Oh No, She Didn't

Dear Fellow Patron of Moe Monday,

We have seen each other for a lot of Mondays in the past 3 years. I can understand how you would feel like we kind of know each other. I can also see how you would think that you have watched my child grow up. However, I can assure you, we do not know each other. You know nothing about us. Nothing. I don’t even think you know my daughter’s name and I intend to keep it that way because I think you’re a little cuckoo.

Tonight, when you walked past our table and stopped to chitchat about my precious girl, we were prepared to humor you as we always do. Except then you said something that just stunned me into a silent stupor. You said “She’s gotten so big and she’s really slimmed down. I almost didn’t recognize her.” Now, I can tell by the many, many times you have stopped to talk to us, that you are not—shall we say? From around here. So let me tell you a little something about being Southern since you have made yourself a transplant in my beloved South. Down here, we call that a backhanded compliment. And down here, we call the people who serve those backhanded compliments—well, we bless their hearts a lot to soften the blow of the terribly indecent  names we call those people .You should know that about us since you have allowed yourself to be lured here by the siren song of our manic depressive Mother Nature.

Now that it has been a few hours since our encounter, you would think I’ve thought of the things I wish I had said to you. But honestly, the only thing I can think is ‘fuck you.’ The loudest and heartiest of ‘fuck you’s.’ Horribly inappropriate, I know. If you ever say that shit in front of my kid again, I guarantee you I won’t be so composed. I may be so indignant that I forget to bless your heart before I drop the F bomb along with some other choice words that do not befit a proper lady. Fair warning, B.

Truly,

Mama

The Low Road

Dear Fifi,
Sometimes I get glimpses of the person I think you'll be one day. Sometimes it looks eerily familiar because you remind me so much of myself. I heard it said once by someone I don't remember "I've never taken a high road in my entire life." And I immediately thought 'Yes! Amen, sister! Me either!' I was only aware that such a thing existed because your Grammy had moments of lucidity where she wasn't batshit crazy or mean and she used those moments to try to teach me to be something different than I am. She wanted me to take the high road.

Every parent wishes for their child to be better than they were. I'm here to tell you that the low road isn't necessarily all bad. It is quite deliciously paved with Girl Scout Cookies that support Planned Parenthood and boxed wine, when you're old enough. All the road signs include the F bomb and the people you pass down there are aflame with spontaneity and passion for all the "wrong" things. But they are not your people. Your people are actually the High Road People. High road does not equal perfect. Anybody who thinks they're perfect is not on the high road. They're lost out in the woods somewhere and they keep warm with their judgements and their self righteousness.

The High Road People are the well meaning; the ones who don't always get it right but they try so hard. The ones who think before they do and the ones who apologize when they get it wrong. They keep you honest. They keep you from being consumed by all the Girl Scout cookies, the alcohol and all the lost causes. They keep you from spontaneously combusting from rage and indignation. But mostly, they love you for who you are, just like God does. They help you to keep your heart open to hearing God when He talks. Because God talks to us no matter what road we're on. He sees you no matter where you are. Don't listen to any of the Lost in the Woods people, who tell you that you need a different path to walk with God. He created the Universe- He isn't offended by the effing road signs.

The High Road People help you to know when its time to admit you were wrong and when its okay to stand behind your words. They are the only people you need. You don't need the people lost in the woods or the other people with you on the low road. The only thing you have to do is stay open, stay mostly sober and listen to your heart. The High Road People understand. They're the best kind of people.

Love forever,
Mama

Warrior

I posted the following on Facebook earlier this week: "In Target alone and not even about to cry bc I already used my tears this morning trying to get those damn drops in Finley's eyes. As we struggled and she kept screaming "No touch me, Mommy. Stop, Mommy. No drops, Mommy." I cried like an idiot bc sometimes motherhood is so effing hard and if she'd just stop fighting and lay still...but then I remembered that the name Finley means 'fair haired warrior' at least that's what the internet tells me and I thought 'Huh. For all the worrying I do about her being too kind and gentle or too sociopathic, she is a warrior and she's showing me that right now.' Then I dropped the little terrorist, I mean warrior, off at school where she practically skipped in and thought 'There goes my little fair haired warrior.' 

Everyday I pray for peace and contentment. Sometimes I get an extra surprise. Today it was perspective."

Fifi had pink eye so that's why we're struggling with eye drops. I've gotten perspective as an extra little gift from God quite often lately. That morning after I dropped her off at school and went to do the grocery shopping I had no tears left. 

Part of my gift was an extension of what I'd already received originally. The realization that my daughter is all of the endearing parts of me without all my baggage. She's kind and sensitive, she uses swear words with perfect intonation in exactly the right context. She doesn't see age, race, religion or class. She has a fighter's heart. Some of these are my inherent qualities. Some of them are things I have worked to become. Some of them I'm not that good at.

 My heart is so constantly split wide open that I can be simultaneously furious enough to rip the world a new one and cry lots of tears. The inability to hold back tears when you're livid is pretty inconvenient. It makes it difficult for people to hear the words when you're doing the ugly cry.

My daughter, on the other hand, posesses all of those qualities without any concious effort and she doesn't cry a lot. Very self assured and tough, that one. Whether its because I model them for her or because I have given birth to the most perfect female child, we'll never know. All I could think that morning was 'Dear God, I'll never understand how you thought I was good enough to guide her. How I will ever live up to the kind of mother she deserves? How will I nurture these traits I admire so much in her? How will I keep the world from stealing them from her with all its tragedy and injustice? Why did you choose me?'

He didn't answer directly. But I know He heard me like always because I got a message that morning that told me so. A friend said 'I get it. Motherhood is hard. I cried last night because my daughter was upset with me over brushing her teeth. I was so upset thinking about all the children who endure terrible things at the hands of parents who aren't loving or well meaning.' She told me I was doing it right. That I'm doing a great job. And there it was: affirmation. Right on time, as usual. Thank you, God. You have impeccable timing. But you already knew that, huh?

Update

The Lord heard my prayers. Some of them He answered, some of them He ignored and one He answered in the exact way I needed but did not ask for. Funny how that works.

Let's just start with the ignored one. I asked for help keeping my confessions and my tears to myself. Pfft. I was spilling my guts and my tears all over the place, y'all. I did the ugly cry for half the service and started up again when it was over. It was embarassing and liberating. I guess the two sorta go hand in hand. You can't feel free if you're too worried about your mascara. I went through three tissues while I was there, which the church so kindly provided for me since I came unprepared. What kinda person shows up for something she knows she's gon' cry at and doesn't bring tissues? Somebody who's not entirely committed to showing up, that's who.

If you'll remember, I only promised I'd drive to the church and then I placed the rest of the burden at the feet of God. I kept up my end of the bargain but when I got there I was thisclose to turning around and going to Starbucks, er, I mean home. Somehow I managed to squash the urge and make it up the top step where I was overcome with dog tired and almost went back to the car for a nap. I mean, home. This time God put His foot down. He may have said "Get your fanny inside right this minute. You ain't goin' nowhere." I wrestled with the door for a second. You pull it open and I was justa pushing. I bet I sounded like a cat trying to cover up shit on a marble floor from the inside and they heard me coming because I felt like they all turned to notice me when I came in. And who should be standing right at the front, but my neighbor. This brings me to the prayer He answered differently than I asked.

I prayed so hard for there please not to be anyone I knew in that church. Aternately, I wished silently that I had someone with me who knew what a big deal it was for me to be there and who also knew why. My neighbor is the first person I ever told about my shameful church secret. I still remember her reaction: it was a cross between empathy and 'Why did you just tell me that? Now I don't know what to say.' But after that, I found my secret just spilled out sometimes, and as time went on, it became easier to shock and assault people with my secret and it didn't seem so shameful anymore. Why should I be ashamed anyway? I'm not the one who had a thing for little girls. So yeah, God gave me exactly what I needed this morning.

I survived the service and to their credit, no one really seemed to notice the puddle I was spilling, except I know it was obvious and they are all excellent actors. As things were wrapping up, I was planning my great escape when the words "If anyone needs to pray, the altar is open" were uttered. It took me about half a second to realize I should go up there and a brief pause for my next thought to be "Oh heck no. I did more than my fair share here today. I. Am. Leaving." The minister had a different idea. See, you can't show up to a church of 25 people and cry your eyes out then just leave. They don't take kindly to that. Its rude not to let them share your pain 3 days before Christmas when everyone's celebrating Jesus, the homeless baby, who came down here to endure it all for us. So she raced to the back of the church because she could tell I was looking for the nearest exit and she said "Can I pray for you?" But it was more of a rhetorical question. Kinda like when I ask Finley if she's ready to leave the park and she actually thinks I care. What I really mean is "Let's go now or I'm gonna sack you up and drag you to the car screaming like a political prisoner on your way to the gas chamber."  Same idea here. She didn't really care if I was a willing participant. On the way to the altar I confessed. "I was raised in church. I'm not actually here because anything's wrong."

*Eye roll and an implied, that's what they all say.*

She responded with "Okay, why are you here?" And the words just spilled out. I was powerless to stop myself. I was also empowered to keep talking and stop crying. All at once I felt free from the ties that bound me to my shame and my secrets and my fear and my worry. Free from the judgement and the sense that I didn't belong. Free of that nagging little feeling that my life isn't big enough, clean enough, good enough. Free from it all. I am enough. I have always been enough. I have always had a divine purpose. I have always been visible to God. He has always seen me through the big and small, good and bad, significant and insignificant moments of my life. He. Sees. Me. And He loves me just as I am with no qualifiers or conditions. Suddenly this thing I'd always been told and believed to be true, felt true. And it felt glorious. And it was my last prayer. Answered.

Confessions

Mercy, this space has become so much more than I intended it to be. Anyone who knows me in real life can tell you that I am much more eloquent in print than in person. And anyone who knows me well can also tell you that I make inappropriate jokes about the things that aren't really funny about my life. It's a defense mechanism; I should probably seek therapy for it.

So anyway, in an effort to live my truth out loud and to be honest about my journey with imperfect, stumbling faith, I make a lot of inappropriate jokes. Some people don't get it. Sassy Britches subtly suggested maybe I should be even more honest about how I arrived at the place I'm in now. I'm irrationally scared out of my ever lovin' mind to strip away the comedy and lay my pain bare for people I don't know but I've carried the burden of other people's shame and secrets for far too long.

Here goes: [whew. deep breaths] My earliest memory is being molested by the preacher's son in the church basement. I was about 3 years old. He was a teenager. I never told anyone so I had to see that bastard for years after the incident. My mama, as a result of a family legacy of spanking and extreme parenting and a mental illness she refuses help for, has always treated her children as her property. We were simply meant to take whatever she dished out, including nasty name calling and being smacked in the face. That kind of abuse leaves scars long after the red marks are gone. I can't remember a time that she ever told me I was beautiful. I remember every time she called me a slut, bitch, stuck up and irresponsible. Every. Single. Time. We were raised in church and went pretty much everytime the church doors were open. I hated God and I thought if Christianity looked anything like the things I'd been shown by people who hid sexual deviance and venom underneath their cloaks of pseudofaith, then I didn't need God. For most of my life I was in charge of my own moral compass, I took care of my own self esteem, I handled my emotional health alone, with no one to help carry my load.

So there. I said it. Out loud to people who may not be on my side. That's terrifying.

As a result of all that awful stuff, church is understandably not a place of peace for me. I can't step foot inside of a church without crying. Church feels like shame and secrets and judgement to me. God knows all this because I've told Him and I'm also certain He feels the terror in my heart. I've been assured there's a church out there somewhere for me and I was determined to avoid seeking The One. I told God if He wanted me in church, He was gonna have to drop it in my lap. And because He thinks I'm delightful and fun to play jokes on, He's done just that.

A few weeks ago, Tyrone and I were sitting at a red light across the street from a church in town and witnessed a little old lady walk through the front doors resplendent in a fancy hat and matching coat. Right behind her, coming up the walk, was a white woman and a little black boy in tattered clothes. I turned to Tyrone in shock and disbelief and said "Did you see that?! I wanna go there!" God must have been listening. Earlier this week, I got stopped at the red light beside the church, which gave me plenty of time to read the sign out front and find out that they have a female minister and services are at 11am on Sunday mornings. That's when I heard God say "This is it, girlfriend. They're waitin' on ya." Look, me and God are tight so He talks to me in a Southern accent. Put your judgement away.

It's taken me three days to work up the courage to make a promise to God. I promised I'd be in the parking lot of the church at 10:55 tomorrow morning. That's as far as I've gotten. I've told Him He's in charge of the rest. I might need some divine power to propel my feet forward. I might need a Xanax to do it without crying. There's that inappropriate joking again. I am absolutely out of mind worrying that I'll say a "bad" word or that I'll spill my guts to the first person to welcome me and shake my hand. I'm irrationally terrified that I'll say "My name is Belle and I've always hated God because my mama is nuts but she's in the church pew every Sunday and I was molested by the preacher's son when I was three in the effing church basement and I alway figured Christians were holier than thous hiding shameful secrets under their Sunday best and I'm better than that. I'm only here because God told me in a Southern accent that I should come and I noticed that y'all have a very diverse congregation."

Please Lord, help me keep my confessions and my tears to myself. Amen.

Thankful

Its November which means everyone on Facebook is writing daily posts called "30 Days of Thankfulness." I despise most of those posts. The reality is that most people don't keep up with their daily posts, they are thankful for very first world things that don't really matter or they stop posting altogether by Day 10- maybe because they've run out of things to say? As you can guess, I don't participate in "30 Days of Thankfulness." I like to think I do it everyday of the year instead.

Today though, I'm gonna tell y'all a little story about the things I'm thankful for this year. Two years ago, I was a fairly new mother. I was just finding my way and becoming more confident in my parenting skills. I was also just beginning the journey of forgiving myself for my very traumatic birth that I'm still not ready to write about. It was about two years ago that I was introduced to my very best friend, Sassy Britches, by a mutual friend.

Two years ago I was in need of a good friend. If I could have made a list of all the things I wanted in a friend, I would not have even thought to request a lot of the things that Sassy embodies. If I were picking a best friend out of a lineup I doubt I would have chosen her and I bet she wouldn't have chosen me either. You see, on paper we are quite the unlikely duo. She, of great faith, much education, and very few swear words; I, the antithesis of all of those things. No one could have guessed we'd find common ground elsewhere. No one except the person who put us together in the first place: God.

He was the only one who would have guessed or who knew that we needed each other. He knew that we would balance each other out. He knew that together we could do great things.  He also knew that He could use her to start running me down. He must've said to the angels "Her! That girl who says she doesn't want me- I want her." And I imagine they thought He was crazy. Why would God, the holiest of holy, want a girl who is loud, irreverent, improper? A girl who cusses like a sailor and denies religous trappings? Your guess is as good as mine but He sent Sassy to catch me.

This is where the thankful part comes in. I am eternally grateful that God sent me a
friend who was way better than any friend I would have picked for myself. I am thankful that He knows my heart and knew what I needed before I even knew myself. I am thankful that he knows my heart and loved it anyway. I am thankful that He put Sassy in a position in her life in which she was willing to accept me for me. That He put it in her heart to come out and meet me at the place I was at in my life at that moment. I am thankful that He chased me. That everytime I could feel Him tugging at my heart and chose to ignore it, He started pulling harder and yelling louder. Above all, I am thankful for grace and understanding. Thankful that He saw fit to send me a friend who embodies grace and understanding, who gave me grace and understanding long before I was ready to accept it. I am thankful for a God who knows exactly what to do to get our attention even when the road is two years long. I am grateful for a God who sees past our history, our doubt, our questions, fears and motivations and sees straight through to our gifts, our hearts and our intentions.

Your turn! What are you thankful for this holiday season?

Hosea Feed the Hungry

I posted yesterday about this weird place I've been in lately where people drive me absolutely batshit crazy for simply being the only thing they know how: Middle class Americans with middle class American problems. I'm working on getting outta that funk because I think it alienates good people who mean well but sometimes are too insulated in their suburban homes to really know pain and suffering.

So, today I heard the best story ever. Ever. About a bride whose wedding was cancelled and so she donated the reception to homeless children in Atlanta. I get chills typing that. This woman who had planned one of the most important days of her life only to have it called off, gave her day away to homeless kids. Now I don't know any of the gossipy details about who called it off and why. I don't know if she was pissed or heartbroken but I know that this woman, in her own suffering, blessed other people in a way that they never could have dreamed. I want to hug her. For a really really long time. I want to be the creeper who hugs just a leeeettle too long just like Fifi does to her friends. I want to dance in the streets whooping and hollering like a lunatic because this story makes my heart sing.

I found you the story here. And I also found the organization she donated to. It's called Hosea Feed the Hungry, just in case anyone who runs across this is from Atlanta.

Did you know 70% of Atlanta's homeless population are children? I need to say that again so it sinks in. Seventy percent of Atlanta's homeless population are kids. There goes your tired, old assumption that all homeless people are lazy bums who use their panhandled proceeds on cigarettes and booze. Wait, that was snarky and I'm supposed to be working on that. So anyway, the people who benefited from this fancy reception were children and their mamas.

The CEO of Hosea Feed the Hungry, Elisabeth Omilami, said the reception was such a wonderful learning experience for the children because they had never eaten a four course meal before and they now know about all of the etiquette involved. She said something else that resonated in my heart; she said "The children have learned that their beginning does not determine their destiny." Wow. I want to give this woman a creepy, too long hug. This story is turning me into the person no one wants to be caught in an embrace with. It makes me want to go back to Facebook and SHOUT IN CAPITAL LETTERS THAT MY HEART IS HAPPYHAPPYHAPPY.

I hope that my joy and the joy that was bestowed upon these babies spills over into your life too. Maybe if you're in ATL, you'll consider giving time, money or a cancelled event to Hosea Feed the Hungry. I'll leave you with another amazing quote from my new best friend, Elisabeth Omilami, even though she doesn't know it:  “Whenever our sense of self importance causes us to perceive ourselves as too big to do the little things, to care for people, and to right the wrongs done to those who are voiceless, it is a sign that we have lost our souls to something that will eventually destroy the humanity in us. It is a sign that we have lost the real meaning of life, of love, and the purpose for being.” 

Cue the ugly cry.