[This is a reprint from a couple of years ago. I've used this particular prayer practice in the Shalom Sessions and in my Lent course. It's powerful. If you're smack in the middle of the suck, this might help.]

—

Spiritual practices fascinate me. Sadly, many days I think about these disciplines much more than actually doing the deeds. I’ve struggled lately with uncomfortable feelings – mostly money and babies. Sometimes together—having a child is expensive!

Finding out I was pregnant this past January was considerably more fun than the first time I peed on a stick. Still, I’ll admit, I was hoping I’d be in a safer place financially the second time I brought a life into this world.

Whatever. He’ll be just as funky-cool as our other child. And whether we have money or not, I’m sure we can still find a way to screw him up somehow.

That’s why we pray. To remind ourselves we’re not alone; Someone’s got our backs, the backs of our children, even the backs of our enemies.

I hate asking for directions. Really, I hate it. Call me a guy, I fight it at all costs.

Last Saturday, I went to a breastfeeding information party (bytheway, if you were wondering, this is how to tell you’re officially a mom). I drove to an unfamiliar neighborhood so new it’s not on Google Maps. My friend  had written out directions for me, but awesomely, I’d left them at home—along with her phone number.

I remembered the street name, so I just drove around, hopelessly lost, over an hour late. I wasn’t upset, I like exploring new neighborhoods. I have a pretty good sense of direction; I knew if I found the street, I’d feel all shiny and proud. However, 20 minutes into my expedition, I realized I could be at this for a looong time. I said a little prayer—dear God, can You please help me find this road?

Shortly after, it occurred to me that I could ask for help: I could call Jermaine at home and ask him to get the directions and the number for me. My ram-shaped heart bucked ridiculously. If I asked, then I wouldn’t feel the satisfaction of finding it all by myself.

Heh, and now I knew I needed to call.

I picked up the phone, pushed his name. It rang just once when I saw it – that beautiful guidepost—the street sign I was looking for. In less than a minute I was parking. God answered my little prayer. I don’t think it was a coincidence the divine reply came right after I’d released my pride.

God is funny that way. So willing to give us what we need, if only we’d ask.

Today, thinking about the money and the baby stuff, I remembered Patsy. She was one of the pastors at my old church and a dear friend, she’d once walked our congregation through the Welcoming Prayer:

Find a quiet place to sit for a few minutes. Close your eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. Pay attention to your body. Are you tense? If so, where? What emotions are you feeling? Do you have pain anywhere? Mentally take note of what you’re feeling. Sink into these sensations. Don’t fight them. For now, just become aware that they exist.

Next, welcome them. Acknowledge the Divine presence in this negative space. Welcome your anxiety, your pain, your tension. Continue to breathe deeply. Sit with your feelings.

When you are ready, let them go. Repeat the following sentences:

“I let go of the desire for
security or affection or control.”**

“I let go of the desire to change
this feeling/sensation.”

The exercise will only take a couple of minutes. It’s something you can do every day. The underlying belief is that the three desires listed above—security, affection and control—cause our scary feelings. If we can let go of these yearnings, our tensions will release us.

** Can you tell which one you’re working with?

—

I write about feminism, purpose, passion, and a new kind of Christianity. My yoke is light. And if you need a safe place to explore the scary stuff, I got you. You can subscribe here and we’ll do just that.

All the Barbies would be destroyed. Right after the Bratz dolls. Magazines for women would feature casserole recipes alongside stories about female CEOs changing the world. The models on the front of those magazines would be chosen for the way they love and lead instead of the way they look . Eating disorders would cease to exist. Little girls and little boys would dream of being the president or the pope. Everyone would learn the value of great communications skills.

Men would teach kindergarten and ballet on the regular. Women would preach in the streets and climb trees every day. No one would be afraid of their sexuality. We wouldn’t need the word rape because we’d have no sense of a weaker sex.

Android cases would be prettier. No one would fear being taller than her husband. Nerd girls would just be nerds. Men, we’d discover, are natural nurturers. To say you run like a girl would be an esteemed compliment. Husband and wives would share dreams and household chores. Men could finally wear murses and carry all of their crap without fear. Women could shave their heads or wear flowing gowns, whichever they fancy, without scrutiny. Stretch marks and laugh lines would be considered hot . . . Read the rest at The Bomb Shelter, where I’m hanging my fedora today.

I have an experiment I’d like to try on you. I don’t think it’ll hurt. Much.

Every so often, I get the bug to blog every day. The problem, of course, is that there are only 24 hours in a day and I have a good amount in the fire already. When I break it down – how long it would take to craft the blog, post it, share it, eat dinner, take over the world – the time just doesn’t add up.

But then, the other day, driving home from one of the saddest things I’d ever done, I got the urge to spill my guts again. In a matter of five minutes, ideas for three different blogs had been scrawled messily in the crevices of my brain. And I was excited (as I always am when new ideas flood my being) but overwhelmed. I have lists and lists of posts yet to write. By the time I sit down at Peyton (my loyal laptop) to sculpt the next masterpiece, my Play-Doh is brittle. And that’s no fun.

Ohhhh. But that’s why I’m so excited about this latest scheme! What if, I thought as I drove melodramatically, I just gave it a go? What if I just scribbled them all down – like this one – and if it felt right, hit publish like a boss? What if I didn’t start out my latest scheme, “I’m going to start writing every freaking day for an indefinite amount of time. This is going to be something I do.” What if I put an expiration date on it?

Well, that’s just crazy enough to work.

I take the craft of blogging, the time and prayer and play it takes to make something that matters in a 1000 words or less, very seriously. I write. And then I walk away. And then I come back and cut and edge and trim. I add more flowers. Or more dirt. Sometimes worms. It’s all part of it.

But today I wondered if there was a way to respect the craft, allow it to grow, and still cultivate an atmosphere of experimentation. Because the ideas just keep coming. And the Notebook app on my phone only has so much memory.

So, here we go. For the next two weeks, I’m going to write a blog post every day. I’m going to share the crazy and the beautiful. And I would like to invite you to Play-Doh with me. If you would like to take this “challenge”, if that’s what it is, leave a comment below with a link to your blog and we’ll make a party of it.

And if you want to make sure you don’t miss the crazy and the beautiful, sign your bum up here.

Wow. This Story Retreat. Elora Nicole, you’ve outdone yourself.

These last couple of days will go down for me as some of the best in my life. And part of me is sad, because it seems like all of the transformative retreats leave my husband and kiddos at home, far away. I miss them desperately. Maybe I’ll have to figure out how to put together a restorative family retreat. Hmmm.

But as for this weekend . . . there’s just something about these women. I don’t always feel like I connect with people. I have long felt I can turn my extrovert on and off like a switch, and be Bubbly Brandy when she’s needed. This weekend, her services were not required. I could be my introverted self. I could drink and laugh and dance and pray and still go to bed before most everyone. I could be serious or I could be funny. I could steal away to run or write for hours and still feel deeply connected to every woman. Every single beautiful soul.

That never happens. Typically, I will connect with a few people, be Switzerland to a couple of others, and nearly dislike the rest. Usually, feelings of intimidation overwhelm me and my insecurities come out to play. And it’s fine, because still, I’ve connected with that small few, and the others aren’t aware that I’ve dubbed them unapproachable.

But this weekend was different. These women are more than just casual acquaintances. They are my friends. They are my sisters. They are my anam caras. And my soul has been made better because of them.

I think part of it is that we are all writers. Even the ones of us who aren’t ready to own that title. We feel it in our blood, the words aching to get out of our guts and into the hearts of the people we long to bless. Our children. Our brothers. Our sisters. Ourselves.

This weekend was particularly special for me because I got to teach my first Shalom Session workshop. The entire week before I left for Texas, I prepped and prayed. I marveled in excitement. I knew these women online, and so I wasn’t exactly nervous, I was just full up grateful to be able to share my gifts with them in this way. I had a feeling it might go well, but it went better than I could have imagined.

Since I started the Shalom Sessions, I have used John O’Donahue’s book, To Bless the Space Between Us to pray a blessing over each of my clients at the start of the session. I pick out a special one just for that person, and I read it to them out loud. It calms us both and sets up a shalom-y mood. I love picking out their blessing, but sometimes I can’t quite find the right one. For some time, I’ve wanted to get to the point of writing a blessing for each sweet soul.

This weekend, though, working with writers, I knew I could take that one step further.

I did write a blessing, for the Story Session community at large. And then, I used the idea of the Compass that I usually create for them; I flipped it around. I asked them to look inside their answers to the probing questions I’d asked, to use the Compass to guide them to write a blessing for themselves. Because our dreams are holy and they matter. And for some, that’s the easiest thing in the world to forget.

I say it went well because they just kept referencing it. In writing a blessing for themselves, they were actually blessed. I am humbled that God used me in this way. As the weekend progressed, I started to realize how much I’d loved leading that workshop. How much I’d love to travel all over, and bless others in that way. With the Shalom Sessions, the hardest part has been figuring out how to explain why someone would need one. Once they have had one, they get it. They love it. They know.

And so, on the last day of the retreat, we were future-casting, and I was thinking about the Shalom Sessions. I asked them what they thought. If they would pay for a workshop like the one I taught.

“Brandy,” Elora smiled, “I would pay for you to come to my future retreats to do your Shalom Sessions there.”

That’s when I realized: my dreams matter too. Wow. And amen. And thank you, more please.

I’d like to share the blessing that I wrote for them. And if you would like to dive deeper into the sacredness of your own dreams, I think I can help.

For the Story Sessions

the girls we once were are coming back to us now.

whispering their stories, our stories, in our ears.

let us hear.

let us listen to the little one that is who we were that is who we are before the shame and obligation took their toll.

that voice inside of us, she knows where the shalom is.

may we trust her.

and let her lead.

may the creativity birthed in the sacred pages of the story sessions grow into a garden of hope.

a masterpiece we could not have conceived alone.

may we be brave learning to rebel as a spiritual discipline.

may we know the difference between religious bullying and the gentle whisper of our Maker.

may these sacred relationships help to heal the deep wounds we all carry.

may our scars remain visible so that we never forget the power we all possess.

the meaning and the magic,

why we share our stories.

my anam caras.

my sisters.

my friends.

may we always know that someone who loves us is forever just a Facebook message away.

—

The dark places are where the light comes in :: Your emergencies can lead to unimaginable breakthroughs. I dedicate this post to the women who shared that cell with me. To people who tell terrible lies. To folks who struggle against their nightmares. This story unfolded nine years ago on July 15th, 2004. I hate what happened that night, but I’m so grateful for what will be birthed the same day this year. And I know I’m not alone.

—

Marie* and I planned a girls’ night. I’d been looking for another excuse to let loose and The Breakfast Club, an 80′s dance dive, seemed close to perfect. I picked her up in my little gold Ford and we drove off into the night.

I had $31 in cash. Not much, but enough to buy three Long Island Iced Teas, one Red Stripe and still have a little left to tip the bartenders. We ordered our drinks and sought out a suitable place to spin right round (like a record, baby). Marie nestled in between pink painted walls and a couple of tables.

I set my sights on the stage.

One of several stages, it gave me a triple shot of adrenaline, power, and pulse. As the iced teas worked their magic, a lanky dude attempted to share my limelight. Not looking to hook up, I offered him as cold a shoulder as I could. Marie would never let me leave with a stranger.

That’s the last thing I remember until the handcuffs. And the cop pushing into the backseat of his vehicle.

Well, no.

I guess the first thing I remember is trying frantically to light a cigarette. Somewhere deep in my drunken stupor I realized it’d be my last for a while. The officer would have none of it. Which left me deeply offended.

Ahem. I am old enough to smoke.

I don’t remember much about the ride to the station. I get flashes now and then. Before this evening, I had always thought a backseat with bars terror-inducing. I had no filter that night. I’m sure I mentioned it to my driver.

In-processing, I met a fellow arrestee. I don’t remember her name, race or anything about her. Only her hysteria.

I tried to use this to my advantage. My alcohol-soaked brain schemed. Perhaps if I could calm her down, they’d let me out on good behavior.

Cringe-worthy now, and obviously as brilliant as any other drunken hustle. As soon as I realized it’s fruitlessness, I switched gears entirely.

Contained in a large room with vomit-inducing white lights, and cold, hard chairs, sat all the people who had managed to get themselves arrested that night. Cops and clerks filed paperwork capturing our misdeeds.

“If you keep at it, I’ll have to put you in a cell!”

I don’t remember what I did to make the guard threaten me. Nor do I remember my response. I can see the cell I shared with two other women. Hard women. Women who would have scared me if I were sober.

“Damn girl, what’d you do?” I sensed she was talking to me. I stared up at her blankly.

“Your face is all busted up. And the bandage on your arm.”

She pointed to my elbow and I inspected the band of gauze that surrounded it. I don’t remember being hurt. I don’t remember being bandaged.

“I . . . um. I – don’t know.” I frowned and tried to look unapproachable. In hindsight, that was not the best plan.

—

I sat in the rubble of that explosive night for years. Eventually submitting to the only logical conclusion. There’s a reason I’m still around. Blogging, for me, has been essential to sorting this out. This isn’t the end, of course. I finished the story on page 003 in my free book, Think Love Create. Right click to save it to your computer (you might not be able to see the entire book before it’s saved).

I could have died. Or killed another person. That night, I thought of nothing but alcohol and cigarettes. I loved no one, least of all myself. And I created massive amounts of destruction. I didn’t know it then, but it marked the origins of my journey toward Shalom. It was, as they say, the epitome of an Aha Moment.

Right now, I am working on a new project that will launch July 15th 2013. It’s called Wild Geese :: Engaging with Children in the Mystery of God. My hope is that it might play a part in changing the way we teach our children about God and spirituality. The way we teach our children about their mistakes and ours. Because the only way I know to move forward in the face of such utter failure is to write a brand new story.

We don’t always know how to love each other. May this be a space to learn.

*That’s not her name.

I have big news! I am working on a project that just might change the way that we teach our children about God and spirituality. Intrigued? Read the bottom of this post for details on how you can get involved.

Wild Geese :: Engaging with Kids in the Mystery of God is a digital book that will launch July 15th, 2013 on Amazon. It will include three major parts:

• The first is the Inspiration bit – a few dozen guest authors will help me create it, delving into topics like Feminism, Sexting, Spiritual Disciplines (for kids!), the Liturgical Year, the Third Way (or creative nonviolence), and many, many more. It will include special pieces for teachers and parents of children from preschool to high school. Its aim is to spread shalom straight to the heart of parents and teachers everywhere.

• The second section will contain a detailed Curriculum. Based on Daniel Pink’s A Whole New Mind, I am working on a curriculum that will teach us to teach using his six senses: Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play, and Meaning. The teacher will be able to choose whether to start at the beginning of the school year, the beginning of the calendar year, or the beginning of the Liturgical Year. It will include correlating spiritual practices for each lesson that will engage kids on their age level, in-depth study of other religions that is not shallow or dismissive (the goal here is to teach and learn what Brian McLaren calls a Strong Benevolent faith identity – from his book Why did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?). My strengths and education lean more towards capturing content rather teaching specific age levels, so I will keep the syllabus open-ended with lots of room for adaptation.
  

• The third section will harbor the Resources: all of the books, websites, prayers, and blessings that went in to creating this book. I am a research maven. The hope is that this section alone will be so expansive it will be worth the cost of the book by itself. Of course, that is the goal for the other two sections as well.

I am currently seeking submissions for the Inspiration section of this book :: 500-1000 words toward inspiring the teachers and, effectually, the children we hope to reach.  I am also putting together a focus group to help make sure the curriculum is nothing short of amazing. If you’d like to submit or be a part of the focus group, please email me your topic idea and anything else you think would be relevant at hello@brandyglows.com. I’ll be taking submissions until May 1st.

————

The faith I live urges me to love my enemies. Sometimes I think
that’s too wild a love. Often, I’m not even very good at loving my
friends and family. If I fail them, where’s the hope?

There’s a man somewhere in the world, he hurt my little girl. I don’t love him. Most days I hate him. And I can’t help
but wonder why my God wants me to love this . . . man.

What is the good? How does it help?

There are people from my past; our souls collided in our journeys
toward destruction. Some of them used me. I used many of them.
They don’t want my love. How do I love someone like that?

I could pray for them. But that seems weak. I could seek them out
and offer a sincere apology for the things I’ve done. I could. I have
in some cases. But it hardly seems loving if what they really want is
to have nothing to do with me.

I don’t have clear answers to these questions. Love is messy and
there is lots of room for mistakes. I think that’s why God looks at
your heart.

If we don’t love, we can quickly find ourselves spiraling into bitter
fools. There are signs. Do you find it hard to give someone who
hurt you the benefit of the doubt? What are your triggers? What
makes your blood boil?

Jesus wasn’t always kind. Sometimes, brutal honesty is the most
loving. Love is work. You must sift and comb and tarry until you
know how a person needs to be loved. I penned the following
[letter] to practice loving wildly. [It is] intensely personal. And it
feels odd to share. But I didn’t want to just talk about love; I wanted
to do it.

————

Dear Brooklyn,

As I type this, you’re kicking me. We’re 8 months along and my belly already
feels too big to hold you. I can’t wait to meet you. I’m already smitten. If you
are anything like your dad, you’ll be wonderful.

I’m nervous to have a boy. I need to confess that to you. I’m nervous I won’t
know how to relate to you and I’ll muck everything up. It’s hard for me to be
close to boys. But as your mom, I can’t expect you to understand that. I’m so
afraid that the horrors from my past will come back to hurt you.

I am bawling as I write this letter. I’m sorry I wished you were a girl! I didn’t
fully understand why until I started writing. I’m glad I get it now. I think it will
help me love you better.

In this moment, I’ve changed my mind. I no longer want a girl. I want to learn
how to love my precious baby boy. I hope you’ll be patient with me. Right
now, you sit under my heart. Please know, dear one, it’s yours, always.

With deep gratitude,
Mommy

I didn’t read her post because I was afraid she’d weep about what a horrible person she is. And I get it, we’re all sinners, but that is not what this is about. Perhaps we all are screwed up from the moment we’re born, but when I look at my infant, so full of innocence and possibility, I have my doubts.

David sounds so wretched. We read it and we think in celestial terms. But he lived in the there and now. Forgiveness is for today. Because nothing else is promised or certain.

Grace is the baker’s dozen. The lagniappe. The bit we can’t pay for. The bit we just get.

Because.

I wanted to get angry. I wanted not to get it. But I felt the calm rush over me as I read the words David had spilled and I knew there was something below the surface. I scanned the commentary but I didn’t see it right away. I went back to read the words one more time. Just in case.

And there it was.

The word meant womb. The motherly compassion of God. The God that is not angry at you. The God that plays in the mud with you. The God that sings silly songs to you and kisses your tears away. That’s to Whom David was speaking.

His Mama.

—

This poem was inspired by Psalm 51. I am participating in the Psalm’s Journey, hosted by Steph of Everyday Awe. We’re exploring the second half of Psalms with poetry. I’ve decided to play because, I am learning, I can’t call myself a digital pastor and not, at some point, dive—head first—into the Bible. Even if it upsets my stomach. If you’d like to join, you can get all the details here or link up your own post here. And if you’d like not to miss my weekly poetic musings and get a free book with a tank on the cover, you can subscribe to brandyglows here.

“The saving of our world from pending doom will come, not through the complacent adjustment of the conforming majority, but through the creative maladjustment of a nonconforming minority.”

I have a dream. I believe that the restoration of all things is possible. We have the technology. We have the desire. We have the intellect. We have TED.

The question isn’t: can we? It’s: will we?

Will we love when we’d rather hate? Will we confess when we’d rather blame? Will we give when we’d rather get? Will we move mountains when we’d rather sleep?

Will we save some pie for future generations?

There are some things in our social system which I am proud to be maladjusted and to which I suggest that you, too, ought to be maladjusted. I never intend to adjust myself to the viciousness of mob-rule. I never intend to adjust myself to the evils of segregation and the crippling effects of discrimination. I never intend to adjust myself to the tragic inequalities of an economic system which takes necessities from the masses to give luxuries to the classes. I never intend to become adjusted to the madness of militarism and the self-defeating method of physical violence. I call upon you to be maladjusted . . . the world is in desperate need of maladjustment. Through such maladjustment we will be able to emerge from the bleak and desolate midnight of man’s inhumanity to man into the bright glittering daybreak of freedom and justice. - Martin Luther King Jr.

What gets you out of alignment? What can you do to fix it? If you don’t know what to do, share your maladjustment in a comment below and we’ll brainstorm together. Everyone is maladjusted somewhere. It’s uncomfortable for a reason. Feel it. Find it.

And then do something.

I needed to quit smoking, but I couldn’t. If I had known the guilt I’d have to carry around for the next ten years every time my daughter’s asthma flared up, it may have been easier. I looked for the book I needed. The one to show me how to become an adult and take care of an infant and navigate postpartum depression. I couldn’t find that book . . . “

This is the beginning of a post I wrote for Early Mama, and, effectually, a news series here, on brandyglows. For moms of all ages, but especially the young ones.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about how I found out I was pregnant the first time. I wrote it in third person, I think, because it’s hard to admit that’s where I was at that time. It’s hard to admit, in part, because people can be jerks when it comes to kids. Parent shaming is rampant.

Of course, I get that it’s important to take good, loving care of your children. I believe it is the biggest job in the world—for both moms and dads. But, the honest to God truth is that some people get pregnant before they’re ready. And I have to believe that somehow, God understands that and made it that way because God believes [more than we could ever grasp] that every single person is a precious gift. If we had to have everything 100% together before we brought a child into the world, we’d go extinct.

I believe in mistakes and grace and learning on the job. I believe it takes a village and that it’s okay to be a mess in front of your kids. That’s why I was yelling at my computer screen when I read this post that was a response to this post. The responder, Alison, wrote:

This same blog post went on to say that when older people advise,”Enjoy your kids while they’re little, they grow up fast!” that he normally laughs off their comment but inwardly wants to hold them under water, just long enough to watch them squirm. So. Not. Funny. Not only is this a wicked, murderous thought(even if he was joking, a Christian should never make a mock a sin,) but it shows that this generation has no respect for their elders. This present generation of parents tend to view their elders as uneducated fogies, but this same generation is the one raising a bunch of irrational, overly medicated children. Our parents and grandparents did not need to medicate children to make them listen in school or obey. Their kids also did not throw screaming fits in the grocery store when they didn’t get their favorite candy bar. Now, who is the more successful parent?

regretfully, almost 95 percent of the feedback to the previous mentioned article were professing Christians that were saying,”I feel that way exactly! I tell my kids that if they don’t leave me alone we are both going to end up on the front of the newspaper!” Again, they are threatening their kids with abuse or murder…only with words, but those words must hurt! I can’t imagine the hurt i would feel if my mother said those words to me when I was a kid!

We’re like vultures, picking each other apart. She hated that the original post had resonated with so many people. I don’t normally write response posts. And I hardly ever write response posts to responses. But her post got me all up in arms.

After reading some of the comments that she received, I feel like it’s important to point out that the joke that the author made was NOT about holding children under water. And also, that it was very very obvious that he was joking. Humor and empathy are healing instruments and I do not believe what he did was sinful. And, thirdly, lighten up? Please?

I found it frustrating that in her entire post, she did not link to the original post. I found myself wondering if she was afraid to—for fear her readers might agree with The Actual Pastor. I feel like she misrepresented him and the people who found such solace in his words. I’m friends with some of those people. And I know that they love their children to pieces. Even though sometimes they want to box their ears.

The elders rant was a weird tangent. My elders aren’t the only ones who like to give me cliché, unhelpful advice. Plus, he didn’t even say that it was older people doling out these words. And seriously, whether or not our generation has respect for our elders has nothing to do with one blog post from one guy. Even if he is a pastor.

I think his post resonated with so many people because we love to throw swords with our eyes and our hearts and our words. We love to point out how those parents have got it all wrong. And I think we do it because we’re afraid that the parts we hate in those parents can be found in our very own hearts.

It’s scary to consider. And to top it all off, parenting may just be the hardest job in the whole effing world. But I have a sense that we can teach and learn and love our kids without putting other parents down. I guess I have a real big soft spot for the young mamas because in addition to the shame we love to pile on top of their heads, they face real obstacles that would be difficult for even the most grown up of grown ups – but they’re still growing up! And possibly they landed themselves in these sticky positions. But who the crap cares? Let’s start from this moment. Let’s remember that this is the first day of a new week. And change is real, yo.

I still mess up as a parent. I yell at her to hurry up when we’re running late—even when it’s my fault. I box her into unhelpful feminine stereotypes. And, hardest of all to admit, I think because I see her as so much like me, I take out my frustration with other people out on her.

I was sharing this with a friend the other night who is suffering from a gnarly eating disorder. We talked about the link between how she was raised and where she is now. I asked her what I could do to save my daughter from the same fate.

“Validate her. Let her know that it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be frightened.”

I think that’s true for parents, too. We don’t raise our kids in a vacuum. We stand on the shoulders of our parents and their parents and their parents’ parents. And if don’t we realize how their mistakes hurt us, we will very likely make the same ones with our kids. But, here’s the thing—we are amazingly resilient. We’ve all been hurt by our parents. We still love them. And many of us are happy, healthy, and contributing to society.

I want to create a safe space for us. Where we can be free to express our feelings and emotions and off-color jokes in all their messy, abundant reality. Where we can share our regrets and triumphs. Where we can learn soft, open, wholehearted parenting. Together.

I believe in a God that meets us where we are. Not where we’re supposed to be. You are not late to the party. You can love your children even if you want to run away from them sometimes.

I hope to fill this space chock full of resources, humor, and hope. I want you to get excited to read it every week and get a heady dose of encouragement. To kick things off, I offer you this prayer.

If you’re looking for space like this, sign up for free here and make sure you don’t miss a thing.