To start off, I am going to lay a little bit of groundwork.
I'm a somewhat 'small town girl.' I married my 'high school sweetheart' even though technically he was in college when I was in high school. We started dating when I was 15, got married when I was 19, had our first of four kiddos when I was 21, bought (or, are currently buying, to be more accurate,) our first home when I was 26 - the same year that our 3rd sweet boy was born, we moved away to a big city (big for us, anyway) when I was 30, then hesitantly moved back almost two years later. My husband is a public school teacher and a pastor of a small church, on top of several other small jobs that he takes on. I work part time (sometimes full time, depends on the week,) as a Certified Nurse Assistant at a nursing home, I homeschool three of the four kids, and sometimes all four depending on the day, on top of several other obligations here at home and elsewhere.
I came from a 'broken' home. My mom left my biological dad when I was 7 or so and I spent most of my childhood wanting 'my dad' and being angry that he wasn't a part of my life, even though it was his choice. I blamed my mom as well the man who later came into my life and who became a better father than my biological one ever was. I regret that wasted time, with so much of me. My earliest memories of my childhood involve my Grandma, who passed away this past year, as well as one horrible memory of my biological dad attempting to beat up my mom through a car window. I honestly don't have many other childhood memories, with the exception of a few that have been told to me repeatedly. I don't know how else to explain it, other than I must have just repressed everything else. The earliest memory I have past the car window is asking Jesus into my heart with my mom in our kitchen in a little bitty Texas town.
I wasn't raised in the church. My first memories of the church involve sporadic attendance and a very stern Sunday school teacher, who couldn't fathom how I didn't know anything I was 'supposed' to. When my parents moved my sister, my little brother, and me back home from that Texas town, we attended a church here again off and on, and my parents eventually quit going altogether. My Nana would ask if she could come pick me up, and if I wasn't in trouble, I usually got to go. I remember always wanting to be there and desiring to be a 'part' of something. I remember being so angry with my mom when she wouldn't let me go, and feeling left out when I didn't get to go on ski trips and the like. To say that my first memories of the Church were skewed is an understatement.
Anyway, sixth grade was hard for me, all of my friends from before we moved were on a different side of the building, had different lunch times, and had new friends. I came from that little Texas town where I showed lambs, wore Wranglers, and cowboy boots, to hanging around with a lot of the gang members and those wanting to be in the gang. It was so different, but they were so welcoming to me, and to this day I still consider them friends. Junior high was a little bit different because I became more involved in sports and found my niche, I guess. If it didn't involve some kind of sport, I didn't really want much to do with it, I don't remember attending church much at all during that time after several horrible rumors were spread about me in one. The embarrassment and shame of something that was so far from the truth was a big burden to bear for a thirteen/fourteen year old. It was a really horrible experience and it still saddens me to think how Satan works among those who claim to profess Christ to bring others down.
I remember my dad coming home one summer before I was driving, so it must have been in junior high or the summer after, and he was obviously stressed. He worked construction during any daylight hours in the summers and only came home for lunch for as long as it took to make it and eat. He came home one day and he told me that it would be really helpful, since I'm home, if I could have lunch ready for him when he got there, so he could get back to work quicker. From that point on, I was sure to have a meal prepared for him, I would take money from my mom's purse and ride my bike to the store, or the convenience store and buy what I needed, and have it ready when he walked in the door. I don't really remember much else about those summers, including where my sister was, or if I was taking care of my brother also, it's all such a blur. I'm sure they have their own memories, hopefully good ones! I do remember trying to open the blinds in the living room, because it was always so dark in our house, and getting in trouble, because it didn't help my mom's headaches.
The summer before my freshman year of high school I was grounded, yep, the entire summer. Which in all honesty, was the best thing for me, because at that point in my little world, I honestly could have went either way. Had I had the freedom to do as others did, I know that my life would have been drastically different. (I would elaborate on any of this if asked to, but I'm trying to just give a basic run down.) Needless to say, my freshman through high school years were spent busy with sports and after school activities, which included hanging out with my college guy watching t.v. most nights and weekends. We were party animals! Just kidding, we were quite the opposite, and still are, and I'm comfortable with that, even though some people aren't for some reason. Anyway, that's another blog.
Moving on, at the start of my freshman year of high school, I started attending youth at the same church with my Nana, and eventually started going with my guy to the church that his dad pastored. Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesday nights. We were together all of the time it seemed. We broke up for a short time because of that, my parents were uncomfortable with the fact that I wasn't with my friends and 'enjoying' high school. Needless to say after a couple of months of living that life and tagging along, I was happy to be back with my guy. Even though I had a steady boyfriend, things to keep me busy, a church that I attended regularly, my life was far from pretty. My mom struggled with some things for a while that really put a lot of strain on the family, and me and it all seemed to blow up while I was in high school. The morning that I saw my mom sick on the bathroom floor changed my life forever, my Grandma was there thankfully and she had me call 911, the ambulance came, then I had to go to school, and live life like every thing was normal. It was probably one of the hardest days of my life and I remember it so vividly. I remember the volleyball coach pulling my sister and me from our classes and letting us fall apart. I remember feeling so scared and unsure of the future, family stepping in to help, my Nana reassuring us that we were going to be safe no matter what, my aunt taking us to Bealls to buy homecoming outfits, my Grandma staying with us...I'll definitely never forget those moments. And, when all was said and done, praise God, my mom was ok.
My husband still gets a little upset with me because he remembers so much about the time that we were dating and engaged and I don't hardly remember anything. It's not that I don't want to remember, it's more like I have some kind of memory that only holds somewhat emotional, depressing baggage. I'm sure there's some kind of term for that.
The biggest struggle that I seem to have right now is this misconception that people tend to have about me and how 'perfect' my life is. Read even the first paragraph of this post and it's obvious just how imperfect I am. I carry a lot of emotional baggage. I'm an introvert, I create things as a way to express myself, I don't create things for my home to make anyone feel small or insignificant. I write to let go of all of this and have something to look back on at some point and be able to say that it hurt at some point, but it doesn't hurt me anymore. When people make the comment that I'm "almost a saint," and that they "can't compare" to anything I've done or am doing, is almost like a stab to the heart. Is that some kind of compliment? I don't want to be a saint and I don't want people to think that I am. I am a sinner, saved by the blood of Jesus. I am not afraid of what anyone thinks about my life at this point, I would love to share it with you. I'm not ashamed of who I am, the parents who raised me, or the baggage I carry. My life is messy, full of impatience, stubbornness, hurt, regret, loneliness, resentment, and imperfection...it might not look like yours, but it's not supposed to. This is my story, my testimony. All of these things, and more, make up who I am and who I am becoming in Christ. I am working through forgiveness, humility, compassion, patience, and a multitude of other sin issues on a daily basis. But it is also full of so much hope in Christ, joy in His promises, love for my family, community, and Church, and anticipation for the future, regardless of what it may bring. Still so so far from perfect.
When you see me post a photo of something I'm making in the middle of the night, it's probably a way to relieve some kind of stress of the day or week, please pray for me. When you see the instagram photo on your feed, you don't have to like it, but know that it might be from the best part of our day, before the tantrum or after the meltdown at the breakfast table. It would be nice to have a perfect testimony, a perfect life, but then what would I need Jesus for? I'd rather have Jesus and work through the messiness of it all.
The summer before my freshman year of high school I was grounded, yep, the entire summer. Which in all honesty, was the best thing for me, because at that point in my little world, I honestly could have went either way. Had I had the freedom to do as others did, I know that my life would have been drastically different. (I would elaborate on any of this if asked to, but I'm trying to just give a basic run down.) Needless to say, my freshman through high school years were spent busy with sports and after school activities, which included hanging out with my college guy watching t.v. most nights and weekends. We were party animals! Just kidding, we were quite the opposite, and still are, and I'm comfortable with that, even though some people aren't for some reason. Anyway, that's another blog.
Moving on, at the start of my freshman year of high school, I started attending youth at the same church with my Nana, and eventually started going with my guy to the church that his dad pastored. Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesday nights. We were together all of the time it seemed. We broke up for a short time because of that, my parents were uncomfortable with the fact that I wasn't with my friends and 'enjoying' high school. Needless to say after a couple of months of living that life and tagging along, I was happy to be back with my guy. Even though I had a steady boyfriend, things to keep me busy, a church that I attended regularly, my life was far from pretty. My mom struggled with some things for a while that really put a lot of strain on the family, and me and it all seemed to blow up while I was in high school. The morning that I saw my mom sick on the bathroom floor changed my life forever, my Grandma was there thankfully and she had me call 911, the ambulance came, then I had to go to school, and live life like every thing was normal. It was probably one of the hardest days of my life and I remember it so vividly. I remember the volleyball coach pulling my sister and me from our classes and letting us fall apart. I remember feeling so scared and unsure of the future, family stepping in to help, my Nana reassuring us that we were going to be safe no matter what, my aunt taking us to Bealls to buy homecoming outfits, my Grandma staying with us...I'll definitely never forget those moments. And, when all was said and done, praise God, my mom was ok.
My husband still gets a little upset with me because he remembers so much about the time that we were dating and engaged and I don't hardly remember anything. It's not that I don't want to remember, it's more like I have some kind of memory that only holds somewhat emotional, depressing baggage. I'm sure there's some kind of term for that.
The biggest struggle that I seem to have right now is this misconception that people tend to have about me and how 'perfect' my life is. Read even the first paragraph of this post and it's obvious just how imperfect I am. I carry a lot of emotional baggage. I'm an introvert, I create things as a way to express myself, I don't create things for my home to make anyone feel small or insignificant. I write to let go of all of this and have something to look back on at some point and be able to say that it hurt at some point, but it doesn't hurt me anymore. When people make the comment that I'm "almost a saint," and that they "can't compare" to anything I've done or am doing, is almost like a stab to the heart. Is that some kind of compliment? I don't want to be a saint and I don't want people to think that I am. I am a sinner, saved by the blood of Jesus. I am not afraid of what anyone thinks about my life at this point, I would love to share it with you. I'm not ashamed of who I am, the parents who raised me, or the baggage I carry. My life is messy, full of impatience, stubbornness, hurt, regret, loneliness, resentment, and imperfection...it might not look like yours, but it's not supposed to. This is my story, my testimony. All of these things, and more, make up who I am and who I am becoming in Christ. I am working through forgiveness, humility, compassion, patience, and a multitude of other sin issues on a daily basis. But it is also full of so much hope in Christ, joy in His promises, love for my family, community, and Church, and anticipation for the future, regardless of what it may bring. Still so so far from perfect.
When you see me post a photo of something I'm making in the middle of the night, it's probably a way to relieve some kind of stress of the day or week, please pray for me. When you see the instagram photo on your feed, you don't have to like it, but know that it might be from the best part of our day, before the tantrum or after the meltdown at the breakfast table. It would be nice to have a perfect testimony, a perfect life, but then what would I need Jesus for? I'd rather have Jesus and work through the messiness of it all.
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