Blurred Lines

Once upon a time in a land far, far way....no just kidding, this is not a fairy tale. What I meant to say is that a long time ago we lived on some land and it did seem far away. Being a mom taxi over the years has given me a unique perspective on the road of life.  When my kids were growing up we lived in a town about 20-30 minutes away from their school.  As you can imagine a lot happened in that car of mine. Voices in the back could range in decibel from nice human tones to all out animal shouting matches in which I thought someone was going to be thrown from the car. 

Our day would start with me (to my children's dismay, in my pajamas with morning, wild hair) rushing out the door to get them strapped in and headed for school.  Most mornings it would be a quiet ride, since no kid is ever fully awake that early. It was nice. I could zone out to a morning talk show or listen to music. All of us, headed to school in a sleep-like trance. It was surreal! But at the end of the day, the part where kids are completely worn out from school and on the brink of starvation, and their emotional bubble ready to burst-- was when their lines were drawn. You remember those lines?  In the backseat with your sibling? That imaginary line that was always abused or violated by one party.  That fine line that if crossed would warrant a smack, a kick, or a verbal lashing. Most of the time the line was crossed purposefully, a little voice on their shoulder saying, "C'mon! They aren't the boss of you! Why shouldn't you cross it?" And sometimes, it was done by accident because you forgot the rule. But for whatever the reason the line was crossed, the consequences could be brutal!

How many invisible lines have we drawn for ourselves? With our partners, our children, or with strangers? We all know how we want to be treated and sometimes these expectations are implicitly or explicitly communicated. Sometimes it is so easy with children to draw lines. They are mold-able, flexible, and willing. They learn early on where mommy draws her line. (This excludes the teenage years where everything you've taught goes out the window and hormones dictate what lines they will cross!) But for adults and relationships, how do we clearly communicate those lines? Let's be honest, when our line is crossed we feel violated and unheard- even hurt. We become the child in the backseat crying out that someone has crossed over!

I think we are all guilty of crossing lines. Intentionally and unintentionally. We are human.  We still have that little boy or girl inside of us wanting our way, setting up imaginary boundaries with the no trespassing sign. Yet, as adults, if someone crosses over we are not allowed tantrums- unless of course you want to be viewed as crazy.  We, as adults, must learn to communicate to others, our lines. I know for me I still have a hard time communicating my imaginary line.  It's sometimes hard to find my voice and say no to more work projects, or to communicate to someone that they've crossed my line and now I am hurt.

I've crossed your line, you've crossed my line. It happens to all of us. But for me, it is nice to know that there is One who never crosses the line.  There is One who respects all lines, imaginary or real. He clearly sees them.  He is near when I want Him to be, and steps back when I need Him to. Most of the time, it is in His silence where I love Him the most, because He accepts and respects my blurred lines.




Live Large and Be Free!

Pick Me! Pick Me!

Oh the haunting memories of the playground battlefield. I remember it like yesterday. Teams are ordered to form and team captains take on the task of choosing the very best athletes to ensure a win. I was never the last one to be chosen...but I was never the first or second or even fifth. Those playground moments where my heart would beat like a drum in my chest and ears, my throat tightening, and holding back tears with every blink of my eyes; standing there hoping and praying I wouldn't be chosen last, oh yes those moments. Inside my head I would chant the mantra, "please pick me, please pick me!"

In all fairness, I was the girlie girl on the playground. If a ball flew my way, I was ducking and taking cover in order to save severe damage to my face, because inevitably I would miss. I was the girl you didn't want on your team because if I got hurt I cried. Sure, I tried many sports over the years, only to fail. I tried to put on a brave face and tell myself don't be a wimp- you can do this!  But too many mental scars prevented me from ever succeeding...until...I put on my first pair of running shoes.

Running, to me, meant no flying balls, no waiting to be picked, and no accountability to a team. Running meant that I chose when and where I ran, I chose how fast or slow the pace, and I chose myself to get up, open the door, and step outside. Years of pavement therapy lay behind me. Miles and miles of a faint, grey haze, a road mixed with memories, floating like ashes on a breeze-- swirling and twirling in the confines of my mind. Moments where I ran for my kids and their problems. Moments where I ran for my own problems. Moments where there was joy and satisfaction in my life. Moments where I didn't think I could get out of bed and face another day. All moments- good and bad. I hold on to that road behind me, although it fades in the distance.  I hold on to the realization that even though things were, and still are, out of my control- running returns it back to me. I control the direction I run. I pick me to get up and face that pavement and the dawning of a new day.



"By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward - to Jesus.  I'm off and running, and I'm not turning back." Philippians 3:13,14








There are many of those who have motivated me and encouraged me to run.  

That is one gift I will forever be grateful for.




Live Large and Be Free!

Seconds, please!

Isn't it wonderful when someone asks, "Would you like seconds?"  Even if you are full, being asked gives you the option to go in for more or to sit back, loosen your belt, and relax. Seconds can also refer to time.  Isn't it wonderful when hours have turned to minutes and minutes have turned to seconds? What about second chances?  I believe everyone has had in some point in their lives a second chance.  I know that I have had my fair share.  Second chances gives joy to the recipient and the giver.  It is a symbiotic relationship in which both parties equally share in the gift.  

Lady our Rescue Dog

Recently, we rescued a dog from the pound.  She was found roaming the streets, starving with ribs and hip bones poking out, and covered in fleas.  Was it love at first sight for me?  No.  In fact, she wasn't my type of dog at all.  I had in my head the breed I wanted and I wasn't going to stray from that.  But Lady, that is the name we gave her, wiggled her way into my heart with her kind eyes and loving personality.  Lady now lives in what I call "Dog Heaven" with an abundance of toys, a cozy doggie bed, and a fat belly. Lady was given a second chance.



When I think back on my life and all the second chances I have received I would say that I was very spoiled.  Spoiled with the assumption that I could get away with everything and still be given a second chance.  Shame on me.  There were so many times when I did not deserve a second chance but was given one anyway.  There are times when I should have been the giver of a second chance but chose not to because of a hardened heart.  

Stubborn pride can oftentimes close our minds to giving others that second chance.  We are all so very human. As I sit and think about second chances my mind keeps going to the story of Jesus and Peter.  How many chances did Jesus give Peter?  The story ends with Peter denying Jesus, but Jesus never denying Peter.  Second chances is not a human trait.  God is the ultimate second chance giver with no limitations. God gives everyone, regardless of their past or present, a second chance with the gift of a new day. A day that is filled with so much potential and opportunities.

Today, I gratefully accept my gift.  Today is my Second Chance.



Live Large and Be Free!

I am not a Christian

I am not a Christian.  What does this statement mean?  First thought you must have is, "She's atheist!!!"  Wrong.  I am not an atheist.  In fact, I am a true believer in Jesus and His second coming. The dictionary defines Christian as of pertaining to, or belonging to the religion based on the teachings of Jesus Christ. This is where I draw the line in the same sand where the poem "Footprints" was based.  The walk I have with God is beautifully mine.  I don't have to belong to a religion to walk that walk.

Once upon a time, the Queen Diva in me wanted acceptance, love, and the bright spotlight of success shining on my religious ways. From fervently volunteering to ultimately taking a job within the church, I sought every conceivable way to be validated as a good...wait...I mean...GREAT , SUPERB, AWESOME Christian!  Let me show you how I can dress up my kids to reflect the great mother I am, let me do a drive by with my mom taxi so you can see that I am the best carpooler ever,  let me show you how perfectly matched my marriage was in order to show other young couples what they could aspire to; and to show the patriarchs that yes, we are making it work! And finally, let me say Yes! to every volunteer request to show how through my works I am one great, big, ball of awesomeness!  Christian awesomeness.  Is there no other higher calling? After all, are we not supposed to walk the walk and talk the talk?

The problem with that life, I found out, is that I was talking the talk, but not walking the walk. My sinful pride, my sinful ways, and in my selfishness, I chose not to be real with myself or with God.  And I don't mean airing out dirty laundry...because who wants to smell that?! What I mean is that my duplicity of life took away pieces of a beautiful relationship with Christ. At church and work I had it down pat.  I was supermom, super worker, and super churchgoer.  At home?  I struggled with addiction, self-image, and self-worth.  The Queen Diva of Destruction led me on a path where the last place I could go was the church.  

The duplicity I saw in my own life, I saw in church life. How many times have I communed with Pillars of the Church, the exemplary people who are involved in everything- deaconesses, Sabbath school teachers, elders, and so on and so forth that are so good at hiding their sins that none are the wiser.  I've had friends who in one night would drink in their closet to hide their own addiction from their kids and then show up the next day preaching to the youth to stay away from sinful things.  I had friends who would in the name of "concern" pray for my sins as a form of gossip- never praying with me- only about me.  I have had friends who disappeared when, pardon me, the $*@# hit the fan.  No, going to the church for help was not an option.  

Living in a little (church) box led me to where I am today.  I allowed my church box to confine, cramp, and even suffocate me.  I allowed my idealistic view of the community of church to distort the truth, which ultimately hurt and broke me. But not all churches are like this you say. Maybe your church is different.  I doubt it.  We are all human.  We all want to see other people's problems on display so that ours look infinitesimal in comparison.  How many times have you looked to your spouse or partner and said, "I know we have our own problems, but I'm so glad we don't have their problems!"  Or when a teen goes astray and we utter, "Oh my! I wonder what went wrong in their family?  Must be the parents."   And , finally, my favorite church phrase, "Did you hear about so and so? Did you also hear what they did? Let's pray for them!" Whatever the catch phrases are- they are all universal. They can be heard anywhere, any time.

Today I have decided that part of Livin Large is to let go of my little church box of hurt and focus on the ultimate good phrase:  What Would Jesus Do?

This universal phrase gives hope to my cynical heart.  It keeps my faith in check.  It points me to God and not the church.  It is a box with no walls, no locks, and no rules.  It is a box that holds Jesus' promise that He will love us forever and never let go. It is the only box I want to live in.

No, I am not a Christian; I am a broken and sinful follower of Christ.

Live Large and Live Free!

Life is like an airplane ride

Life is an airplane ride?  What a cliche!  You must have thought I meant it's an adventure to new places, right?  Wrong.  What I meant is that life is like sitting in an airplane seat.  Although you are ready to travel to new and/or old places you find yourself stuck in a tiny seat, bumping elbows with strangers, and watching the slow hands of a ticking clock- are we there yet?  As I sit in my confining section, I lament to myself, I deserve first class, sipping mimosas, utilizing a hot towel to refresh me, and stewards at my beck and call. But lo, I am here in 3rd, 5th, or whatever class-less section, eagerly awaiting my free water and suffering the jerks and spasms of the food tray behind me. 

Isn't this how it's always been?  Bumping elbows, hurrying up to wait, and wishing for more?  For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted more.  I am the Queen Diva for wanting more.  I think it started back in first grade when my sole purpose in life was to make my wonderful, beautiful teacher love me and notice me.  I don't believe the want has ever stopped.  Selfish you say?  Well of course I am!  Who isn't?  I don't think I am the inventor of the concept for wanting more.  I am just more persistent in it.  

As the persistence grows I feel my small, little space shrinking.  My airplane seat is soon to eject me.

Confessions of Livin Large is where I am in life.  I am ready to be brutally honest.  Shamelessly wordy.  And wonderfully free.

I can't wait to see what my wacky brain will tell my willing fingers to type.

Until then...Live Large and Be Free!