playlists going. Most nights, my kids and I have a dance party to one of their favorite songs.

For this joy bomb, I’m sharing with you my (current) favorite tune:

Glimmers Everywhere by Lunar Vibes

Please share your favorite song or playlist! Music is joy that should be shared.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to help keep myself, and hopefully others, in a place of awe. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

Perhaps he knows, and each day he gives it all he’s got to get enough scraps for the long journey to the sea.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to help keep myself, and hopefully others, in a place of awe. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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Lost kids. That’s what we called ourselves when we played this survival game in the forest behind my grandparents’ trailer park. We would spend our time gathering twigs and leaves for our fire, and broken branches to make a shelter. We’d break and shave large sticks to form rifles to hunt the birds and squirrels for food. We would be in those woods for hours. Pretending we were running from the big, bad orphanage that kept us oppressed.

During those summers, our imaginations saved us. Protected what innocence we still carried in our small and growing bodies. We were children of divorce, you see. Not orphans by the dictionary definition, but orphaned from true love at times.

Our parents tried their best with what they had given the circumstances. But at the end of the day, his mom was a drug addict, his dad was absent, and my parents were teenagers who still liked to party and smoke weed instead of raising a toddler.

One of the earliest memories I have is being at a party at 3 or 4 years old. My eyes drooped so heavily I couldn’t keep them open. Mysterious arms scooped me up and put me on a bed somewhere in the boathouse. Goosebumps prickled on my arms as I rolled over on the plastic-covered mattress. No blankets, just the cold and uninviting air covering me, causing comfort to slither out of reach. The pungent smell of spilled beer and fish bait hit my nostrils, keeping me from a deep sleep. I toss and turn over and over and over until the memory fades.

I don’t know if I ever made it home that night or if we stayed at the boathouse while my mom slept off her hangover.

My cousin also endured his fair share of exposure to drugs and abuse. Half of it, I can’t even comprehend, nor is it my full story to tell.

But this I know – our imaginations rescued us until it could no longer hold our sorrows.

We got too old for the game. It morphed into other ways of escapism. My cousin coped with his own drug addiction. I found solace in perfectionism and an eating disorder. Both of us stumbled through our teenage years trying to make sense of a childhood that held both fondness and terror.

Because at the end of the day, we were loved, but it hurt like hell. We were taken care of, but often not wanted. Our needs and emotions were a terrible inconvenience.

My boots crunch as I walk through fallen leaves and dead branches, my 4-year-old and 2-year-old trail behind me, looking for treasure in the soft dirt. Their beautiful curiosity calls to the little girl inside of me who sought refuge in a similar forest. I stand before them as the guardian of their playfulness. One who will tell them they are loved and wanted; that their imaginations can be a place of rescue.

We all walk back to the house, greeted by our family. My aunt and cousin are sober now, and they smile at us as we walk through the door. My dad sweeps my youngest son into his arms and gives him some kind of treat.

I still believe our creativity can save us. After all, we’re just some lost kids trying to make sense of the world and find our way back home.

Postscript

This past weekend, I attended a Christian conference. I’m always a little apprehensive about these things because I think we, as followers of Jesus, can over-sensationalize the move of the Holy Spirit when you’re in a room of filled with thousands. But the speakers were wonderful, and the worship was beautiful.

One of the speakers had the daunting task of teaching on shame. While there’s lots to say about it and how we carry it, what stuck with me was how he explained that we (as a society) co-author each other’s stories. We are not necessarily blank pages when we are born. There were many pages written before our chapter began; good, bad, ugly, and beautiful. We carry these stories with us whether we like it or not. Our shame can often grow and develop because of these stories and their authors (our co-authors), but Jesus gives us a way to name the shame, and he can help rewrite our stories of chaos. “God runs toward and hovers over chaos”, he mentioned several times. And that struck me most of all.

Just like the beginning of creation, what was once riotous and disorderly, God hovered over it and gave it shape, texture, and color. He called it good. Where I feel chaotic and lost, God runs toward it to bring order and beauty. We help each other (through Christ) co-create beauty through the telling of stories, and call others to their truest narrative.

And so, by telling this small part of my own story to you, you get to co-author it with me, as maybe I’ll do for you, by calling out the shame and remembering what is true. God did bring order to the chaos I’ve lived through. It was not tidy, but damn if it isn’t beautiful.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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This was true of my 3-year-old as we walked from the bookstore back to our car. His footsteps bouncing confidently down the sidewalk, cookie in hand, and singing, rather loudly:

You put your butt in

You put your butt out

You put your butt in

To which a woman with a dusting of gray through her brown hair, a bright rainbow sweater, stops in front of him and sings, rather loudly:

And you shake it all about

You do the hokey pokey

And you spin yourself around

We all finish in unison –

That’s what it’s all about!

She and I smile politely at each other as we pass. My son looks up at me, baffled yet bewildered with a huge, toothy grin. A stranger had entered into his world, the silliness of his song, and decided to participate rather than belittle. Our giggles lingered as he asked me to race him to the car.

The moment was brief, but it brought so much delight to our walk. It made my heart swell with hope. It felt holy. That might sound dramatic, but earlier, as we trudged through the city block, each person we passed was looking down at a phone. Not a single one made eye contact as we passed.

There’s a famous line in Matthew where Jesus says, “But blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear.”

As my son grows from being a boy to a man, his memory will forget this small act of playfulness, but I pray his heart will carry it forever; that his eyes will learn to see the wonder in plain, ordinary things, and his ears will be attuned to songs sung with strangers or the melody of chirping birds in the middle of a cold January day.

My heart swells with holy hope because our world is not a lost cause; it just needs to be reminded that we have eyes to see and ears to hear the wonder that surrounds.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

This story came about through a writing competition held by Every Day Saints called Tell Me Something Beautiful: About Suffering. Thank you for giving space to share some of our deepest hurts.

Grief is like an ocean.

It will come in waves.

It’s best not to fight them.

Anger punches me in the gut at her analogy. The metal legs of this old, plastic chair creak as my body shifts uncomfortably at the counselor’s words. It was the water, after all, that took her, filled her lungs until everything ceased, and dragged her down and away from those whom she loved.

To fight the wave is the only response, to push against the wall threatening to crush me—the way it did my friend one summer afternoon.

Memory is a strange thing when viewed through the lens of grief. The most vivid feeling from that particular summer day was the temperature. July heat mercilessly beat down on my parent’s unconditioned home. Even the breeze scorched. Everything about it was average – sunbathing, popsicles, and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the CW.

Less vivid was the reaction. The scream that escaped when the words “she’s gone” rang through the receiver. Or the slam of my car door as I drove from my parent’s house, weeping, scared, and unsure how grief would come to me.

She doesn’t come like the ocean. No, she came to me at the edge of darkness. Asking me to come and see what she has waiting.

I begin to see her path is laid with stones of memory. Draws the cold and weary soul to her pit with warm light, much like a campfire.

The trek into her wood begins with reluctance. Your only supplies are the big three: anger, sadness, and denial. And yet, you go because grief is hardly ever a choice.

Boots crunch as you disappear into darkness. You draw a shaky breath, and the smell hits you. A rich aroma of cedar and smoke tickles your nostrils, beckoning you onward.

Soon, you see the tails of smoke dancing from flames in the middle of a clearing with camp chairs and familiar faces. Those who also trudged into grief’s wood, praying to God to come out the other side, wait for you to join.

You take a seat, arms wrapped around yourself, a protection of sorts. Warmth hits your chest as the biting cold tickles your back. Food and drinks are dished out. You take it even though you can’t eat. Everyone feels cared for by the fire. By nature, it freely gives its resources to those who come and dwell. Stories and laughter are the fuel that keeps the fire lit.

Comfortable silence falls. Everyone stares as the flames mirror silent memories going through our heads. The tears that glisten reflect the grief burning in us. The crackle of the wood is our soundscape to the dark hole that’s hollowed out our spirits.

Time suspends us. We try our best to ignore the noise of what lies beyond the woods. The world cruelly moves on, expecting you to pick up your camp chair, pull up your boot straps, and soldier on.

The embers of grief keep on burning, giving off the slightest warmth, holding our hearts hostage — begging to stay a little while longer on the threshold of before death and after.

We all go eventually.

The descent from the wood is not as daunting. Legs a little steadier. Boot straps tight. Eyes bloodshot, but dry. You emerge marked by the fire, the smell of smoke still clinging to your hair, and a map for how to get back when loss comes knocking once again.

You realize the passage of time burns less and less, just a scar now. The original wound is cauterized.

But every July smells like burning cedar.

Grief’s campfire is rekindled. An invitation to come and sit for a while and relish in the warmth of memory and times forgotten. The hike is not as dark or looming. Empty camp chairs are filled with the same familiar faces. Cups are filled with something strong. Laughter and tears are the soundscape to this odd reunion. Bonds are formed, like magic, through our tragedy — a club none of us asked to be a part of.

To know grief is to feel the heat of hell while being kissed by the breath of heaven through the mouths of those brave enough to tell our stories by her fire.

A burst of giggles and screams erupts through the crisp autumn air as the springs of the trampoline groan under bouncing feet.

It’s still light out. Barely. The sun is holding on to the last of its golden rays. The soft breeze against our static hair reminds me that these sunny autumn days will soon transition to rain and gloom.

“Land on your bum”, I remind them, “it’s your squishiest part!”

Their little bodies shoot through the air over and over as I double-bounce them to the sound of laughter and autumn leaves rustling in the biting wind.

I’m shot back to my own childhood, jumping on my best friend’s trampoline. We’d bounce each other so high in the air we could see the neighborhood – Mrs. Nelson raking her yard next door, cars pulling out of their driveways, and the feeling of being closer to the sky than ground. Then comes the best sensation, your stomach bottoms out with the exhilaration of height. You’re suspended in space and time. Then you begin your descent. Adrenaline shoots through your veins as you crash into the tightly knit fabric of the trampoline. Sturdy, but also giving. It allows you to land with tears in your eyes from the cool air and laughter in your belly.

Faith is similar, I’ve found.

Leap of faith, they call it, when you’re in one place but hoping to end up in another with no idea how you’ll clear the middle.

Courage must be mustered, either from circumstance or choice, for your leg muscles to fire up. Your heart, too, must be willing to mind the gap between the reality you’re living in and the one you’re hoping to land on safely.

But one crucial thing should also be mustered—the willingness to die.

Faith requires death; death to self, death to what was, death to certainty, death to control.

You must die a thousand times in a thousand different ways to experience the freedom that follows the big leap.

Thankfully, we’re promised that death has no victory and our faith is assured. We can stumble forward knowing the promises we have received.1

I’m clumsy, often naive, and more often wrong. But I know that I can jump from shaky legs because I’m surrounded by a Savior who is good at catching clumsy, messy things.

When I’m in seasons of my faith being tested and fortified, standing at a divine precipice, I find courage from the end of St. Patrick’s Breastplate Prayer:

Christ with me

Christ before me,

Christ behind me,

Christ in me

Christ beneath me,

Christ above me,

Christ on my right,

Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down,

Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise

My spiritual director has to remind me (more times than I care to admit) that I’m not powerful enough to wreck my own life. “God is bigger than your worst decisions”, she says.

Christ is all around.

I don’t have anything figured out in this life, but I do know that we are called to take up a shield of faith. At this moment it feels heavy, burdensome, like David wearing armor that was too big. I’m in the process of dying at the altar of control, getting ready to vault into the unknown.

Dying to myself sucks. It’s painful. What’s ahead seems impossible to my human mind. I can’t quite activate my holy imagination at the moment. But I’ll land, and so will you, on the strong yet giving fabric of the God who weaves our hope. Because we’re not powerful enough to mess up the promises He’s given, not even close.

You’ll land on your haunches a few times, sure.2 I know I have. But take heart. The God of the universe is a safe landing place who has given you a body, squishy parts and all, in order to withstand, to fly, to jump and leap, and laugh.

“Ouch! My buttcrack!” My three year old shouts as he lands from a big jump.

More laughter and giggles revive me from my reverie.

Little bodies tackle me, and we haphazardly roll to the middle of the trampoline, landing on our backs, gazing at the pink and orange sky.

Our breath comes in heaves. Our bodies revel in the exertion of jumping and chasing.

Boy, how good it feels to have a safe landing place.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. My purpose with sharing my writing is to remind myself and others to stay in awe, in a world that is constantly dividing our attention.

If you enjoyed this reflection, please consider subscribing or sharing with a friend.

Until the next one!

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An elderly woman (why is it always the elderly?) says to me as I push my three boys through the hellscape of Costco on a Monday night.

My husband returns with our favorite bread. The same old woman told him he’s “doing a great job” a moment ago when I went off to find pasta sauce.

Are my hands full? Yes. Quite literally.

My 6-month-old refuses to stop crying and only wants to be held by me and me alone. My other two boys are currently fighting about how many chocolate chip cookies each one will get on the car ride home.

After our entourage gets to the car, my mind is stuck on that woman’s statement. Are my hands full? Too full? How absurd.

Most days, I feel like I’m drowning in diapers, dishes, and dirty laundry.

Other days, my heart feels like it’s about to burst because I have all these sweet humans to love.

My husband and I turn to each other and share a funny anecdote about something our 3-year-old said in the frozen food aisle.

“We really gotta write this shit down. It’s comedy gold.”

Ah, there it is—the engine behind the big idea.

My husband and I have often said the above statement throughout our parenting journey and marriage. Simply because when we’re old and gray, and our kids have moved out of the house to start their own wild journey, we want to remember.

There are lots of instructions in the Bible about remembering and how bad humans are at it. Specifically, when it comes to God’s goodness.

I, too, have spiritual amnesia that sometimes bleeds all over the monotony of each day.

This is a simple attempt to remember.

To celebrate.

To mourn.

To offload the burden of being human.

Because if we’re lucky enough to grow gray hair and wrinkles, all we’ll have are stories. All kinds of stories, no matter what kind of life we end up living.

Are my hands full? Too full? How lucky.

If you’ve found my little corner of the internet, thanks for being here. I’m not a famous author or spiritual guru. I’m an ordinary person, sharing ordinary stories about my ordinary life. Because I have a hunch the Bible is right in its call to remember.

There’s holiness in the ordinary. The internet says otherwise. We’ll see who’s right in the end, I guess.

May reading these little stories light a spark in your heart to remember every ordinary moment you’re lucky enough to stumble through.

Cheers,

Lyndsey

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. If you have an ordinary story about your life, I’d love to hear it!

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