Momastery

WE'VE MOVED!

2012-01-02T17:59:00.001-05:00

Come play with the Monkees here!

Love, G

Opportunities to Remember

2011-12-23T08:36:00.007-05:00

We are each other's business. We are each other's harvest and magnitude and bond.

Gwendolyn Brooks

One more post. Just one more before Christmas.

It seems the Monkees have developed a reputation for miracle making. Or, more likely, for taking the time to send enough love and energy and prayer into the universe to shake things up a bit.

So, along with all the beautiful stories we read and share here, we are also faced with our share of the brutal stories. And that is okay. That is real - that is Life. Life is brutiful. The brutal and the beautiful cannot be separated, we must embrace both or neither.

I received this letter from a dear friend of Sister's yesterday. Please read it and do whatever you feel led to do. Cry, donate, pray, join Ava's facebook page, write to her mommy and daddy, take a moment of gratitude or agony or silence. Just a moment to remember that We Belong To Each Other. It'll help. I don't know how, I just know it does.

The two phrases most often repeated in the Bible:

1. Remember

2. Do Not Be Afraid

I love you, baby Ava. I will pray for you everyday.

Love, G

*********

Dear Glennon,

My name is Kerry and we actually met at Mandy's wedding, I was there with my husband who is very close with Johnny. I have been a silent monkee of yours since your sisters wedding and have quietly celebrated all that the monkees have done for people, especially over the last few weeks. I am also a huge fan of Beyonce!!!

But now, unfortunately, there has been a terrible, terrible accident and I was hoping you could ask the monkees for some help. Our friend, George DelRicco was given news last Friday that no parent would want to hear. His wife and 18 month old daughter were sitting at a traffic light when out of nowhere a man slammed right into them. His daughter Ava was flown to Johns Hopkins where she is now fighting for her life. His wife was also transported to the same hospital where she is suffering from several broken bones. Unfortunately, this accident could have been prevented as the man driving the truck was found to be on PCP. Here is the latest article: http://smnewsnet.com/archives/6602

As a mother of two little girls myself, I just can't seem to shake this feeling of "what if"....what if this was my little girl?? What would I do if my little girl was hospitalized? Who would I turn to??

Our friends are joining together to do whatever we can to help George out. Many of us went to school with him as he was a football player for VA Tech.

I am hoping Glennon you wouldn't mind asking the monkees to spread the word about baby Ava? If they can donate to help this family ease the burden of growing medical bills then there is a page on Facebook called "DelRicco Benefit Fund" where there is information to donate to the family.

Although donations would be an amazing gift for this family, I am also asking for prayers....lots of them!!! This little girl needs any and all good vibes going her way so if you could also ask them for this, we would be so very grateful to you!!!

There is some information below. Again, anything you could do to help spread the word about baby Ava would be appreciated!!!

Sincerely,
Kerry Brophy

For those who would like to make a donation, they can make them through www.paypal.com please use the following as your donation recipient:DelriccoBenefitFund@gmail.com

On Facebook there is the DelRicco Benefit Fund for them to "like" and to add any comments for Baby Ava!!

*********

Kay, so The Monkees are officially on Ava's team now. Please go tell her that you're fighting for her, however it is that you fight.

Also..

Let's remember Anna and Tim and Margaret and Jack.

And please visit the Momastery Facebook page for more prayer requests. You don't need money to make a difference. You just need a Moment to Remember.

And one more thing..my beloved grandma is having high risk, unexpected surgery this afternoon at one. I love her very much. Please pray for Alice and her seven children and fourteen grandchildren, all of whom are afraid.

Love Forever and Ever...

GOD BLESS BABY AVA.

GDo

It's Christmas Eve, Eve, Eve, Eve, Eve!

2011-12-19T13:15:00.025-05:00

Monkees. I love and miss you so. Please allow me to make this post short, sweet, and poorly written- kind of like this poem Tish recently gave me.

To Mom

Roses are red. Acshually somtimes pink.

I am not sure what colors vilets are. I do not think I hav seen one.

Riting poems are hard and boring. I like colring.

-TM

First, I'll tell you that Babble didn't pick us for any of their best blog categories . . .even though we finished second in the popular vote. I feel kind of sad about that, and I also feel embarrassed about feeling sad about that. So, anyway. Moving along to more important things.

It’s almost Christmas. I have so much to tell you and so little time. So much about what’s going on in my heart and head these days . . . so much about Jesus and how people who believe in Him should celebrate their bottoms off and how people who don’t believe in the Jesus as God part still have so much to celebrate in Jesus’ Story.

You do not have to believe a story really happened to believe it is true. Like this: this story never really happened. But it’s certainly true, right?

And so we can all celebrate the Jesus story . . . whether we believe it happened - like I do - or not. Either way- we can celebrate the beautiful, revolutionary idea of Love entering the scary world defenseless. That’s what we do here, right? That’s what Monkees do at Momastery and beyond- in the big world. We show up, armorless, even when we might get hurt. Because Love is more important than self-preservation. That’s the Christmas story to me. We can all celebrate that kind of courage and Truth. We can all celebrate that in the end - Love Wins.

There are also about seven million stories I could tell you about Holiday Hands. The magic just keeps pouring in and I will find a way to place every story in your generous and beautiful hands one day soon. It never ends. We just sent a large check to Higher Ground, a home in NY that cares for families affected by HIV/AIDS. There’s a straight up Monkee Home makeover happening in Atlanta right now – we found a mama with six kids and no beds and not a whole lotta hope. So a Monkee family partnered with an Atlanta non-profit and this precious family is getting new carpets, new paint, seven brand new beds, and job counseling for mom so this recovery will be sustainable. Kay.

And hundreds. I am telling you that HUNDREDS of mothers all over this country opened their door one morning and found a box on their doorstep from another mother they’d never met and likely never will. There were boxes filled with toys for littles, money for groceries and bills, beautiful jewelry and Nikon Cameras and Ipads and homemade mittens and oodles of warm clothes for littles. These mamas opened boxes filled with Love and Hope. This experience changed the world for the mamas who gave and the mamas who received.

Please, please don’t tell me that changing the world is hard. It’s easy as pie.

Actually pie is really hard. I would NEVER try making pie. It’s easy as Oreos, then.

And - Baby Emily is home and thriving. Her parents believe that your love and prayers and care and energy and painted hands helped save her. Monkees are feeding Emily’s family for the twelve days of Christmas and Monkees have helped the family with Christmas shopping and wrapping. I’ll be delivering a Christmas Eve meal to the family, from the Monkees. Obviously, I’m having it catered instead of cooking because as Craig said, “the family has been through enough.” The point is that she’s home. The doctors thought she might never make it back there, but that little Monkee showed them.

Monkee Amy and I have been working hard on the new blog. It’s going to look similar, but it will explain who we are more clearly. I receive at least one email a day asking, “G- can you tell me how to become a Monkee?” So I felt we needed to be clear that Momastery is for everyone. Everybody’s in, baby. If you want to be a Monkee- you already are a Monkee. If all goes well, our grandish re-opening will coincide with the New Year.

A New Year is coming. It’s gonna be a good one. I plan to take really good care of myself this year. We must fill up if we hope to empty out. I’m going to start by practicing yoga more often. My friend Ursula, who is very, very special, has offered four free five pack classes to her heavenly yoga studio -Inner Power Yoga. You might remember Inner Power from this post. Ursula and I have been crossing paths for awhile now, and I think she’s supposed to be one of my Teachers. If any of you local Monkees would like to join Urusula and me for some deep breathing and self care in January, please comment and we will send your free package. And please, if you’re a Christian, don’t worry that practicing yoga is cheating on Jesus. It’s not. It’s a spiritual practice – like fasting or tithing or prayer- that anyone can practice to get closer to their God or their peace. It’s okay. It’s “Be Still and know I’m God.” That’s what it is for me.

Also -Monkees.

All is said and done, now. I’ve connected every Monkee family that I can –and I still find myself with four Target Gift Cards. I think they are each worth $50. I also have a $25 gift card to TJ Maxx and one from Wal-Mart for $25.

If you need one – or if you have a friend or acquaintance who needs one, please comment (so others know it’s been claimed) and then email me your address and which one you’d like. I’ll send them out today. Since I don’t make decisions about worthiness, ever, I’ll send them to the first Lovies who ask.

Thank you, for trusting me to work on these projects for you- Holiday Hands and Momastery. I’m honored and humbled inspired and just – so incredibly grateful.

Merry Christmas, Monkees.

Love, Glennon

PS. Oh, this too.

PPS. Also, this.

* The pic was taken by Amber at Little Moon photography. She is phenomenal. An hour before that picture was taken I was literally crying. Bawling. Because I was Lymie and my kids were being so bad. SO BAD. And look how pretty she still made us. Go see her. Love.

Gathering and Scattering.

2011-11-21T17:15:00.016-05:00

Craig: Wait…what are you doing?

Me: Nothing. Nothing at all. Go away.

Craig: You’re writing a post! You’re writing a post, aren’t you?

Me: No. I’m writing a grocery list.

Craig: Okay. If you’re gonna lie, you should say something believable.

Me: Fine. I’m writing a post.

Craig: What? You told everyone you quit for the holidays. You are the worst quitter ever.

Me: Hm. Well. Maybe I’m the BEST quitter ever. Ever think of that? Maybe I’m such an incredible quitter that I even QUIT quitting. Done. Just like that. I EVEN Quit Quitting. Who does that? I'll tell you who. Me and only me. Yeah. Blows your mind, doesn't it? That's what I'm talkin' bout. Don’t call it a comeback, buddy, I been here for years.

Craig: (gone. watching football)

Anyway.

I’m back because I had an important conversation with my friend, Ashley, that I had to share with you.

Ashley and I were talking about Christmas, and all the presents, and the hustle bustle business and consumerism and excess of it all . . . and the parts we love about that and the parts that leave us feeling exhausted and guilty and a little silly, even. Like maybe we’re missing out on something important. It's almost like somebody's purposefully trying to distract us from something happening that is of great, huge significance - and we're allowing ourselves to be dazzled away. And we're left....wanting. It's like with all the stuff to decorate and do and buy and wrap and hide and deliver, there’s no room left at the Inn.

Then Ashley told me her plan to prepare her family’s hearts for Christmas this year. How she's planned to make room in her life and her home for Christmas. For real Christmas. For the celebration of God, who is LOVE, coming to Earth to be with us.

Cause it's a big deal, when you think about Christmas in terms of THAT, instead of just in terms of Kohls Cash and Black Friday deals and turkeys and where the hell is the scotch tape???? I mean, if you're a Christian, you believe that GOD came to EARTH. And if you're not a Christian, I can totally understand how you'd think we're a little wacky because WOW. I mean, that's WILD. GOD, as a BABY. On EARTH. IN A BARN. But I am. I am a Christian and totally obsessed with Jesus, and so Christmas is a big deal for me. A really big deal. I mean when I stop shopping long enough to think about it.

Anyway I found Ashley's Love idea so do-able and so beautiful that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. We prepare our homes for guests, usually. And Ashley found a way to prepare her home for God's arrival.

Monkees, Meet Ashley.

A Mini Mission to Spread a Little Joy…

Every Christmas, my boys and I donate cans, coats, take an “angel” or two from the tree at church, but it somehow hasn’t been enough for my blessed boys to truly make the compassion connection. What I needed was a way to drive home the message in a variety of ways in the hope that something will stick. I’ve heard that it takes at least 21 days to form a habit…so Advent should at least be a start, right?

When my oldest was a baby, my Mother-in-Law gave us a beautiful wooden Advent cabinet with 25 tiny doors. This year, along with the gifties that Granny sends, there will be a note with an act of kindness to be carried out that day. Some will be strategically placed…like on the 10^th when we’ll be joining my husband’s Rotary group to lay wreaths on gravesites at Arlington Cemetery. Or, on the 20^th when we’ll be volunteering as a family to organize donations at the Salvation Army warehouse. But, others will be less grand…like picking up litter anytime you see it throughout the day. Or, feeding the birds

And there you have it— a simple plan for 25 days of serving, giving, and helping others. A fun way to experience the true MAGIC and JOY Christmas first-hand. My hope is that they get it…and maybe even want to continue beyond Advent season.

Love, Ashley

***************

You know, we all want the same things for our kids during the holiday season. We want them to experience great joy. So we ask them what they want and they think of stuff that maybe they want, or maybe the TV just told them to want. And we buy them as much of what they maybe want as we possibly can. We put ourselves in debt, even. Because we want them to be full of joy.

But we know what bring US the most joy. It’s not stuff. It’s connection. It’s love. It’s finding out how powerful we are by discovering what a difference our little selves can make in the life of another little self. It’s in emptying ourselves out that we feel full. It’s the only way to feel full, I think. Offering yourself. Your insides. Showing up and pouring out.

Pour it all out –and feel full. So weird.

And so we know what we know. And even though we know what we know, we still try to fill ourselves and our kids up with stuff. I do, anyway. But this season, I think I’ll take my own advice and Step back, Slow down, and Focus up. Because maybe more stuff isn’t what will bring my Littles the most joy. Maybe Ashley’s right.

Maybe what brings me joy would also bring them joy. Maybe my kids don’t need more plastic crap. I mean, I'll buy some anyway. But maybe they really need to discover the magic and power that’s inside them. The magic and power that is just kindness. The magic kindness inside each of them that could change the world. Maybe I just need to show them how to pour themselves out.

Sounds like a good way to prepare for God to come.

I think our kids will decide what Christmas is about by watching what we decide it’s about.

If we spend December at the mall, they will learn that Christmas is about stuff. If we spend it gathering gratitude and scattering joy….well, then.

We should also spend it resting. Lots and lots of rest.

Resting, Gathering, Resting, Scattering. Like that.

I am so thankful for you.

Love, G

Yep. We Were Right....

2011-11-12T09:46:00.006-05:00

I’m tired this morning. Not weary tired . . . peaceful tired. I did my best tired.

Our Holiday Hands project is winding down. I made an announcement that I wasn’t taking any more requests a week ago, and God giggled. The requests continued to pour in, and every single time I thought we were out of offerings, an email arrived in my inbox or a check appeared in my mailbox. By the way . . . how do all you people know where I live??? Maybe you enter “Beyonce” into your GPS. Say hi to my girl.

As of today, we’ve had over two hundred Monkees participate in our Love Project. Actually, the number is so much bigger than that. Many have spun off their own Love Projects, or held vigils at the website . . . praying for me and for all the givers and receivers. Every single Monkee has been a giver and a receiver in his or her own way. I continue to be completely astounded by the generosity and courage and trust and love that has been offered with no strings attached. I don’t know how much money has changed Monkee hands, don’t think it really matters. But I’d guess it’s been more than twelve thousand dollars. And maybe a million pounds of toys and clothes and gift cards and love. I’m not the best estimator of poundage though.

A single mama in Atlanta who has six children that sleep on two dirty mattresses is receiving seven brand new beds and mattresses this week. Three special Monkee babies received ipads to help their big brains. Friends nominated struggling friends who don’t even know about our Monkee family, and those shocked friends received boxes full of love and goodies and money . . . out of the clear blue. One woman wrote to me and said,

“I’ve prayed every night for the past week for a miracle for our family, and one bigger than I could have imagined arrived in the mail yesterday. It was like it came straight from God.”

Well, yep, of course it did.

When we believe in love enough to trust and give and open, God uses us as miracles for each other. And the world, quite literally, becomes a more miraculous place. Heavenly. On Earth as it is in heaven. So many of you gave even though you barely had enough for yourselves this year. That is faith. That is knowing that when we pray, give us this day our daily bread, God will always provide. He may not give us enough for the year . . . as a matter of fact, if He does, it’s probably not ours to keep. Money, love, energy, they’re like the manna from heaven that rained down on the Israelites each day during their forty years in the desert. We are to use up today’s portion and leave the rest, trusting that todays portion will arrive right on time again tomorrow. If we get scared and save too much, if we hoard our manna, it begins to rot. Because it shows that we do not believe. We do not believe that we serve a loving God who will provide for our needs, one day at a time. And who offers us the honor of providing for the needs of others. We are free to give our extra, because tomorrow we will be provided for again. We can live without fear.

Suze Orman would probably really, really hate that whole paragraph, but whatever.

When I started this project, I was a little nervous, because Craig and I were only offering $600, and I knew the needs would far exceed that amount. But look what happened. We offered what we could, and our offering multiplied. It was loaves and fishes, people. God took our little offering and made it enough, more than enough, through you. Thank you for being a part of our loaves and fishes miracle.

I plan to write down the stories that came out of this Love Project. Trust me, there are many miracles that are screaming to be documented. I’ll get them to you, promise. For now, if you’d like to write a message about how this experience affected you or your family . . . please tell us about it in the comments here. Instead of writing a thank you letter to the folks who sent your gifts – write it here. Because the love of all of Monkeedom was behind every gift. And because there is a lot of ugly in the world right now and it is our responsibility to keep testifying to the light. To encourage people not to lose hope, to prove that STILL, EVEN SO . . . Love Wins.

“Darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable . . . but lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.” We must not spend too much time in front of CNN becoming more and more jaded. We must yell louder about love and listen harder for it. Love is all around us. There are two dogs in this human fight …the dark one and the light one. The fearful one and the brave one. The evil one and the good one. The winner inside each of us will be the one we decide to feed. Feed your Love and Hope and Joy Dog. Let the other one wither away.

NOOOWWW….

This is going to be my last post until the New Year. It’s time for me to get back to my family and friends and start preparing my heart for the holiday season.

By prepare, I don’t mean shop, I mean get quiet and pay attention.

I’m actually finished with my Christmas shopping. My friends and I decided to start an “I’m Dreaming of a Green Holiday” Facebook Group for our neighborhood. Everyone went through her toys and took pictures of the gently used toys that her kids’ had grown out of. Then each person posted those pictures on the FB page and we basically traded toys. I found three things that each of my kids will love, just sitting in the basements and garages of my friends’ homes. It’s been an amazing way to help the environment and the wallet. Too much waste at the holiday. Too much time at the mall. And I’ve gotten to know my neighbors better. Passing on my kids’ toys has felt like loving them. Highly recommend.

I’m done with Craig’s gift, too…because my gift to him is going to be this: for the month of December, we are going to make out three times per week.

This might not seem like a big deal to some of you – but it’s CRAZY talk to me. I decided, though, that some physical lovin’ is what we really need more than anything else. I’m quite interested to see what this Love Project does for our relationship. Don’t tell him though- it’s a surprise. He’ll never read this- he usually quits after the first two paragraphs and then tells me how amazing the whole essay is. I know this because he ONLY uses examples from the first two paragraphs.

The reason I’m prepared to make this sexy commitment that I have some energy back. For the past three weeks I’ve been on a “cleanse.” Basically, it’s meant that I have eaten no sugar, no dairy, no meat, no wheat, no gluten, nothing artificial, and no caffeine for three weeks. All I’ve eaten is fresh vegetable juices and smoothies and salads and beans and nuts. And quinoa. Pounds of quinoa. So much so that Sister has started referring to me as “Quinoa Tifa.”

Tragically, the cleanse has seemed to work. I’ve got more energy than I’ve had since I was diagnosed with Lyme. And so, as of today, I’m accidentally a vegan. I have to be, but I think when people ask me why I’m a vegan, I’ll say, “because I love animals.” Just seems more noble than: I had no other choice.

Another Melton happening is that we’re considering taking permanent action to make sure there are no future Melton babies. We have discussed, at length, the logical reasons for this. Like: we have our HANDS FULL already - my health is not great now - by the time I’d be healthy enough to even consider getting pregnant again I’ll likely be 37 - an accidental pregnancy would be tough while battling Lyme . . . and on and on. On paper, it’s a no brainer. But I’m having such a hard time with it. Why do I have such a hard time with this? Am I addicted to babies? I don’t even like pregnancy. I hate it, actually. So is it normal to be so illogically ambivalent . . . when all the signs point to – YOU ARE DONE, LADY. BE GRATEFUL AND ENJOY. DON’T PUSH IT. I don’t know. I just get confused and sad.

Anyway.

I read this quote this other day that said; “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.” In light of recent news stories, this idea seemed timely, so I’ve been thinking a lot about what my main thing is. My main thing has been harder than I thought it would be to identify. It seemed like my main thing should be something that couldn’t be taken from me, that wasn’t related to any particular phase of my life . . . something that could remain my main thing forever, no matter what happened.

I eventually decided that my main thing is loving God, myself, and others. Maintaining balance between those three vocations. Each day and through the years.

I want to spend enough quiet time to hear from God about how to serve myself and others. Then I want to ask for the energy and wisdom to carry out what He requests of me in the quiet. And I want to be open and present enough to receive love from my husband and children and family and friends and strangers and neighbors. And I want to always, always, care for myself first. I want to feed myself good food and breathe in fresh air and stretch and rest and explore my passions and dreams so I can maintain gratitude for the opportunity of living this beautiful life.

I shall try to keep this main thing my main thing.

You won’t hear from me on the blog until after the New Year, but I’ll still be working hard for you behind the scenes. We’re re-launching the blog on Word Press in January, because Blogger refuses to let many of you comment, (including Adrianne) and this is unacceptable. Each Monkee needs to be heard. I know some of you are freaking out right now because MONKEES DON’T LIKE CHANGE. I promise to work with a web designer to make sure that the site looks almost EXACTLY the same as it does now. Okey doke? No fancy stuff. If you have any ideas for bettering the site, let me know in the comments, please. I need you. This is OUR blog, not mine.

Also, Sister and I are working on a big idea. We are considering self-publishing a Momastery book next year. I’m scared . . . which makes me think it might be the right idea. Scared/sacred. Close. What do you think?

2012 is going to be our Most Magical Monkee Year ever. I have so many ideas for us, and I hope you are planning and plotting, too.

It’s going to be a long month and a half without you. But we must take time to rest and reflect and gather energy. And every once in a while, we must look away from the screen long enough to look inside and outside.

I LOVE YOU. Thank you for being a miracle. If you can take the time to share your thoughts about the million questions I’ve asked in this post, I’d love it. I really want – need - to hear from you. This is your special place, and I am so honored to be your host. And so grateful that I don't have to feed you.

Love Wins,

Pledge

2011-11-10T10:07:00.009-05:00

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men (and women) to do nothing. – Edmund Burke

Dear America,

We should not rest until there is a full accounting of what took place at Penn State from 1977 to today. We need a full investigation of Sandusky’s “charity,” The Second Mile. We need to know exactly what officials at Penn State and The Second Mile knew and when they knew it. We need to know who took action and who took none. We need to hold people who have chosen public lives of service to youth responsible for allowing children to be raped.

We need to care enough. America needs to care about its children. If we do not protect our children . . . who are we?

While we’re (rightfully) lashing out at the group of men at Penn State who allowed children to be raped – let us also look within. We can learn from this disaster. We can remember what is so obvious but seems to be forgotten so easily – that we should place NO priority above the well-being of our fellow human beings. No institution, no ideology, no career, no amount of money, no damn iconic reputation should ever take priority over the health and safety of a single human being.

We need to put first things first, for God’s sake.

In honor of all of Sandusky’s rape victims, I make the following solemn pledge:

If I ever witness a child being abused - or hear about a child being abused - first, second, or third hand - I will report it immediately to police and follow up every single day until the case has been thoroughly investigated. If it is not investigated to my satisfaction, I’ll go to the media.

I pledge to do this because NOTHING is more important than the body and soul of a child.

Love, G

Holiday Hands Update

2011-11-04T09:32:00.005-04:00

“The poverty of being lonely, being uncared for and unwanted . . . this is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to alleviate this type of poverty.” – Mama T

The miracles that have unfolded during the past few weeks are going to take me a while to process and weave into stories for you. Stories are better than numbers- but numbers are what I’m swimming in, so I’ll throw a few out there . . . we’ve paid one Monkee’s $1000 adoption costs. We’ve served thirty seven families through 165 Monkees (so far). The requests and offers that have poured in via email have doubled those posted on the blog. They’ve all been granted or accepted. We’ve sent three ipads to kids who need them for therapy. Zero people have asked me if their donations are tax deductible. Checks and gift cards from God knows who have arrived at my home by the dozens. Several thousands of dollars have exchanged Monkee hands. I’ve learned how to make a spread sheet. YES, after tears and tantrums, but I learned. They work, those things.

The stories are better than the numbers, though. MIRACULOUS stories about beautiful people abound. For now, I’m keeping them in my heart. Can’t tell them yet, because our work’s not done.

Here is what I’ve learned during the past three miraculous weeks.

Those who have made requests and those who have offered gifts . . . both groups of people are givers.

This is huge, I think:

What we’re doing here- The Truth about Holiday Hands . . . is that we’re not really just helping people buy stuff. We’re not trying to alleviate material poverty.

Here is what we’re really doing: We’re alleviating the poverty of loneliness. The poverty of disconnection. The poverty of feeling unneeded and unwanted . . . the greatest poverty that my hero, Mama T, referred to above. And that kind of awful poverty is alleviated by receiving AND by giving.

Because when the givers give they remember . . . I am needed. I am powerful. I am capable of Loving my neighbors. There is enough. And when the receivers receive they remember . . . I am loved. I am cared for. I am not alone. I have not been forgotten. There is enough.

And that’s why we don’t need to judge whether someone’s particular need is worthy. It doesn’t matter. Because we are not really about meeting that particular need. We are just meeting that particular need in an effort to meet the REAL need. Which is: “TELL ME I’M NOT ALONE. PROVE TO ME THAT LOVE WINS.” We just prove it through a gift card, or a handwritten letter, or a check for $15 dollars or $1000, or a box full of well loved toys or a new ipad or a handmade tea cosie, or an email.

So that's why if somebody tells me she needs a ferret, I’m gonna find a way to get her a ferret.

Because it’s not about the gift. It’s about what the gift represents. It’s about Love. It’s about reminding each other that We Belong To Each Other. It’s about proving what we believe: that Love Wins. You gotta prove what you believe to somebody, even if it’s just to yourself. Otherwise your belief doesn’t matter much.

*Sweet Jesus, please don’t tell me you need a ferret. Scared.

Now, down to Monkee Business. So far we’ve placed about 175 Monkees in Monkee Holiday Families.

“He places the lonely in families. He sets free the prisoners and gives them joy.” – Psalm 68:8

As of this morning, I still had fifteen Monkees waiting to be matched. Fifteen Monkees chomping at the bit to GIVE.

I’ve got you ladies. You are on my trustee spreadsheet. I’ve not forgotten you.

This morning, I received a message about a mother of five struggling with cancer, so a few of you waiting Monkees will be matched with this family this evening. Expect an email from me regarding your new Monkee Family.

Here is where I’d like to go from here:

If you have requested help, but have not yet received an email from me matching you with a Monkee family . . . please email me right away at momastery(at)gmail(dot)com. If you already have emailed me, please do it again and be patient with me. It might take me a while to get it all right, but we will leave no Monkee behind.

Also- I definitely have (at least) another week left in me to dedicate to this project. So go ahead and get quiet and listen. Listen for the name God whispers into your ear, and then send this post to her or him or them. There is enough. We can help more people and allow more people to help.

And to you - If you need: ASK. If you have: OFFER. Become a part of this miracle, one way or another.

Finally, I just wanted to say thank you. Being a part of this Love Project is one of the greatest honors of my life.

Love, G

Melton Wok Halloween

2011-10-31T18:36:00.002-04:00

Yogi Bear

Amazing amazing brilliant pants made by my friend, Rachel at Shining Shakti.

Scary, Scary Witch

Vampire

I only put this one in so you could see how very serious my pop-eye gets when I try to make a scary face.

Red M&M

You know, these costumes are quite representative of how I feel about my Littles. I have one very sweet boy and two girls who scare the bejesus out of me.

Pictures of Craig in shirtless Milli Vanilli outfit on their way soon.

ohhh wait...found one.

Love You.

Holiday Hands

2011-10-22T11:09:00.013-04:00

“All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had.” Acts 4:32

After reading Tova’s incredible essay about her baby Joy, I started feeling a little sad. Because I thought that one day I’d be writing an essay like Tova’s about my family’s adoption. I had the essay all planned out. I even had our Christmas Card designed. It was going to be a family picture in front of our beautiful LOVE WINS sign and underneath our family of six it would say:

JOY TO THE WORLD! Love, The Melton Pot.

The Melton Pot. I mean, seriously. You KNOW how excited I was when that gem lit up my little brain.

But it was not to be. It is what it is, and it’s not what it’s not.

One night while I was pouting, Craig said, “Honey, you know, we’re still the Melton Pot.” And I rolled my eyes and said, “OH, C’MON. NO WE’RE NOT. We’re Asian and white. We might be like a Melton skillet of some sort but we needed Africa to be a Pot. We are So Not a Pot.

Kay, fine. Not a Pot, he said. Sorry, hon.

Anyway, skillets are fine, I guess. I’m just saying that adjusting to the recent changes in my life has been a little tougher than I thought it would be. There is something that I really, really wanted that I gave my all for and I ain’t gonna get it. Because of LYYYYME. Boo. I feel very five years old sometimes.

Like Tish. Tish is quite dramatic. And I am always telling her that sometimes she is so focused on what she doesn’t have that she misses all the wonderful things she does have.

Whenever I tell her this Craig raises his eyebrow at me. SO annoying.

But he’s right. I do that too. I feel sad that I didn’t get the new person I wanted to love, and so I overlook the hundreds of people God gave me to love. YOU PEOPLE.

It’s crazy, really. I have this sickness (it’s back, of course) that doesn’t allow me to get out much, but God gave me this computer, and this community, so that I can reach out and STILL offer myself to the world. No matter what, He always gives us a way to stay open. Stay open. This is what I’m learning, Stay Open By Any Means Necessary. Do not allow anything that life throws at you to close your heart. Heart wide open. Always. No matter what. If you can do that, good things will come.

Today I want to talk about Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa . . . the December holidays.

I know, it’s not even Halloween, one holiday at a time, I know it.

But we do Christmas preparations a little differently at the Melton Skillet, and it works for us. It is the Melton rule that all Christmas business . . . gift buying, wrapping, etc . . . is done by Thanksgiving. Yep, we miss some sales. But we also spend the month of December in peace, together, making memories instead of trips to the mall. Our minds are not full of to do lists and so stress is low. And since we tell the kids that Santa stops taking gift requests at Thanksgiving, they don’t spend all of December talking about what “they want.”

Each of our kids gets three gifts and if there are ever any future complaints, we plan to ask them if they think they deserve more gifts than BABY JESUS GOT. ON BABY JESUS’ BIRTHDAY. After that, any further complaining will result in each child receiving actual frankincense and myrrh instead of Wii games and skateboards. Have fun with your spices, kiddos. That’s the plan.

Staying out of the stores in December is healthy for our family in many, many ways. This year we’re shutting down the computers in December, too. So we have lots of work to get done at Momastery before the shut down happens.

Back to Monkeedom.

I love you. I really do love you, Monkees. I don’t express how much because I’m afraid of coming across as a dramatic, crazy, cheesy computer lady. But I really do. This community has saved me and made a believer out of me. This community has made me feel safer and braver and cozier out in the big world. You have changed me, supported me. You are like a world –wide family to me, which is the truth, right? We are a world- wide family. That’s how we should all feel. Cozier in the world.

I was watching a news story about the economy recently and there were many families talking about how they were going to have a hard time buying gifts for their children this year. Some said that having their usual Christmas dinner was not an option, because they didn’t have the money for the turkey and the stuffing and the yummy desserts. Some said they were worried about paying the heat bill during the holidays. One man said he just wanted to buy his wife a little necklace, a little something to show her how much her work at home meant to him, but he couldn’t. There just wasn’t any extra. None.

All of this made me want to stick the fork I was holding directly into my eye.

Then I started thinking about how there are probably many Monkee families in these situations, and that made me want to put my fork down and start brainstorming. Because no way, Jose. Not on my watch. Not my Monkees. We might not be able to fix everything, but we can do some things. We can acknowledge each other’s needs, hear them, and then help each other in little ways, because we belong to each other.

You know, I’d rather my kids have three Christmas gifts and your kids have three Chistmas gifts, than my kids have six gifts and your kids have no gifts.

And that’s the bottom line here, for me. And I bet it is for you, too. I think I know you well enough to know that you agree.

I figure that everyone reading this has a need this holiday.

Some of us don’t have enough this year. These Monkees need a hand putting food on the table and buying gifts for their kids.

Some of us have a little extra this year. These Monkees need to reach out to other families and share, in order to wake themselves up and connect and really experience what the holidays mean.

And some of us have just enough. These Monkees need to sit back and witness some miracles, to keep believing in people and love.

We all have needs. When we don’t share our needs, out of pride or fear of rejection, we deprive other people of fulfilling their needs. Sometimes we need to receive and sometimes we need to give. Seasons change. So please decide which type of Monkee you are this year, and participate accordingly.

This is how I’m hoping this Love Extravaganza will work:

Craig and I would like to start the party off by offering checks for $75 to six Monkees who could use the money to make the holiday a little brighter for their families.

SO:

If your family could use this money, leave a comment about how you will use it and then email me at momastery(at)gmail(dot)com with your address. Our check will arrive at your home by Nov 1. The end. No strings. Just tell your story, anonymously or not, not so we can judge how worthy you are of the money, everyone is worthy, just so we can know each other and love and understand each other better.

Now.

Obviously, I am expecting more than six requests.

That’s where you come in.

If you are a Monkee who has some extra this year. . . read the comments. Find another Monkee who touches your heart and reply to her comment. Tell her you will help. Then you both email me and I’ll put you in touch.

**Also…if you are a Monkee who would like to donate money to this cause and let me distribute it….email me. I’ll take care of that, too.

At this point you might ask yourself….how is all of this really gonna work?

Well, how could I possibly know that?

I’m going to do this like I do everything else . . . I’m going to ANNOUNCE THAT IT IS HAPPENING and then wait for crazy things to start occurring and then I'm going to become completely overwhelmed with JOY AND PANIC and start crying and hide under my bed and then Craig will try to teach me to make a spread sheet and a Pay Pal account AGAIN and I will yell at him: WHY DO YOU KEEP TRYING TO CHANGE ME?? and he will say I am not trying to change you, I just think there are more efficient methods of record keeping than writing things on piles of used paper towels and scraps ripped off of Chase’s homework papers, to which I will reply: GOOD GOD, THIS IS NO TIME FOR A LESSON ON CUTTING EDGE TECHNOLOGY. I AM JUST TRYING TO BREATHE, HERE. And then Craig will take the kids away, for their own well-being, and let me work for a couple days.

And it will all get done, in spite of me . . . the same way that this Holiday Love Project got done and this Holiday Love Project got done and this one and THAT ONE and everything else worth doing gets done. One deep breath and little miracle at a time.

And we will wrap all of this up by Thanksgiving, so that we can rest and celebrate, knowing that our sisters are cared for. And our sisters can rest and celebrate, knowing that their families are cared for.

That’s the plan. Help, please. All ideas welcome.

I LOVE YOU.

GDo

PS. Thank You, Bloggess, for inspiring this idea, and so many others.

Joy - To the World

2011-10-20T08:57:00.006-04:00

A Guest Post from Tova

Dearest Monkees,

Do you remember when Glennon and Andrea started this auction for Joy (Rocky at that time) and Evy? And then a friend joined in with a book sale? And prior that a friend auctioned an Ipad for us? And after this auction we raised another $1,400 by selling paperbead necklaces that had been donated. And then, we received an adoption grant of $10,000.

Yup.

That all really, really happened.

You need to understand that adopting Joy was a complete and total leap in faith. I remember emailing with Glennon and mentioning to her that I felt like we had no business starting this adoption because I felt like we had none of the resources needed.

And we didn't.

No savings, no investments, no loans available, no credit available. Heck, we STILL have our adoption loan from our first adoption. We managed to save and fundraise our way through our second adoption. It was such a gift.

I had no faith for a third adoption. I figured we had maxed out our resources. All of them.
We had those moments where adoption payments needed to be made and we literally didn't have the money.

And it came. Every single time. Surprise gifts from friends. Organized fundraising. The grant. This is the first time we are drowning in debt after an adoption. We are flat ass broke and about a month behind, but I am fine with that because it feels so good compared to what we've experienced in the past.

If you think that I was the faithful, peaceful and trusting adoptive mama through this, you are wrong. I hedged all my bets. Did all the fundraising saying that if this didn't work we would give the money to another family or return it to people.

The process of adopting Joy brought pain. Struggle. Fear. Questioning.

As you might remember, Joy has HIV. We were asked by our agency to consider adopting her. They did everything they could to make it possible for us.

We had relatives freak out. People said the dumbest, most thoughtless things. I wrestled a lot. With what we were doing. To our finances, our existing children, our community.

There were two things that kept me facing towards Joy.

1. The question was 'is this harder for me, or is facing the possibility of my child not getting adequate medical care harder?'

2. Can I do this? Can I raise my daughter to be kind and gracious, but firm, in the face of some of the most stupid, stubborn ignorance that I've ever seen? In order to do that, I had to learn to be kind and gracious, but firm.

The first question required more wrestling than I care to admit. But it really was the easy one.

The second one? That required a lot of support. Some from my counselor who walked me through appropriate and allowable responses to different people's comments. This was an amazing experience for me and impacted all aspects of my life. I had friends who let me bitch, whine, complain and rage. And I have this community that tells me over and over to 'look for the good', 'try not to be a jerk', that 'We belong to each other' and that being gracious is a huge gift. That looking beyond the stupidity and ignorance often leads to healing and redemption.

And it's all true.

At one point we had enough reasons to justify leaving our church. People suggested we do that. But I got stubborn. And maybe a tiny bit tired. We stayed put. We kept trying to talk and to listen. It's not been perfect, but the overwhelming majority are supportive and wonderful. That would not have existed if I had left when it was just overwhelmingly horrible. That's what this Monkee community has given me. Stories from all of you to lean on. To hold onto. Stories of staying still, stopping to listen, or just taking that one more uncomfortable step.

So, thank you.

Going to Africa to bring Joy home was excruciatingly difficult as I have a PTSD diagnosis that results from a home invasion/hostage situation I was in the last time I was in Africa.
Going to bring her home was the bravest thing I've ever done. I could have stayed at home, but I knew I would regret that more than pushing through the fear.

It was fantastic. Our trip was hard, but I was both strong and vulnerable. I was present for my new daughter. I found a lot of personal healing on my trip. There was a lot of weeping, but so, so much joy.

And she is.

Since coming home I have watched my little peanut win hearts, break down big huge grown men, and crumble people's fears and hardness. I literally watched one person who was dead set against her, start to cry when seeing her for the first time.

Our child is so special. This is brought home to us again and again. The nurse at her Children's Home told us that they called her their miracle child because they almost lost her. Her pediatrician here, told us at her last visit, that she cannot explain why this child is alive or doesn't have massive brain damage. That her medical records show three times when most other children would have died. That she does not understand how this is possible.

But she is. She is healthy, happy, thriving, getting chubby, and mentally, emotionally, and physically on target. Not one medical professional has been able to explain her. She is now labeled as technically HIV + but unable to transmit. How's that for shifting people's preconceptions?

This makes my heart so glad. I've learned so much on this journey, grown a tremendous amount, discovered strength I had no idea I had, learned that vulnerability is the baddest ass strength of all, and done so much healing.

Thanks Monkees, wish you could all come over for a cup of tea and meet her.

Note from G:

Hm. If Toves hadn't made herself vulnerable here . . . we would've missed all of this Joy. Hm. Hmmmm.

God Bless You, Tova.

STOP DOING ANYTHING

2011-10-08T08:48:00.008-04:00

So - the past month has been pretty bad, I’m not going to lie. I mean, I did lie, like all day, every day, in my cozy bed. One weekend I went to bed at eleven am on Saturday morning and woke up at six pm on Sunday. I was really, really, super sick. Scary sick. We figured that my Lyme was becoming dramatically worse. Craig and I were looking for nannies because I couldn’t care for the kids anymore. We let the adoption go. We adjusted to the idea of playing one man down. We did our best to stay positive, but we were scared.

I saw my doctor last week. When she came into the examination room I was curled up in a ball on the table and couldn’t even raise my head to say hello. Her face looked pained and she said, “Oh, baby,” and she put her hand on my forehead. I thought that was really nice. Doctors should do more of this sort of thing, I think. Then she said, in a nutshell – “You look awful. All your shine is gone. Something is wrong with your medication. This isn’t Lyme. Your body is shutting down because it can’t process your oodles of antibiotics anymore. Let’s stop everything for a few days and see if you feel better, and then if you do, we’ll cut your meds in half.”

I woke up the next day feeling like a million bucks. Literally. The first thing I did, obvi, was go shopping. Craig came home and saw all the bags in the foyer and said, without gusto, “yay. you’re better. yaaaay.”

I am better. I mean, I still have Lyme, but I’m my old Lymie self, which is to say that I’m pretty much normal with added confusion, absolutely no depth perception and extreme bouts of fatigue when it’s time to vacuum or grocery shop or bathe the kids. And I’m so grateful.

But I’m also extremely grateful that I got so sick for those two months.

Each morning for the past few weeks, I have peeked out my door with giddy anticipation to discover a gift on my doorstep. Candles, inspirational poetry, organic fruit, stationary, gift cards, cozy pink socks that I’m wearing right now. Each gift came with a note that said some variation of . . . You are loved. We’re praying for you. Love, Anonymous. My neighbors. They got together and planned a Love Ambush for me. I just moved to this neighborhood last year. It just amazes me. And it helped me. Just to know that I was literally surrounded by all that anonymous hope and love. And that I didn’t even have to write thank you notes because the gifts were anonymous. I’m a grateful person and a writer, but I despise writing thank you notes. How’d they know? I was thinking yesterday- if I hadn’t gotten so sick, I wouldn’t even know where I live. I wouldn’t be aware of how beautiful this place is, and the people in it. I might not be bursting at the seams to pay it forward, to find the next hurting mama and plan Love Ambush #2. I now have new eyes with which to look at my neighbors, who are miracles. Thank you, Lyme.

Craig and I started marriage therapy two weeks ago. It’s been hard, but good hard. We feel new- like we’re starting over. We needed this, bad. Craig’s been a single parent for a bit and he’s been scared. It’s taken a toll on him, but he wouldn’t admit it before- he was so busy being hopeful and strong. He’s a hero, I think. We are fine, but we don’t want to be fine. We want to be great. Like my friend said, we don’t want to just be good people, we want to be good partners to each other. And I have a husband who wants this as badly as I do, and who is willing to work and fight for it. But we wouldn’t have known this if my illness hadn’t forced us to face our fears. I now have new eyes with which to look at my husband, who is a miracle. Thank you, Lyme.

I put my kids to bed last night. I know it’s supposed to be precious time - bedtime, but I usually hate it. I read and sing and finally get them down and then they pop up one at a time for an hour and it’s like a twisted game of whack-a-mole. But last night I didn’t hate it. I loved reading to them and singing to them. Because it was the first night in two months that I’d had the energy to put them to bed. To tuck them in. And it was sort of wonderful. I’ve been given new eyes with which to see what an honor it is to care for little souls and hearts and minds. Miracle, really. Thanks, Lyme.

And the Monkees . . . Oh, you Monkees. All your comments and love and emails and encouragement and understanding. One of you sent me a book that is saving me right now. And a beautiful sign that says, “Look For the Good” in decadent hot pink calligraphy. I plan to follow directions.

Now - losing the adoption. Trying to get perspective on that one is interesting.

We explained to Chase that it was over a few nights ago. That there was no baby boy coming home. That God had said nope. We explained that we didn’t know if it was actually a No. or a Not Yet. But we told him that either way, we were fine and hope he’d be fine, too. We told him we were already the luckiest family on Earth and we didn’t need anything other than what we already had.

Chase sighed and said, “Mommy, this doesn’t seem to be working out for us. Maybe we should just adopt a highway.”

For the record- this is my favorite thing that anyone has ever said to me in my whole life, and I am currently researching whether one must pass a background check to adopt a highway. I can see it, honestly. All the Meltons in orange vests, picking up trash on the side of the road. I might rope us all together like a chain gang. I hope we get our own sign: This highway Has Been Adopted by The Meltons. Too perfect.

There is actually a whole lot of beauty in letting the adoption go, and I’m finding it. Look For The Good, right, Molls? The baby would have taken up all the energy and time and love that I can now offer to the people I already have. The people I’ve grown new eyes for. My parents, my friends, my neighbors, my husband, my children, my Monkees, myself.

Something about the past two months has shifted my perspective dramatically, for now.

I’m a spaz. I just am. I’ve lived my entire life, up to now, as a complete spaz. The voices in my head are always going a mile a minute and I’m just all over the place. I’m well intentioned, and sweetly all over the place, but still. It’s exhausting to be me, and sometimes I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Like God just gives me projects to use up my energy so I don’t explode or drive people too nuts. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I need to find a way to channel my energy into peace, because I deserve that.

So. I am going to stop trying to save the world, and instead use my energy to notice how beautiful the world is just as it is. It occurred to me recently that saving the world might not be my job. It occurred to me that my only real job might be to slow down and notice the world, to be amazed by it. It’s almost too good to be true, but it might just be true.

So I think I’m going to try, for the next year, to live with the belief that the world is all right. This is a tough paradigm shift for me to attempt. Because I usually think, one million times a day…Oh My God, the world is falling apart, the world needs my help. I MUST HELP. EVERYONE NEEDS ME! AAAAHHHH!!

This, as I reflect upon it, might be the teeniest bit egotistical.

And with the lost adoption and the Lyme and all the confusion and Anna and huh? I just feel exactly like Homer Simpson, in one of my favorite scenes ever, when he’s tripping on magic peppers.

I just need to Stop Doing Anything for awhile.

I just want to look around. Love my neighbors. Get to know people. Listen, look, breathe. Appreciate my blessings instead of trying desperately to create new ones.

In short - I need to calm down. Which may be my biggest challenge to date.

I’m excited. But not TOO excited. Calllllmmmmlllly excited.

I’m off to do my yoga and then spend my day soaking up my blessings. Looking, listening, breathing, smiling.

Remembering that the world is all right and that it is my privilege, as a child of God, to soak it all up fearlessly.

The world is a gift to me, not my problem to solve.

Love, G

Hello Lovies.

2011-10-04T09:52:00.005-04:00

You are now entering Cliché City. You’ve been warned. When the goin’ gets tough, the Doyle/Meltons fling around clichés.

Today I thought I’d try to answer the G, how are you doing? questions. Thank you so much for caring.

About the loss of the adoption- so far, I’m actually fine. It’s funny, you want all of these things, and then you get sick and you realize that the only thing you really want is to be healthy.

It’s true that every once in a while I feel a little flabbergasted, when I consider the hours and days we spent on paperwork and the nights of lost sleep and the thousands of dollars and tears and prayers that we’ve used up on this adoption during the past two years. It’s strange to just - all of a sudden - walk away. It tempts me to wonder if all of it was wasted. But deep down I don’t think that any of our efforts to love or to follow our dreams are wasted.

One time an American visited Mother Teresa in Calcutta and looked around at the hundreds of people dying in the streets and he said to her, “You’ll never save all of them. You’ll never even make a dent. How do you continue this work when you know you won’t be successful?” And Mama T looked at him and smiled and said, “I am not called to be successful. I am called to be faithful.” And I think that’s a good thing for us to remember.

One of my best friends, Jess, sent me a prayer recently about how in the West, we are so focused on goals, on results, on outcomes. But we can’t control outcomes, almost ever, so that’s probably a waste of time. I think we can only be faithful, today, to ourselves and to our families . . . to our friends and our dreams, and at the end of the day, we have to let it all go. We have to quit worrying about what becomes of it all and just be grateful we had the guts to do our little part, as we understood it. And we have to try to remember that it’s better to travel than to arrive, anyway. I think I was faithful for the past two (six) years to what I thought God wanted me to do. I spent my whole mind, soul, and strength on that dream. And so I feel pleased with that effort, and I won’t judge the outcome. It’s okay. I’m a different person than I was when I started this adoption journey, and maybe that’s the point anyway.

It helps me to see stories LIKE THESE: to see my friends who started this adoption journey at the same time I did and are home now, raising their Rwandan angels. And to watch this story unfold...one of our own...a MONKEE.. in Rwanda, picking up her baby right now, as you read this. As I read these stories - through tears of joy and loss - I am reminded that when and if it’s supposed to happen, it does. There are no mistakes. I did not fall through the cracks, it just wasn’t meant to be for me. Not now. If it’s God’s plan, nothing can stop it, and if it’s not God’s plan, there is nothing you can do to make it happen. Trust me. I've tried everything.

And still - The universe is unfolding as it should.

My dad used to say to me: Life is what happens when we’re making other plans.

I’m not sure I really believed that completely. I sort of thought that you could write your own story. Make your own plan, make it happen. Nah- I thought. Life is not what happens to you….life is what you make it.

But now, in the fallout of the adoption and the Lyme and on and on . . . I have come to believe that both are true. I think Life is what you make out of what happens to you.

Lyme is what is happening to me right now….and I am GOING to turn it into something good, something beautiful and helpful. I read this quote recently . . . people can tolerate suffering, but not meaninglessness. That’s how I feel right now. It’s fine . . . I’ll be sick, I’ll heal, I’ll let a few dreams go in the meantime. I’m a big girl and I know that nobody promised me that life would be easy. But I’m not letting any of it go to waste. I am going to make it all mean something. Someday.

Maybe not today, cause I’m too freaking tired.

I’ve never experienced anything like what Lyme’s done to me during the past month. I wake up tired, and I spend my morning tired, and then around 2 o’clock I feel as if someone has placed one of those heavy bibs they use for dental x-rays on top of me, and all I can do is crawl up the stairs to bed. And when I get to bed, sometimes I’m too tired to reach for a pillow, or to roll over. Too tired to roll over. It’s true. A couple of times I actually thought . . . I’m dying, I am definitely dying right now. I have what seems to be out of body experiences. My body feels so heavy that my soul seems to hover above. And during these near death experiences I always have two thoughts: OH GOD. They are going to come to take me away and everyone’s going to see how filthy the bathtub is. And also, if Craig remarries someone who can cook I will be so pissed. I will HAUNT THEM. I will mess up all her casseroles.

I don’t know why these are the deepest thoughts I can muster when I’m near death, I’m just telling the truth.

So anyway, this Lyme Time has sort of brought me back full circle. I feel like a baby sometimes. I am learning how to take care of myself, maybe for the first time ever. I spent the first half of my life tearing apart my body, then the second making and feeding little bodies, and now, for the first time, I’m learning how to help my own body and soul thrive and grow.

So that’s what I’m doing over here these days. I decided to stop saying “I’m sick” and start saying “I’m healing.”

This is how I’m going to make sense of all of this – make it mean something.

Through my own healing process, I plan to learn what people need to heal. Because I believe that all suffering is the same, and that we all suffer from something. Disease, abuse, shame, depression, pride, anger, stress, loss, hopelessness, loneliness and on and on and on forever. And I think we all need healing. Every last one of us.

So I think that if I can heal, if I can unlock the keys to healing for myself, that I’ll be able to help you, too. I don’t really understand that plan completely yet, but that’s my plan nonetheless.

So far: this is what I’ve got. I’ve got a sign in my kitchen that says:

Deep Breaths

Take your medicine

Feed yourself

Water

Fresh Air

Sun

Bath

Friends

Yoga

Pray

That’s all I’ve got so far.

What are you healing from? And what helps you heal? Let’s help each other.

Who's On First?

2011-10-01T08:14:00.006-04:00

You know these little bags that the Lupus foundation sends in the mail? Great. Hold that thought.

Recent Melton Marital Conversation:

Craig: Glennon, why do we still have these things in the pantry?

Glennon: The Lupus bags?

Craig: Yeah. They’ve been in here for years. We have 27 of them now. Are we ever going to do anything with them?

Glennon: I don’t know. I don’t want to throw them away, but they probably won’t be yummy anymore.

Craig: Um. What?

Glennon: I don’t know. They’re pretty old.

Craig: Oookay. Well, do we have anything to donate?

Glennon: Huh? Donate?

Craig: Yeah, I mean, we should use these. We should donate something. That’s what they’re for. Why are we just collecting them in our pantry?

Glennon: You think the Lupus foundation wants me to donate them?

Craig: Not donate THEM, donate something IN them.

Glennon: What? How? Donate them to who?

Craig: TO THE LUPUS FOUNDATION.

Glennon: Wait. The Lupus foundation wants me to donate the popcorn they gave me BACK to the Lupus foundation?

Craig: Silence.

Glennon: That’s weird. Fine, what do I do, just leave all the popcorn on the porch? Will they come pick it up? What do they do with it? Why did they send it to me in the first place if they just want it all back?

Craig: Silence.

Glennon: What the hell? What? WHAT? What is going on??

Craig: Jesus, honey. It’s not popcorn. It’s not popcorn, Glennon.

Thanks for nothing, Tricky Lupus Foundation.

*Craig has sworn to God that he will not discuss these sorts of conversations with our therapist.

Happy Weekend, Monkees.

Take Two or...Got an Hour?

2011-09-29T10:04:00.005-04:00

Dear Anonymous,

Tish’s fish, Sadie, died last week. We’ve been through the passing of a fish before, but this time was special. My little man, Chase, experienced what I can only describe as an existential crisis. He cried and shook and begged me for answers . . . for two hours. He said things like, It’s not about Sadie, mom. It’s that everything we love is going die. How do we survive that? And - I know what you’re going to say about heaven, mom, but how do you know it’s real? You don’t. And I don’t know if I can believe it.

I didn’t offer many brilliant answers to my baby’s brilliant questions. But I was grateful to be able to tell him truthfully that Yes, I believe that there is some sort of heaven, though I doubt it’s like anything we’ve heard described. When he asked how I believed l told him that I believe because I have to - because if I didn’t believe, the terror that was gripping his heart, the terror of losing the people I love forever would overtake me and I’d have no joy or hope and I’d die inside. I told him that I believe because I have no other choice, because I was made to believe, because if I didn’t believe in life after death I wouldn’t be able to live life before death. I’d panic and then freeze.

When he asked me what I believed heaven was like, I told him that I believe heaven is a place where everyone loves each other perfectly.

When he asked me, Why, mom? Why does God send us here, where things hurt so much? Why does He make us love things that He knows we’re just going to lose? I told him that we don’t love people and animals because we will have them forever, we love them because loving them changes us, makes us better, healthier, kinder, real-er . . . stronger in the right ways and weaker in the right ways. Even if animals and people leave, even if they die- they leave us better. So we keep loving, even though we might lose, because loving teaches us, changes us. And that’s what we’re here to do. God sends us here to learn how to be better lovers, and to learn how to be loved, so we’ll be prepared for heaven.

When I finished this part, Chase looked right into my eyes and his tears cleared for a moment and he said, “Yes. I can believe that part. That sounds right. I believe that.”

And I agreed. I thought - Wow. Yes, that’s actually what I believe. I can buy all of that stuff I just said. That sounds True to me, thank God.

Anonymous, I am trying to become more loving down here. I am trying to learn. And you, willing or not, have been a teacher for me. I want to apologize for my response to you. It was a great essay. It really was. But this place has never been about great essays. This place is about Love. And I have learned that sometimes I have to leave a great essay unwritten in order to love better. Because it is better to be kind than to be “right.”

If I speak with the tongues of men and angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

As I read and re-read my response to your comment, Anonymous, I realized that I must have sounded pretty clangy to you. Because what I did was announce that I was going to turn the other cheek, and then didn’t. At all. What I did, actually, was defend myself and then sweetly judge and attack you. My least favorite part was when I wrote “people like you.” I don’t even believe in people like you and people like me. I just believe in people. I’m sorry for using those divisive and unfair words.

To be clear, I don’t regret writing that essay, just like I wouldn’t change what you said. I don’t spend a lot of time beating myself up and I hope you haven’t either. I’m grateful for this whole process. We needed to go through all of it to get to here.

But now I know I didn’t really listen for the love in what you said. I listened for the judgment, so that’s what I found. Seems to be how it works…seek and you shall find.

If I’d really turned the other cheek, I would have simply tried to explain to you why I want to adopt, which is so hard for me to put into words, but would have made for an even better, kinder, truer essay. Less sassy, but better.

Anonymous, I am so in love with this brutiful world that I feel torn up a lot of the time. I find people to be so beautiful, so strong and this world to be such a painful mess for the brave people who live here. I tend to take on the pain of others as my own pain, because I believe it IS my own pain. Because I really, truly believe that we all belong to each other. I believe that heaven, at first, will be a revealing, a lifting of the fog when we will look back down on Earth and see that we were in fact, one big family. And that hell will be seeing that and knowing that while living our lives, we let our brothers and sisters and mothers and father suffer and starve and die, while we had more than we needed. That will be hell, I think, for awhile. Knowing the truth. Knowing we let our own family members die. But then God will wipe our tears, and forgive us, and make everything new, and redeem us all. And we’ll heal, and become whole and enter our eternal family with forgiveness and understanding and love for all.

That is my interpretation of Matthew 25:33.

And so I just want to be part of my eternal family now. I love being a mama, and I love other mothers. I am awed by our strength and sacrifices and bottomless love and passion and courage. And I don’t understand why I get to raise my babies and some mamas don’t. Why I have every resource I need and more, more, more and some mamas, dying of AIDS, have to travel miles in bare feet to beg for medicine for their starving babies. Babies whom they love and cherish every bit as much as I love and cherish mine.

Thinking about this disparity drives me close to what I would consider the edge of insanity. I hate it. I don’t understand. And I feel compelled to do something, to show my love for and solidarity with these women, these mamas who are just like me. And so I think, I can’t do what I want to do, which is to fix things, to make things fair so that these mamas can raise their own damn babies. But I can give one of their babies a home. I can offer one of these mama’s babies every good thing I have- which is my husband and my children and my home and my faith and my friends and my joy and my hope. I can do that part, I can beg God to use me to answer another mama’s prayers. I can care for her baby since she can’t. I can be part of the second best thing. And I can love that baby and raise him to know how much his first mama loved him too, and when I get to heaven I can put that baby into her waiting arms, because I’ll know her, and she’ll know me, and we will finally be a whole family.

And all of this- it still doesn’t describe completely or precisely why I want to adopt.

There is a book I love, called Pillars of the Earth. In it there is a man named Tom, whose dream it is to build a cathedral. He sacrifices everything -his family’s money, future, security, even health to realize his dream. Some people, even in his own family, decide that he’s a foolish, selfish, crazy man.

When he finally gets his big break and the man who holds the power to make Tom’s dream come true asks him: Why? Why do you want this so badly? Why have you sacrificed everything to build this cathedral?

Tom replies:

Because it will be beautiful.

That’s my real reason, Anonymous. I want to adopt because it will be beautiful, to me.

That’s why I’ll never be an adoption advocate, which has been requested of me several times. Because I don’t believe that everyone should adopt. I believe that everyone should discover what she finds to be most beautiful and then create it.

So anyway, that’s what I should have said, Anonymous. I should have tried to bridge the gap of understanding between us instead of building a bigger wall. I should have explained instead of defended.

Also, Anonymous.

I may have been extra sensitive for this reason:

Craig and I had to make the horrible decision of letting our adoption go last week. We were as close as a family can possibly get to bringing our baby boy home, but we had to say no, we’re sorry- we can’t. Please give our baby to another family.

My health, it’s getting worse instead of better- and there was a bit of an intervention from some people I love.

Glennon- you’re sick. You’re barely making it through the day. You can’t do this. You must take care of yourself and the family you already have. You must heal.

It was quite familiar to me, actually. I’ve been through a similar intervention before. That one was tough to hear too, but necessary. Good things came of it.

But you can imagine, Anonymous. It’s been hard. After all these years.

It’s been hard, but not impossible. I have a friend who’s doing impossible, and I know the difference.

We have some emptiness now, Anonymous. Empty space in our hearts where we thought that baby would be, an empty nursery, empty time, empty plans where shopping and decorating and nesting used to be.

But if there is one thing I’ve learned about empty, it’s that empty can be more exciting and ripe with promise than full. There is space, now.

What will come fill it? What will enter our lives? What’s next?

I hope that healing comes next. From this loss and from my disease. I hope that I will learn what healing is, what it means, what it looks like, and that I will be able to share the whole healing process with you. Because we are all healing, right? So we might as well do it together.

Love You, Anonymous sister.

Hard

2011-09-24T10:10:00.008-04:00

This way of life - living out loud - is hard. It’s good, in many, many ways - but it’s hard, too. Most of the people who read this blog don’t know me, but many do. And it’s hard, sometimes, on the people who know me. It’s hard on my family, and my friends. Sometimes I wonder if it’s hard on my poor neighbors, who have to know SO MUCH about us. When I see them outside and they say, “How are you?” It’s funny, because they already know. It makes us closer and further apart somehow- I don’t know. At this point, when I meet a new neighbor- I know immediately, by her face, whether she reads the blog or not. It’s weird. When one of them invites me to coffee, I want to say, “Perfect- could you bring along four hundred extremely personal essays about your life so we can start on even ground?”

Anyway – I think living out loud is the hardest on me. I mostly love writing this blog, it serves me, heals me, and it satisfies the creative cat constantly clawing at my insides, trying to get out. It helps me make sense of things, holds me accountable to myself. Forces me out of my cozy, dangerous hiding places. Usually, I crave writing time because it makes me feel good. But sometimes it doesn’t - sometimes I don’t want to write at all – like today - but I still do. I write when I don’t want to write because I have learned that my writing helps my readers. And so I feel a responsibility, a calling, to keep showing up and keep telling the truth about my life and heart and struggles. But it’s not easy. It is not easy at all to allow yourself to be so vulnerable. But this is how I have come to understand that I’m supposed to love the world, right now. So I do it.

Loving tirelessly - doing your job - is hard.

I wrote an essay about Beyonce, about sacraments, last week and in it I mentioned that I believe I have four children, and that one of them is in Africa. Someone read that post and left this comment.

Anonymous said...

Hi Glennon... may I make a gentle reminder that you DO have four children? Please don't discount the one you chose not to raise on this earth. I'm wondering if that's part of your desire to adopt, to make up for that decision?

SEPTEMBER 18, 2011 7:52 PM

The commenter left it anonymously, as is her right. She left it hidden there at the end of the comments section so that not many people, other than me, would read it. I wanted to bring it out into the light today. It’s always, always better to bring darkish things into the light. They become less scary.

When I first read this comment, I felt …creeped out. Like I had looked down at my bright shiny sparkly heart and found a hairy, poisonous spider crawling all over it.

Obviously, the commenter is referring to something quite personal that I shared two years ago, in the Testimony that I gave to my church. She’s referring to my abortion. This stranger thought it was okay to bring this up two years later, publicly, attach it to my adoption, and suggest that my family’s effort to adopt a child is no more than an attempt to escape and redeem the guilt she assumed I must feel as a result of my abortion.

My, my, my.

First- Let us be clear, she had every right to make this comment. At Momastery, most of us have agreed to an unwritten rule that we don’t use the truths I tell against me. But no one’s forced to follow this unwritten rule. I walk onto this field everyday without armor or weapons, by choice, and so the risk is that every once in awhile, someone will ignore the rules and shoot, and I’ll be hit. It’s the way it goes. It happens. Usually privately, through email. But it seemed time for you, my Lovies, to know that it does happen. It hurts, and it always, always makes me want to quit writing this blog. But I don’t. When I want to shut off my computer, take my life back as my own, curl up into a protective roly-poly ball, I don’t. I come back here because I want to keep loving and remaining open, even though neither love nor openness are easy.

This is why each time someone says they can’t do the Monkee thing because they’re not into the “warm fuzzy, sticky sweet love thing” I want to say HUH? Trust me, Momastery love is not warm fuzzy sticky sweet love. It’s tough as nails love. It’s having your heart ripped out, putting it back together, and offering it back to the same world that just tore it up…the next day. It's running toward pain and grief and brokenness instead of away from it. It's turning the other cheek till you get whiplash. It’s resisting the overwhelming desire to quit, to save yourself for yourself. It’s exhausting and uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s ugly, like using your bare hands to search for gold in piles of crap. BUT WARM AND FUZZY, STICKY AND SWEET - IT’S NOT.

So, anyway. When I read this comment, I had many reactions, none of which I will discuss here. In general, I was surprised, creeped, angry…but less so than I’d have been a year ago, which makes me think I might be getting better at this.

I try to live my life the same way that a carpenter who lived two thousand years ago lived his. Once he stood on a hill top and explained how to love well to a huge group of people hanging onto his every word, shocked by the countercultural ideas he suggested aloud. And recognizing it as The Truth. He was telling them nothing new, actually. He was just reminding them of everything that was already written onto their hearts.

The first time I read the things Jesus said about love, it all rang so true to me that my heart about exploded. It rang hard, but true. Jesus said that when someone hurts you, you should turn the other cheek. He said that you should love the one that hurt you, and you should turn the other cheek over and over and over again. Seven times seventy- seventy times, I think. I’ve been writing this blog for over two years, so I think I’ve gotta be getting close to that number. Let’s just say that the five hundredth and thirty ninth person who tries to hurt my feelings is going to get her ASS KICKED.

But anonymous, you are not lucky five hundred and thirty nine. So, since my Jesus insists, I must turn the other cheek. The beautiful thing about turning the other cheek is that it forces you to break eye contact with the person who has slapped you, and this little turn changes your perspective. Now, all of sudden, you are looking away, forward, to something better, more beautiful, and your heartbeat settles, and your palms stop sweating.

So here I am. I’ve turned. I have a new perspective. I have tried to do what my friend Meghan often suggests, which is to “listen for the love” in what’s said to me. And so I am going to try to answer your pseudo-question, anonymous, with love.

I have no doubt that my abortion has something to do with my desire to adopt. As does my parents’ teachings that we belong to each other, and my Sister’s passion for the powerless, and my gift at mothering, and the extra money and other resources that God’s given me to steward, and my faith, and my relationship with my husband, and my teaching experiences with underprivileged children, and on and on and on. I, and my dreams, are the sum total of everything that has ever happened to me and everyone I’ve ever met and every book I’ve ever read and every song I’ve sung and every friend I’ve loved, and every mistake I’ve made.

So, I would be silly to pretend to be certain that the two - abortion and adoption - are entirely unrelated. Everything is related to everything, obviously. I will tell you that I’ve been discussing my passion for adoption since high school, years before I knew that abortion would become part of my life. So clearly the direct correlation you’re trying to make is wrong.

I would also like to address your suggestion that through adoption, I’d be assuaging my guilt for my abortion.

Please, let us address that presumption here. Anonymous: Let me be clear. I don’t have any shame about my abortion. None. I know that’s hard for people like you to hear, because if you are a Christian and abortion has been a part of your life, you are supposed to beat your chest and gnash your teeth forever and repent for the rest of your life and then join crusades to end abortion by any means necessary, and speak through tears to large and small groups of people and swear to them that abortion was the worst mistake you’ve ever made and explain that you pray for your dead baby in heaven every night. THEN your sinner-self will be embraced by Christian society and used as a poster girl. Literally, likely.

But I won’t say or do any of that that, ever. Because none of that is true, for me. I know it’s true for some, and I respect that Each has her own path. But it’s not true for me. I did the best I could at the time with the resources I felt I had.. I’ve apologized, yes- but mostly to myself. I feel sad sometimes for the lost girl I was and I am fiercely protective of that precious me who had to go through that scary day and the days that preceded and followed. Far from ashamed, I’m really, quite, quite proud of her for making it through. I don’t feel ashamed. I feel forgiven and whole and I know that God never let go of my hand before, during, or after my abortion. God and I are clear on this issue. We actually, believe it or not, worked it all out long before your counsel was offered.

As Maya Angelou says. “We do the best we can. When we know better, we do better.” Amen. There is no room for shame or regret in my life. I'm too full. I am too forgiven, too adored, too fully loved, too full of ideas and dreams and passion to waste my precious life pretending to be crippled by something that is imaginary. Shame is an illusion. It can disappear so easily.

To this day, I will admit that I have confused feelings about the abortion issue. I think that “issues” like abortion are really just “people” so it’s probably best to think of them as such. One at a time. One person at a time. I don’t feel shame about my abortion. But I don’t love abortion either. Both/And. I think there are probably better ways.

But I also think that if you really, really hate abortion, it might be a great idea to go volunteer at a Boys and Girls club, to meet and get to know young people, to become a mentor, to offer a kid another way to experience love and connection- so she doesn’t go looking for it in the wrong places. To try to jump into the mix before it’s too late. I sometimes feel like the picket lines at the clinics are a little too late. Offering unsolicited, creepy suggestions on a stranger's blog who had an abortion fifteen years ago is certainly too late.

As for me- in keeping with the one person at a time theory….I think that if a young friend confided in me that she was pregnant and was considering an abortion, Craig and I would hold her and love her and tell her that she was loved and that she had many choices.

I think we would tell her that she could live with us and we would make sure she was taken care of, physically and financially, and that if she wanted to keep the baby we would help her start her life.

I think we would tell her that if she didn’t want to raise the baby, we’d raise the baby for her.

And I think if she decided that abortion was the only way, we would hold her hand through it and love her afterward and demand that she know that she was as loved and adored the moment after as she was on the day she was born.

I know that’s not how everybody feels, and that’s okay. It’s just how I feel.

Love You, Anonymous.

How To Help

2011-09-21T19:45:00.004-04:00

From Anna's blog... An Inch of Gray

How to Contribute in Jack's Name

Thank you so much for your love and support. I am almost, almost but-not-quite-yet ready to get back on here and write and rant and process and share and cry with you, my friends.

But first, I know a lot of you have been asking for ways to make the world a better place in Jack’s name. In addition to one of Jack’s favorite charities, Operation Christmas Child at Samaritan’s Purse –- (there is a button on the second page of the donation process to select a memorial card), there will be a scholarship set up in Jack’s memory at Dominion Christian School. If you would like to contribute to this fund, please send a donation to:

Dominion Christian School
10922 Vale Road
Oakton, VA 22124

There is an additional fund that our family will be able to use for future projects in memory of Jack. We are excited to include Margaret in these decisions. Any contributions to this fund may be sent to:

Jack Harris Donaldson Memorial Fund
Apple Federal Credit Union
PO Box 1200
Fairfax, VA 22038-1200

Thank you for your loving support during this heartbreaking time. Above all else, we are grateful and dependent upon your prayers as we figure out how to live and breathe. Your outpouring of love has been amazing, and we are thankful that so many of you have been touched by Jack’s life.

A New Thing

2011-09-19T13:02:00.006-04:00

“Behold, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” – Isaiah 43:19

I’m not sure how to explain what has happened in our family during the past week.

I think it might be best to just report it, without commentary. I’m not real sure what any of it means yet, I just know that it means a lot.

Last week, one of my little ones had a full blown panic attack. Heart racing, drenched with sweat, vomiting, clenching my arm so tight that I’m still bruised….repeating “Mommy, I’m dying. I’m going to die.”

During the days after the attack, Craig and I came to believe that our baby’s anxiety is due to my deteriorating health. I’ve been sick for a month straight now . . . in bed by 8:30 every night and weak all day. The kids are noticing, and they’re afraid. The whole family is, but it took the ingenuity and courage of our little one’s body to make us all face our fears.

So one night last week, Craig and I sat down to talk. To really talk.

I will just tell you that we removed that “love barrier” I wrote about before and we finally told each other the truth.The whole truth, the broken and confused and resentful and lost truth. As we spoke honestly, without holding back, we came to know things that we’d each been avoiding knowing. We admitted that I was really sick. And that my illness was putting some stress on our marriage.

But we also admitted that my illness wasn’t the real problem between us at all. My illness was just making our real problems harder to avoid seeing.

We have come to believe that our real problems are that we’re not taking care of each other in the most important ways. We each have needs that the other isn’t meeting, that the other doesn’t even know about. Our problem is that we are not best friends. We want to be, but we lack the skills to reach each other. We are so different. Craig survives by skating gracefully on the surface of life and I live at heights and depths that he can’t see and doesn’t know how to reach. I do not skate. I crash and fly. So, the Truth of the matter is that within our marriage, we are each lonely. I am high and low and he’s in the middle and we can’t hear each other, we’re so far apart. We admitted this to each other. We said it out loud.

We admitted that we are good at taking care of our children, we are good at taking care of the world- but we are not great, yet, at taking care of each other’s hearts.

We admitted that we needed help.

Because we also agreed that we love each other so crazy much. We will die trying to take better care of each other. There are no other priorities for us. We will find a way to trust each other with our real selves, to become best friends.

So I called a Monkee whom I love and respect and is a therapist and I said, “Help me, please.” She drove from another state and met me at a coffee shop and let me talk for three hours. Of course she did, because We Belong To Each Other. She helped me find therapists for my littles, to help them deal with having a sick mama, and for Craig and me, to help us learn how to become best friends. That’s what we want. We want to learn how to know each other, inside and out.

We start therapy soon. We are afraid and excited. We have felt something shift between us already. We are on the verge of something new.

It’s kind of like we are deciding, once again, to marry each other. And by choice, this time. I mean, I’m not even pregnant. Craig must be wild about me, to start over like this. To want so badly to be my best friend. And he’s my favorite thing on God’s Green Earth.

Anyway, wish us luck.

Also, My Favorite Monkees:

Love You,

P.S. Thanks again, Lyme.

Anna

2011-09-13T12:44:00.012-04:00

I know that you are worried and that you want to know. But I won’t discuss Jack, Anna’s baby, here. His life and his death are Anna’s stories to tell.

I can only tell you my story- what I saw with my own eyes yesterday.

I went to Jack’s memorial service. It was as brutal and beautiful as you might imagine, times infinity.

There were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of guests there. The pastor said that in his thirty year career, he’d never seen the sanctuary so full. Most of the guests - children, adults, teens, elderly- wore teeny Lego cross pins.

And in the middle of the service, we witnessed a miracle.

Anna, Jack’s mother, stood in front of the masses of mourners and delivered a flawless, tearless, divinely inspired tribute to Jack and to the power of faith. I have never seen anything braver or more exceptional in my life.

Please, don’t respond by saying - “Oh my God. I could never do that.”

Because what Anna taught me yesterday is that a mother can do the impossible for her child.

Maybe you could do what Anna did yesterday. Because Anna is just a woman who decided that she would not stop mothering Jack, she would not stop honoring her son just because he left the Earth. And so trusting God to help her, she stood and spoke with power and love and her voice did not quiver, not once. And she honored her boy and proved true his belief that With God, Nothing Is Impossible.

She proved that scripture, her son’s life verse, to be true - in front of hundreds of grieving people. Many of whom, like me, had been experiencing a crisis of faith since hearing the news. Many of whom, like me, had spent some time shaking fists at God and then doubting His very existence. Many of whom, like me, walked into that memorial with less faith than they’d ever had in their lives and walked out full to bursting.

As I watched her, in utter disbelief, I thought-

Anna is a Mother. With a capital M. I am witnessing the essence, the transcendent power of motherhood. It seems, somehow, that Jack’s death did not rob Anna of her role as his mother, but intensified it. Capitalized it.

Anna Mothered all of us yesterday. She comforted us, she strengthened our faith, she ministered to us in her darkest hour. I don’t think she set out to do that. I think she just refused to quit mothering her boy. I think she just wanted to do justice to her son. He was her miracle and so she honored him by performing a miracle of her own. I will never forget it as long as I live. I will never forget her regal posture, her visible resolve, the mixture of tenderness and toughness in her face. Anna, standing on that stage, will forevermore be my mental image of “Mother.”

I have been praying for Anna and her family in a million different ways since I heard the tragic news about precious Jack. And I am still praying. But my prayers have changed since I saw Anna speak yesterday.

Now my prayers sound less like “Help them.” And more like “Help them. And please help me find the strength and faith that they have. Help me Mother like Anna does. Help me believe like she does. Help my son learn what her son knew. Help my daughters trust God like Anna’s daughter does.”

It’s like, this tragedy had me so afraid. So very, very afraid. I was having so many selfish feelings - if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone. It could happen to me, to my son. Terror. How would I survive being separated from my only son?

Anna taught me yesterday to quit being afraid, because nothing can separate us from our children. Not even death. I don’t understand it, I’m just telling you that Anna proved it.

I know that Anna will hate this, but I have to say it anyway.

All of my other heroes have been bumped down a notch or seven. Anna is at the top of my hero list, now, and forever.

Her name is Written In Blue.

Anna.

If you'd like to leave words for Anna...please head to her blog.

For Jen, Who Misses Her Daddy

2011-09-11T13:43:00.013-04:00

My church created a memory wall this morning.

It was brutiful.

May God help us love each other.

Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down his life for his friend. – John 15:13

Nine

2011-09-07T15:15:00.004-04:00

For I tell you this: At the critical junction in all relationships, there is only one question. What would love do now? - Neale Donald Walsh

Tomorrow is our anniversary. Nine years – Craig and I have been married for nine years. Craig always says - God, it feels like so much longer, but he means it sweetly.

Some of your most frequently asked questions are about my marriage. I get oodles of email about Craig, about how good we are together, about how supportive he is of my wild self, about how lucky we are . . . and the word perfect gets thrown in there every once in awhile. You know I shudder at that word. Scary, icky, meaningless word.

Craig and I are good together. We are lucky. And Craig is ludicrously supportive. Also, let us get it out of the way . . . yes - he is quite hot as well. I personally believe that God made Craig extremely hot so he would not take it personally that his wife is constantly too tired to make out. So that he can look in the mirror and say to his chiseled self, “Clearly- her issue. Everybody else wants to make out with me.” I really do imagine him talking to himself like this in the bathroom after I’ve passed out cold. I’m grateful God thought through this hotness plan. Helps us both out tremendously.

Since I’m always talking about looooove - You will probably be surprised to learn that I am not at all romantic. I don’t even understand what romance is, really. . . the closest definition I can muster up is thoughtful. I am incredibly practical about love. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I believe in “wanna make-out” at first sight, but that’s certainly different than love. I just think that Love is something you do, something you choose . . . I don’t believe in love as magical sensation that comes and goes like the tides.

I definitely, definitely agree with Toni Morrison when she wrote that… physical beauty and romantic love are the two most dangerous ideas introduced by man.

I know, so sorry. Seems kinda harsh. But I do, I believe that to be true.

I don’t believe that God makes one person for each person. I don’t believe in a predestined soul mate for each soul.

I don’t believe that love is Victoria’s Secret and fluffy and stiletto and rosy and soft and destiny and new and steamy and ooooh and aaaaah.

I actually believe that love is hard as nails. I believe that love is strong and calloused and exhausted and ugly and painful sometimes. I believe that love is broken and old and shattered and stand up one more time and one more load of laundry and bite that tongue till it bleeds and

I.Will.Not.Take.That.Personally.

I don’t believe in movie romance. I think it's fun to watch, but I also think it screws us into believing that love should be easy and pretty and invigorating and so if it’s getting hard and ugly and exhausting, then it must not be love - so we should probably try something else. Someone else. But that’s sort of silly. We don’t think that way about other things. We don’t say to ourselves . . . “Man - this workout is hard so it must not be working!” No, we assume that if it’s hard, it is working. But not so much with love.

Important Disclaimer - Sometimes you just marry a douche bag. It happens. In which case Love tells you to hightail it outta there and then Love teaches you that after a short (long ) bit of hell, you are sassier and more beautiful and stronger and more helpful to the universe than you ever would have been if said douche bag never would have entered your life at all. In this case, Love Wins Still. Ha. You will know if your love is good hard or bad hard. We all know. We pretend we don’t but we do.

My marriage is a holy training ground to me. And Craig is training WITH me. Alongside me. We’ve got the same coach, and our coach is God. (You may substitute Love for God, if you so desire. God must think that substitution is just fine since He, Himself, insists that HE IS LOVE.) Out there, on the training ground called marriage, my job is to allow myself to be healed and transformed into a more loving being. To show up and do the drills and take the hits that this healing and transformation require of me. And that’s Craig’s job too. That’s what we’re here for. That’s why we got married. So we keep showing up. On the same field. Every day. Every freaking day.

But it would be ridiculous to think that Craig is responsible for healing me, for transforming me. Jeez, He’s working as hard as I am on his own self, his eyes aren’t even ON me most of the time. Our eyes are on our Coach. Craig’s taking the hits too, he’s exhausted, too. So we try to encourage each other. When I’m down, he offers a hand and helps me get my footing back. When he’s hurt, I help him to the side line for rest. We refuse to let each other give up.

Sometimes I feel like Craig and I are less committed to each other, personally, and more committed to Love. To the process. To the transformation. We are using each other, really. In the best possible way. As practicing partners. Teammates.

I can almost feel this dynamic when we argue. Neither of us responds, exactly, to what the other is saying. Because we are both idiots, especially when we are mad. So before responding, we each ask Love what the hell we should say next, and then we say whatever Love prompts us to say, because Love can be trusted, while angry, blinded humans cannot. Love always sees clearly.

And so it’s like there is always a buffer between the two of us, and that buffer is Love. It’s why we have a beautiful marriage. We do. But we are not soul mates. Jesus, no. We’re two ordinary foolish broken human beings training hard alongside each other, with our eyes on our couch. I mean coach. Coach. And that’s why our marriage works. We also, as a matter of fact, have our eyes on the couch. Ohhh, sweet couch. God, I love my couch.

Anyway –

That’s why Craig supports me in all my hair brained schemes. Because Love would. That’s why I write so highly of him all the time. Because Love would. That’s why he takes the kids away so I can write, even though I don’t make a dime from it for the family, because Love would. That's why we are patient with each other. Because Love insists.

We are in love with Love. So we consult her constantly. And we choose our words and make our decisions based on her advice and feelings. Not ours. God no, not ours.

We are careful with each other. Maybe that’s romance. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Craig and I have canyons between us sometimes. Love has, and will continue to be, the bridge that allows us to reach each other. She is our coach. We are the team.

Happy Anniversary, babe.

XOXO

Nine

2011-09-07T14:59:00.006-04:00

For I tell you this: At the critical junction in all relationships, there is only one question. What would love do now? - Neale Donald Walsh

Tomorrow is our anniversary. Nine years – Craig and I have been married for nine years. Craig always says - God, it feels like so much longer, but he means it sweetly.

Craig and I are good together. We are lucky. And Craig is ludicrously supportive. Also, let us get it out of the way . . . yes - he is quite hot as well. I personally believe that God made Craig extremely hot so he would not take it personally that his wife is constantly too tired to make out. So that he can look in the mirror and say to his chiseled self, “Clearly- her issue. Everybody else wants to make out with me.” I really do imagine him talking to himself like this in the bathroom after I’ve passed out cold. I’m grateful God thought through this hotness plan. Helps us both out tremendously.

I definitely, definitely agree with Toni Morrison when she wrote that… physical beauty and romantic love are the two most dangerous ideas introduced by man.

I know, so sorry. Seems kinda harsh. But I do, I believe that to be true.

I don’t believe that God makes one person for each person. I don’t believe in a predestined soul mate for each soul.

I don’t believe that love is Victoria’s Secret and fluffy and stiletto and rosy and soft and destiny and new and steamy and ooooh and aaaaah.

I.Will.Not.Take.That.Personally.

I don’t believe in movie romance. I think it's fun to watch, but I also think it screws us into believing that love should be easy and pretty and invigorating and so if it’s getting hard and ugly and exhausting, then it must not be love - so we should probably try something else. Someone else. But that’s sort of silly. We don’t think that way about other thing. We don’t say to ourselves . . . “Man - this workout is hard so it must not be working!” No, we assume that if it’s hard, it is working. But not so much with love.

Anyway –

That’s why Craig supports me in all my hair brained schemes. Because Love would. That’s why I write so highly of him all the time. Because Love would. That’s why he takes the kids away so I that can write, even though I don’t make a dime from it for the family, because Love would. That's why we are patient with each other. Because Love insists.

We are in love with Love. So we consult her constantly. And we choose our words and make our decisions based on her advice and feelings. Not ours. God no, not ours.

We are careful with each other. Maybe that’s romance. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Craig and I have canyons between us sometimes. Love has, and will continue to be, the bridge that allows us to reach each other. She is our coach. We are the team.

Happy Anniversary, babe.

XOXO

For the Teachers, Who Have The World In Their Hands

2011-09-06T09:27:00.004-04:00

This is for all my friends who TEACH.

THANK YOU for your world changing work.

God Bless You This School Year.

Love, G and all the Monkees.

P.S. Ummm...don't watch this one in front of your kiddos.

You May Say That I'm a Dreamer...

2011-09-06T08:08:00.006-04:00

But I'm Not The Only One....

Love, G

PS. Immanuel = God With Us

Compassion

2011-09-04T10:48:00.006-04:00

compassion is this. your pain- it rushes into my heart, it swirls around and transforms, magically, into love. only then do i offer it back to you.

I’m sick this morning, and so I'm home alone while the rest of the family is off at church.

Although an empty house is usually my favorite thing, this morning I was feeling sad, worried, and a little lonely.

But.

Had I not been home alone this morning, I’d never have been cruising the internet for goodness, and I never would have heard this woman speak.

Church is everywhere. Thanks for the blessing today, Lyme.

Love, G

“There are enemies of compassion. They are pity, moral outrage, and fear.”

YES

2011-09-03T08:47:00.010-04:00

I just finished this book, which was a disappointment at first. Since the subtitle is The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, I thought it was going to teach me how to get things done without actually doing them. You can imagine my excitement at this prospect, since having to do things is one of my major beefs with life. I dreamt there might be chapters like Vacuuming without Vacuuming, Feeding Children without Feeding Children, Remembering Stuff Without Remembering Stuff, things such as this. But, no. It’s mostly about the effect our unconscious has on our judgments and reactions and decisions, which is actually quite fascinating. Today I’d like to discuss a particular section of the book that’s been swirling around in my head for days.

There is a chapter in the book about improvisational theater. You know, when actors get up on a stage with no script and feed off one another to create a scene and a story on the spur of the moment. My friend Joanna spent years on an improv team in California, and the mere thought of what she did every night in front of hundreds of people terrifies me. I’ve always wondered . . . how do they do that? How do they not pee in their pants every night from fear? How do they make it look so effortless, so natural? How are the actors so confident that all will go well when they have NO idea what's going to happen next?

Here’s what the book had to say about how they do that:

“One of the most important of the rules that makes improv possible is the idea of agreement, the notion that a very simple way to create a story – or humor- is to have characters accept everything that happens to them….If you’ll stop reading for a moment and think of something you wouldn’t want to have happen to you, or to someone you love, then you’ll have thought of something worth staging or filming….Most of us are very skilled at suppressing action. All the improvisation teacher has to do is to reverse this skill and he creates a very “gifted” improviser.”

And so, of course, I started thinking about how Shakespeare said “all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” And how, if this is true, then we’re all improvers . . . because certainly nobody’s handed a script each morning. We never have any clue what the hell is about to happen to us.

And then I thought about how the author said that we are “skilled at suppressing action.”That seems true . . . we are so afraid of action entering our lives…..we don’t want it, we resist it, we reject it. But action, or conflict, is exactly what makes a story or life interesting, worth living, worth telling. Conflict in a story or a life is what changes the person living through it. Conflict is what turns someone into a deeper, better, wholer, person. And that change is what life’s supposed to be about. We are each presented with different conflicts, but the purpose of each of our conflicts is the same . . . change. No conflict, no change.

What hero do you have that wasn’t presented a curve ball by her improv partner – Life - and allowed it to change her for the better?

And that got me thinking about how most of my pain and anger and confusion result from resisting life’s suggestions. Not necessarily from what happens to me, but from my refusal to accept what happens to me. My discomfort stems from the way I hang on white knuckled to what I expected to happen, or to the way things used to be. This resistance is draining, fruitless, wasteful, damaging even . . . like an actor having a temper tantrum on stage because he wanted his partner to take the scene somewhere different. This resistance takes me out of the moment. It cuts off energy, ruins the scene, the whole vibe. And it blockades the road that I was supposed to walk down. The road that was built to change me for the better.

The rule in improv is to accept your partner’s suggestion. You must say yes and respond. Adapt. Allow your ideas and expectations to be fluid. Allow what happens to change the scene and change your character. Improv is about change.

So I thought . . . if life is like improv, would a good rule be to accept life’s suggestions, to say yes and respond? To allow my ideas and expectation about my life to remain fluid? To allow what happens to me to change my life and my heart? Because isn’t life about change, too? Isn’t life about allowing conflict to change me into who I was meant to be?

And then I started thinking about what would happen if I started saying yes, yes, yes to my Lyme instead of hating it, instead of being so pissed off at it and resisting it and waging war against it. It’s not really my personality to wage war, so my Lyme war takes a lot out of me. I wondered if there might be a different approach.

And that got me thinking about how Lyme has changed me.

I don’t think I really knew how to take care of myself before I got Lyme.

A Monkee emailed me recently about how she felt so drained by other people and responsibilities, about feeling like a doormat, about being sucked dry by others and finding no time for herself. And while I read and sympathized and remembered having those feelings in the past, I realized with surprise that I hadn’t experienced those feelings for months.

I haven’t done a single thing I haven’t truly wanted to do for about a year now. I haven’t given away my time or energy to anyone but the people I love. I have done nothing but learn how to nourish my body with good food, nourish my mind with books, nourish my soul with prayer and quiet, care for my family, seek out time with life giving friends, and follow my little dreams. With whatever energy I have left over, I’ve cared for my home and I’ve written. That’s it. When I think about it, it’s actually sort of a wonderful way of life, managing a disease.

Since disease has forced me to slow down and pay attention to myself . . . I am in touch with what I need all the time. I say no thank you to things I don’t want to do and to things I do want to do all the time, and Lyme gives me the excuse not to have an excuse. And I seem to worry a whole lot less about disappointing other people, and what they will think of me when I inevitably do. This makes me wonder if Lyme is changing my character, because I used to worry about that more. I’m fairly certain that worrying about what others think of you stems from pride . . . so maybe my Lyme has tamed my ferocious pride. Nothing else has been able to do that, ever.

Maybe my limited health and energy is a gift, too. You know, when people win the lottery, they always think their lives will be better but often they end up blowing all their gobs of money and losing friends and finding themselves miserable. It’s like God gives us these resources, money and energy and health, but maybe when we have too much of something, it loses its meaning and we get lost in it. We end up giving it all away because it’s not precious to us anymore, and we’re left with nothing. But when our resources are limited, like my energy and health are, we watch how we spend it. We notice it and enjoy it when we have it. We’re grateful for it and we make good decisions about who we give it away to. We quit being wasteful. We make more out of less.

And then I think about the Big Curveballs that have made me who I am – bulimia and addiction. These are diseases that left me healthier and wholer in the end. I’ll go farther, they gave my life meaning. They brought me closer to my faith and my family and my real self. They turned me into a writer. They led me to my vocation. Jesus, they saved me.

There was a price to pay for my addictions and there’s a price to pay for my Lyme. My family pays through the nose, sometimes. Even so, as I‘m writing this I’m thinking that I’d choose them all again. I like who these curveballs are turning me into. I like the change I see in myself.

There have certainly been times in my life when I’ve felt better, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been better.

So. Today I say yes, yes, yes, Lyme. I’m not going to fight with you anymore.

All the world is a stage and my improv partner, Life, has suggested Lyme. So I’ll roll with this. I will listen carefully to you, Lyme, and when you suggest rest I’ll rest and I will learn to care of myself through you and that will, in turn, help me learn how to care for others better.

Through conflict, Life teaches us each differently the same lesson: “Love others as you love yourself.” Implied is that first we love ourselves wildly and carefully and fully too, and Lyme, you are teaching me how. You are a teacher.

*Wait, what’s that, Lyme? What’s that you say? You want us to quit saving for college this year and hire a babysitter several hours a week so I can rest??? Really, Lyme? Okay. Yes. Whatever you say. Yes. Yes. Yes. I say Yes, Sweet Lyme.

Thank you, Lyme. Thank you, God, for my Lyme.

Let me accept it and learn from it and allow it to change me.

Gifts are Bridges

2011-08-31T10:41:00.025-04:00

Here we go. Day two.

This year my little people are in school- so I have two hours, three days per week to write.

I’m approaching the blog a little differently this year.

I have never considered myself to be a blogger. I have considered myself to be a noticer and thinker and peace maker and serious writer (jeez) who happens to be practice her serious writing voice in blog format. And so it has seemed reasonable to me that at any moment, I might scootch on over from blogger to Nobel or Pulitzer Prize Winner. Which means that I often agonize over wording as if each essay is being published in a book. And there is something to be said for this sort of attention to detail. But it’s also tiring, and it gets in my way sometimes. It makes me nervous and stifles my voice. Perfectionism is just really, really bad, I think. It keeps us from doing what we need to do and being who we need to be.

So a few weeks ago, I thought . . . you know what? Maybe I AM a blogger. Maybe I’ll be a blogger forever. This format seems to be helping others more than a book might. Our communication is more real, more immediate, more raw, maybe even more genuine and helpful here than it would be if we spent a year on the editing floor before we reached each other. So…I have decided that I’m going to relax and be what I am. Which means that three mornings per week, I am going to sit down and write about what’s on my mind, no matter how random it is. And then after an hour and a half, I am going to hit publish, no matter how imperfect the essay is.

I love this plan. It’s relaxing.

Also, sometimes I actually won’t show up because any sort of long term commitment makes me shake and sweat. So if there’s no essay at all, don’t be mad. Like Bart Simpson says, I can’t promise to try…but I’ll try to try. That’s the best I can do.

Kay, here’s what I’m thinking about today: Gifts.

I think God gives us each a gift or two so that we have something special to offer to others. But sometimes we make the mistake of assuming that the things we’re good at are common to everyone. We don’t recognize that our gifts are unique and therefore worth offering. For example, I am a good writer and a good listener. Pretty darn good at both. Like, when my friends think of me, they think, “Glennon - she’s a good writer and a good listener.” But I never really KNEW these skills were unique 'till a few years ago.

Once I was in my dear friend Michelle’s kitchen, and we were talking about an upcoming party. I said: “You know, Michelle, parties just stress me out because everyone brings delicious fancy dishes to share and I don’t really even own any dishes to put a dish on even if I wanted to make a dish. Which I don’t, by the way. So sometimes I avoid gatherings just because I’m too annoyed about all the dish bringing. I mean, even stopping at the store for a bag of chips seems overwhelming to me. I don’t know why. Sometimes I think I need to add a sign to place underneath my “I CAN DO HARD THINGS” sign that says “BUT I CANNOT DO EASY THINGS.”

And Michelle said, “Yeah. Maybe you don’t bring amazing dishes. But you know what you do bring? You have a way of making me feel important when we talk. You really listen to me. That’s why I like having you at our parties. You are a great listener.”

And I thought….hmmmm.

Now, when people invite me to things and they ask what I’ll bring, I say: “I WILL BRING MY AMAZING LISTENING EARS.” If they love me, this will be fine with them. They’ll understand. If it is not fine with them, they will stop inviting me to things. Win/win.

Another one of my gifts is writing. This is the one I want to talk about today.

Here is one of my dearest, best friends on Earth, Dana.

Dana lost her daddy a couple of weeks ago. It was shocking and horrific and awful and it still is. Dana is a daddy’s girl through and through. And she honored her father and their relationship by writing and delivering the eulogy at his memorial service. Can you imagine? A week after she lost him, she stood up in front of hundreds of his friends and her entire family and spoke eloquently of his greatness and their loss. It was one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen. Certainly one of the bravest. Heroic, really.

A couple of nights before the memorial, Dana asked me to take a look at the eulogy she’d written and revise it for her. It’s a good thing she did, because after reading it several times with a very critical eye, I had to tell her that in my expert writing opinion, she should consider changing the “but” in the third paragraph to an “and.” True story. Dana didn’t really need me at all. But she thought of me because she knows I’m a writer. And since I’m a writer, I got invited into one of the most important moments in her family’s life. It was such an honor. I just can’t tell you what an honor it was, to read that love letter to her daddy. To read it first. To feel, at the memorial, like I was up there on the altar with her.

That got me thinking about all the other ways that writing has served as an invitation into my friend’s important moments.

My Christy invited me to help write a toast to her mother and father for her wedding day.

My Joey and her Brock invited me to help write their wedding vows to each other. Those were pretty damn good vows, if I do say so myself.

And I’ve written and delivered many, many toasts for people I love.

Writing, it turns out, has been my ticket into other’s lives.

And this got me thinking about my friend Kim, who is beautiful and has a gift for making other people beautiful, too. She has done the make-up and hair of all our friends on their wedding days. And so on Sister’s wedding day, we thought of Kim and invited her to help us get ready. Since Kim accepted our invitation and offered her gift to help us, she will always be in our memories of one of the most important days of my family’s life.

And my friend Gena - she has a gift for hostessing.

Gena doesn’t just use her beautiful home to hostess, she uses her whole heart. She throws opens her doors and invites people to step inside and celebrate life. Her gift is celebration, creating an atmosphere in her home and presence in which her friends feel loved and honored. She has hosted each of my last four birthday parties.

She hosts a huge Christmas party every year for all of us. She hosts everything. It doesn't stress her out, she loves it. It's her gift. Welcoming people. And because she offers it to me, Gena’s face will be front and center in our family’s celebration memories forever and ever. There are many, many bridges between us.

And then there’s Sister’s best friend, Allison. Allison is an artist, and her medium is the camera. She feels at home behind the camera, and God has given her the gift of noticing the important moments and capturing them. Like a writer, actually. And so her friends and family invite her into their important days to help them grab the magical parts and keep them forever. And so Allison becomes a part of those days, those memories, forever. She’s all tangled up in there. It's funny, Allison is quiet at events - she's more of an "ahh, there you are" person than a "HEY! Here I am!" person. But when you look at her pictures, you realize that she was actually there-er than anyone else. She soaked up every meaningful moment.

And so, anyway. I was just thinking that God must really want us to connect with each other. He must want us to become a part of each other’s lives and memories, and he must want our hearts to get all tangled up with other hearts. So He gives us each gifts to use as bridges into each other’s lives. We lay out our gift, and we walk right over it and straight into another heart.

What is your gift, your bridge towards other's hearts? What thing do you do that helps you get tangled up with other people? If you don't know, ask a friend. It's important to know, I think.

Love You.

Sacraments

2011-08-30T10:22:00.027-04:00

They’re gone.

All three kids are at school.

I have an hour and a half to sit in a quiet house and write to you. There are other things I might be doing instead. My house is a mess. There is clutter everywhere and unfinished paperwork and grocery shopping and well, you know. I’m ignoring it. That stuff will get done, eventually. But if I don’t sit down and focus, what I had to say today will be gone forever.

A little story for you.

Last week I woke up confused and sad and sick.

I have Lyme disease and sometimes it leaves me alone and I’m fine and other times it just clobbers me. I’m on forty two million pills each week (312 to be exact), so sometimes I can’t tell if it’s the pills or the disease that’s making me feel sick.

Ahh . . . the good old days, when taking drugs was such great fun. Not so much anymore. I love Jesus, but sometimes I believe in Karma a little, too.

Here are my pills.

Lots of those are supplements that are supposed to boost my immune system and help me fight the Lyme . . . I take things like BEE POLLEN and KELP and I eat things like Spirulina Cashew bars for lunch and kale smoothies for breakfast. I exercise several times a week and then sit in the sauna till I can’t take it anymore and then I scrub my skin with loofahs afterwards. All of this is supposed to release Lymie toxins from my skin. It’s all sort of insane. I have got to be the healthiest chronically unhealthy girl on Earth. Jesus, Spirulina?? These sorts of words are second nature to me now . . . a year ago Baked Cheetos were my healthiest choice. Life and Lyme are strange.

Anyway, this one particular day last week, I woke up feeling Lymie and stressed and confused about the adoption. We still have hope, there is hope, and this hope keeps us on edge. But still....nothing keeps happening. Nothing, nothing, and then additionally a little more of nothing for good measure. And so we hold out hope with no real reason to, other than our belief that hope is good. And so I was feeling both overwhelmed and underwhelmed by life.

I walked down the stairs to start the laundry and saw this on my doorstep. I have glass doors, so this gal was peering into my foyer, waiting to be noticed.

Just sitting there.

And I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Amma ran up behind me and yelled “WHAT ON THE HECK?” That’s her new thing.

I stepped outside and found Kristi in the bushes. Back story. Thank you, Bloggess.

I have tried to explain what Beyonce means to me to several people and I can’t seem get it out right. I’ll try again.

Last week at church my minister was serving communion and he held up the bread and explained to us that communion is a sacrament. He said that a sacrament is something visible, that points to something invisible. A sacrament is an earthly reality we create to point to a spiritual reality. It's something we create, a symbol, that we can look at and touch to help us remember what we believe. Like a wedding ring. Because things we believe are usually invisible, making them trickier to keep believing in. We need to use our senses to help us keep believing. Humans need to see things, to touch things, to understand ideas.

And so that's when I realized . . . Beyonce is a sacrament.

Stay with me here.

My friend Kristi, who I only met through Momastery, is deeply touched by my writing and yours. This community has gotten to her. She has always believed, deep down, that Love Wins, and that women should take care of each other, and that courage and kindness are what matter . . . but she’s never seen it proven right in front of her like she has here. She is inspired by us and our commitment to goodness and laughter. We help her believe, so she wanted to say thank you in a big way.

And one day she was driving down an old country road and she saw this rooster just sitting there. And she just knew. So she stopped her car and she said, Hey, how much for this chicken? This five foot, jagged edged, one eyed, rainbow rooster? And the lady told her, and she paid the lady. A lot, I think. Then she went to her house and made one of her amazing signs. And she turned the sign into a necklace and drove Beyonce and the sign to my house. Then she pulled Beyonce out of her truck by herself, risking Tetanus and all sorts of other diseases (because Beyonce will CUT YOU!) and she lugged her to my porch. And then she knocked, hid in the bushes and waited.

Kristi is a busy woman. She doesn’t really have time for a wild rooster chase. But it turns out she did have time, actually.

So now, every time I look at Beyonce . . . I think of how people will do crazy things for love. And how even though life is hard and there seems to be lots of nonsensical pain . . . there’s also plenty of nonsensical joy. She also reminds me to follow my God voice…because the God voice is what led me to start this blog . . . and good things have come of it. She reminds me that God uses my writing to move people and to help them laugh and forget some of the urgent things in their lives long enough to remember the important things. Like making each other smile.

I love Beyonce. She makes me smile.

Even so, she is a huge rainbow metal chicken. And we live in a fancy neighborhood in which yard art is not encouraged. So everyday Craig and I wait for our letter from the HOA suggesting that we “KINDLY REMOVE THE METAL ROOSTER FROM THE PORCH.”

But don’t worry. I’ve already prepared my defense. I will argue that Beyonce is an expression of my religious freedom. She is a SACRAMENT. She is a visible reminder of something invisible…of love, hope, joy, friendship. Removing her would be AGAINST my RELIGION. Beyonce and I'll see ya at the Supreme Court, HOA.

For fun, I went through my house to show you the other sacraments I keep around, to remember what I believe.

I believe these three things.

I believe I have four children.

I believe my fourth is a baby boy. And that he’s in Africa.

I believe in Jesus. Crazy about the guy. Totally worship him.

I believe in Sisterhood. All kinds.

I believe in prayer as an act of love. I believe most everything is a prayer.

This sacrament is my favorite.

It's a monkee painted on a rock. My mama made it for me last month. I rub it every time I get scared about the adoption or about my Lyme. So, all day. It says to me, your mom believes in you and loves you. Even when you do these crazy things, she believes in you. Even when she doesn’t understand what you’re doing, she believes that you do.

I love you guys. I’ll make you a Monkee rock if you need a reminder that you’re loved. I’m going to ask my mom to teach me.

My time’s up.

Love, G

Oh, one more thing. Great news on the VMAs Sunday nite.

Beyonce, With Child.

Yay.

Destiny's Children

2011-08-29T09:13:00.002-04:00

Chase, Tish, Amma, and Beyonce on their First Day of School.

BYE, BABIES.

JOY TO THE WORLD.

xoxoxo,

Dear Chase

2011-08-28T08:17:00.010-04:00

Hey Baby.

Tomorrow is a big day. Third Grade – wow.

Chase - When I was in third grade, there was a little boy in my class named Adam.

Adam looked a little different and he wore funny clothes and sometimes he even smelled a little bit. Adam didn’t smile. He hung his head low and he never looked at anyone at all. Adam never did his homework. I don’t think his parents reminded him like yours do. The other kids teased Adam a lot. Whenever they did, his head hung lower and lower and lower. I never teased him, but I never told the other kids to stop, either.

And I never talked to Adam, not once. I never invited him to sit next to me at lunch, or to play with me at recess. Instead, he sat and played by himself. He must have been very lonely.

I still think about Adam every day. I wonder if Adam remembers me? Probably not. I bet if I’d asked him to play, just once, he’d still remember me.

I think that God puts people in our lives as gifts to us. The children in your class this year, they are some of God’s gifts to you.

So please treat each one like a gift from God. Every single one.

Baby, if you see a child being left out, or hurt, or teased, a little part of your heart will hurt a little. Your daddy and I want you to trust that heart- ache. Your whole life, we want you to notice and trust your heart-ache. That heart ache is called compassion, and it is God’s signal to you to do something. It is God saying, Chase! Wake up! One of my babies is hurting! Do something to help! Whenever you feel compassion – be thrilled! It means God is speaking to you, and that is magic. It means He trusts you and needs you.

Sometimes the magic of compassion will make you step into the middle of a bad situation right away.

Compassion might lead you to tell a teaser to stop it and then ask the teased kid to play. You might invite a left-out kid to sit next to you at lunch. You might choose a kid for your team first who usually gets chosen last. These things will be hard to do, but you can do hard things.

Sometimes you will feel compassion but you won’t step in right away. That’s okay, too. You might choose instead to tell your teacher and then tell us. We are on your team – we are on your whole class’ team. Asking for help for someone who is hurting is not tattling, it is doing the right thing. If someone in your class needs help, please tell me, baby. We will make a plan to help together.

When God speaks to you by making your heart hurt for another, by giving you compassion, just do something. Please do not ignore God whispering to you. I so wish I had not ignored God when He spoke to me about Adam. I remember Him trying, I remember feeling compassion, but I chose fear over compassion. I wish I hadn’t. Adam could have used a friend and I could have, too.

Chase - We do not care if you are the smartest or fastest or coolest or funniest. There will be lots of contests at school, and we don’t care if you win a single one of them. We don’t care if you get straight As. We don’t care if the girls think you’re cute or whether you’re picked first or last for kickball at recess. We don’t care if you are your teacher’s favorite or not. We don’t care if you have the best clothes or most Pokemon cards or coolest gadgets. We just don’t care.

We don’t send you to school to become the best at anything at all. We already love you as much as we possibly could. You do not have to earn our love or pride and you can’t lose it. That’s done.

We send you to school to practice being brave and kind.

Kind people are brave people. Because brave is not a feeling that you should wait for. It is a decision. It is a decision that compassion is more important than fear, than fitting in, than following the crowd.

Trust me, baby, it is. It is more important.

Don’t try to be the best this year, honey.

Just be grateful and kind and brave. That’s all you ever need to be.

Take care of those classmates of yours, and your teacher, too. You Belong to Each Other. You are one lucky boy . . . with all of these new gifts to unwrap this year.

I love you so much that my heart might explode.

Enjoy and cherish your gifts.

And thank you for being my favorite gift of all time.

Love, Mama

Better?

2011-08-27T10:47:00.005-04:00

Here’s another one that sort of poured out- I’m not editing – my deepest apologies to my grammar and spelling experts.

I wish you guys could experience how scary and exciting this completely blank page feels to me each time I sit down to write. This empty, white page waiting for me to fill it up with something good – the black cursor hounding me with its relentless pulsing.

Oh blank page, hello. We meet again. You scare me, but I love you.

It’s appropriate that scared and sacred are virtually the same word. Those two often walk hand in hand towards me.

Here’s our Momastery FAQ for the day: I get lots of variations, but let’s use this one:

“G- I’ve seen some of your pictures on Facebook and you look really skinny. Makes me wonder. Are you sure you’re “better”?”

AHH.

We addicts, we refer to ourselves as recovering, never as recovered. Because recovery is a process, sort of like trying to be a person of faith or a decent parent or a loving spouse or a good friend . . . you’re never done. You gotta start over every single moment. By start over I mean constantly make decisions that carry you out of your hiding place and keep you bravely marching (or crawling) toward the light.

I’ll give you the real, raw skinny (so to speak) about my eating first, so you don’t become afraid that I plan to hide behind phrases like “bravely marching toward the light” throughout this essay. I swear I can hear Bubba gagging on that one all the way from the bay.

Speaking of gagging, I became bulimic when I was in fifth grade, and I binged and purged several times a day until I became pregnant with Chase, at twenty-five. I was never truly overweight, but when I was young I was never skinny either, and most of my friends were. At some point this difference started to make me uncomfortable. Back then I didn’t know that discomfort was an inevitable part of life. I thought the fact that I was uncomfortable meant that something was wrong with me that needed to be fixed. Bulimia seemed like a good plan to fix my wrongness. Anorexia was not an option because I found too much comfort in food. Binging helped me forget my worries, numb myself from anxiety, and best of all - hide from life, relationships, my own dramatic thoughts and everything else scary.

I lived in my little Bulimia World instead of the Real World, and it was a kind of a depressing, gross, unhealthy world but at least I understood it and I made the rules and there weren’t many surprises. In my Bulimia World, I was not vulnerable to other people or even to myself. Nobody was allowed in to my world but me. And really, I wasn’t even allowed in because there was no space for real emotion or thought in my world. The only feelings I allowed myself were, “fat” and “skinny.” And since those aren’t even real feelings, bulimia was a lot like being dead. Dead is safe.

In middle school my bulimia got bad, in high school it became worse, and in college it got ridiculous. My friends knew that I threw up after every meal. They’d wait for me outside the dining hall bathrooms. I constantly avoided the pained looked on my best friend Brookie’s face as I exited the stalls each day. There was a group of us who were known as bulimics, and it was cool . . . it was no problem. At least we were taking care of ourselves was the attitude of the guys I hung with. I don’t remember my college boyfriend, with whom I spent most waking hours, ever saying anything to me about my bulimia at all- other than a few jokes here and there. That ex-boyfriend’s best friend nicknamed me “Smush-Face,” and still calls me “Smushy” to this day. It’s an affectionate term, and I love it. Who doesn’t love a nickname? Makes ya feel loved. But it’s funny because the reason he called me “Smush-Face” was that I had these chipmunk cheeks (think Renee Zellwegger) that are often a dead give-away for bulimia.

I remember this formal announcement being made at a meeting in my sorority house: “Guys, if you’re going to throw up, please remember to flush. It makes us look bad when people come to visit and there’s puke in the stalls.” I also remember passing out twice in the bathroom of my college dining hall and then waking up, walking out, and joining my friends to go party. All of this seemed normal to me. It’s a scary thing- what can become normal.

The point is, I was really bulimic, really sick. And I needed my bulimia. I chose it, everyday. I think it started out as a way to control my weight but turned into a way to control everything. You can’t take away someone’s bulimia without offering something else better to replace it - a better way to control things, a less harmful way to handle life’s discomfort.

But even better - the best thing a bulimic can be offered is the idea that she doesn’t have to control anything at all. That the things she’s so desperately trying to fix don’t have to be fixed, ever.

I don't know how to teach that or learn it- but it feels kind of like when Tish cries because she colored outside the lines in her coloring book and she’s saying tearfully “I messed it all up, mommy” and I tell her- Actually -that’s the way I like it. I can’t stand always staying in the lines. THAT- what you did there- is art.

She’s not sure she believes me yet – but maybe one day.

Until recently, I never had any idea how to just breathe and let life happen. How to say - yes, yes, that’s okay, and that, too- and even that. I never knew how to let things be and trust that I am enough and that everyone else is fine and that I don’t need to be liked or even loved by everyone at all times. That I was always going to feel a little left out, and that's okay. I didn’t know that the moods and actions and words of other people did not have to affect my peace. I didn’t know how to forgive people even before they hurt me because they are doing the best they can. I didn’t know that it wasn’t all about me, anyway.

I just didn't know that everything was okay. That my messiness and my dramatic, worried heart were what made me beautiful. I didn’t know that no one needed me to fit in. And I hadn’t learned that sadness and loneliness and differentness and fear and anger are not problems to be fixed or avoided, but inevitable places humans have to go and stay sometimes to learn and grow. That life is not a science, it’s art. And outside the lines is better.

I think I’m done for the day.

Stay dry and safe and I love you.

"Be Kind, For Everyone You Meet Is Fighting A Battle"

2011-08-25T14:49:00.004-04:00

I know I already posted, like ten minutes ago. But then Christine shared this incredible thing on the Momastery Facebook page, and I couldn’t wait to share it with you all. So wonderful. Just perfect. Thank you, Melody and the Brave Girls.

Love, G

Church

2011-08-25T13:36:00.007-04:00

Most of the questions I get from readers are about my faith, my weight, my addictions, or my marriage.

Today-faith.

My relationship to God is the most important thing in my life. I say to instead of with because I experience my faith journey more like an effort to align myself rightly with Him than to be friends with Him. I don’t get Him enough to try to be friends. I find Him entirely too unpredictable. To be friends with someone, I gotta be able to predict with some confidence what she’s going to do next, so I’m not constantly sweating. God makes me sweat profusely. Guessing God’s next move is like trying to make a casserole…no matter how closely I try to follow directions, I NEVER KNOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT. Scary.

Still, aligning myself correctly to Him is my only real goal down here. My relationship to Him is what sets right all the secondary relationships in my life - my marriage, my friendships, my parenting, my writing. And so I am constantly thinking about God. Truth, you can call it if you’re uncomfortable with the G word. I am always considering - What am I supposed to learn about God, about what is True… from this argument, this seashell, this tragedy, this rainbow, this friend, this enemy, this child, this disease? I believe that everything that enters my life is an invitation further into the heart of God, and if I accept the invitation, and step closer instead of hiding, I learn and grow and my perspective broadens ever so slightly. Things get lighter and clearer.

Drinking and smoking and binging and purging were all my ways of rejecting Life’s Invitations. I still reject them now, through over-shopping and overeating and talking too much and zoning out on the internet and TV, but my rejections are less frequent and less dramatic, and I call that progress.

You know, it’s a tricky thing- writing to a specific and incredibly diverse audience about my particular faith. Especially because I have never, ever, in my whole entire life, met anyone who agrees with my faith ideas. So please, don’t worry- I don’t expect you to, either. It is certainly okay if you think I’m wrong- as a matter of fact, I am certain that I’m wrong. How could any of us be “right” when guessing about God? I agree with whomever said that we have as good a chance of understanding the mind of God as a colony of ants has of understanding the minds of humans. And I’m just an ant, but so is everyone else. Even the most educated gals, even the guys behind the pulpits . . . they’re still ants like me. And I’d rather make my own mistakes about God than someone else’s. So I think and listen and write and pray and read and try, try, try to learn, to receive. And I trust that God can speak to me, and that it’s okay if I write about it.

A minister once wrote to me and said, “Isn’t this privatization of faith that you discuss dangerous? Everyone cannot just believe whatever he wants. What keeps people from deciding then, Jesus is a cantaloupe!”

Well, I guess I believe that things get more dangerous when faith is not privatized. When people are not encouraged to study and listen and think for themselves. It seems to me that things get dangerous when people blindly follow religious leaders. Because leaders can be good or they can be bad. And so I think that we can ask for counsel from educated religious leaders, yes. But as with everything else important in our lives . . . our health, our parenting, we must ultimately be our own leaders when it comes to faith. Because we can each read, we can each pray, we can each think, and we can each sit silently and listen. We cannot count completely on others to have the answer for us, ever. God is speaking to each of us, always. And I don’t necessarily want to know what He’s saying to you, I need to know what He’s saying to me.

And so I told the kind minister that while I respected him and his vocation immensely, I didn’t believe in mediators between God and man. I told him that I do believe in teachers. And I told him that I was a teacher too, and that I considered my most important role to be teaching students how to think for themselves.

And I told him that when I die, I expect to sit down with God to discuss my life. I expect that only She and I will be at that meeting - not She and I and my minister. And so I live that way now, too. It is not a lack of respect, it is just respecting everyone equally, including myself.

*As a side note, since receiving this email I have considered at least twelve ways that Jesus is just like a cantaloupe. But that’s for another day.

In general, my faith revolves around questions rather than answers, and I think that’s okay. I am very wary of people with too many answers about God. Faith is supposed to be a mystery. If anyone tells that you they’ve figured it out, they know all the answers, the rules, the system or equation that will set you right with God, run. If someone makes God small enough to fit inside her head, she’s made Him too small, I think.

Craig and I are considering becoming official members of our neighborhood church. This is a big deal for us, because a few years ago we promised ourselves we wouldn’t choose a denomination. We couldn’t imagine the need for it. Still can’t, really. We considered ourselves religious rolling stones. But we’ve fallen for this little church, and we started wondering if our religious “freedom” wasn’t just another word for nothing left to lose (thank you Janis.) Because we know that any faith worth a damn is a faith worked out over a lifetime of relationships with other people. It’s a commitment to and with other people, is all. Church is just a commitment to try to live a life of a certain quality, a life of love, of humility, of service, alongside others whom you will care for and allow to care for you, even when you are difficult. It’s a group of regular old humans trying to love each other and the world in superhuman ways. And so it’s a hard way of life, but to me, the only way of life that makes any sense. When people ask me if faith, if church, is comforting to me, I say - sort of. But mostly it's challenging.

Anyway -I was afraid to join. Because I don’t want to pretend to believe anything I don’t believe. And I don’t want to pretend not to have doubts. And I don’t want my children to be taught things about God that I’ll have to undo. Before I joined any church, I needed permission from whomever was in charge to be different.

So I invited one of the ministers of the church over to my house.

I was scared.

But we talked for two hours. And I told her my concerns. I told her that I thought I wanted to join her church, but that first, I wanted to make sure she wanted me. I told her that I am a troublemaker.

I told her that I love Jesus madly and deeply, but my problem in church always seems to be that I understand Him differently than many other Christians seem to. And I love these other Christians, and I don’t want to bother or offend them. So I just felt like maybe it was better for me to remain unattached to any particular church than to disrupt a perfectly lovely one. She seemed to understand exactly what I meant by this. She reads the blog sometimes, I think

I went on to admit that I had all kinds of doubts and questions and even negative feelings about the Church’s role throughout history. But I told her I still loved the Church so much, which I thought was weird and interesting. I felt kind of like St. Augustine, who said, “The church is a whore, but she’s my mother.” I told her that if I were to be a member of her church, I would need her permission to speak respectfully but freely and differently at appropriate times. To be myself.

Basically, she said she wanted me. She liked me, I think. She said our church would fit me just fine. She doesn’t mind a troublemaker or two in her fold.

So we’ll see. My biggest fear when entering any church is always…Oh, Jesus. What are they going to teach my babies about God? This worry makes me sweat, too. So guess what I did? I signed up to teach Sunday school. And I’ve already fallen in love with my Sunday School Team. I’m not sure they know I’m a troublemaker yet, though. God help them.

I realize I didn’t get to my faith-y questions and doubts yet, but this is getting long. Next time.

Love you all.

A Place of One's Own

2011-08-24T10:29:00.007-04:00

Next week all three of my beloved kiddos will head back to school, where they belong.

For the first time, I’ll have six hours a week of empty house, and I’ve decided to spend these hours writing. I am thrilled and delighted and committed. I have promised myself that I will let nothing encroach on my writing time. I will not volunteer, I will not clean, I will not shop, I will not visit, I will not facebook, I will not, not, not. I will write, as a gift to myself.

I just finished re-reading Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. She says, “If a woman is going to write, she will have to step on a few toes.” * Yes. Ma’am. I shall step, step, step away. I shall take my time. Just take it, since it belong to me. Love that woman. Love that woman. I so wish she hadn’t killed herself, so she could have told us even more. I'm grateful she gave what she could.

Monkee-ville seems to grow and then rest - grow and then rest. Lately, we’ve been growing like mad. I’m receiving more emails than ever before. I love your emails. They feel like love letters. If I ever stopped writing this blog, the love letters are what I would miss the most.

I love getting to know you by reading your stories. I’ve mostly stopped responding, but I read every single email, and when a Monkee asks for prayer I write her name on a little piece of paper and put it on my bedside table. Honestly, I don’t always remember to say a prayer. But I consider writing the name with love to be a prayer, since my heart always flutters a teeny bit as I write. I believe that flutter to be the triangular connection between God, the Monkee, and me.

Many of the Monkees who write ask me the same questions. . . so I'm going to answer a few FAQs.

During the past month, I’ve received twenty-one of these requests: “G, will you promote my cause on the blog?”

These requests thrill me. The beauty of this blog is that it attracts people who want to spread hope and help and light. And that is a good, good thing. So here is what I’ve decided: I will promote each and every one of your causes on the Momastery Facebook Page. I will link to your project with lots of exclamation points!!!! and thousands of people will read about your cause and celebrate your efforts and those who are particularly touched by it will have an opportunity to become involved.

But for now, this blog’s cause is simple and clear and one. After much thinking over the past month, it has become clear to me that Momastery’s cause is you. Which means that my cause is you. The Monkees -as a group and individually. So you Lovies go ahead and take care of the world and your partners and kiddos and neighbors and enemies and while you are doing so, my job will be to help care for you. Because you’re bound to get tired, and I want this to be a place for you to refuel and fill up. You gotta fill up if your gonna pour yourself out.

And so - the efforts I'll support here at Momastery will be Love Projects that benefit Monkees.We are a group of people who will be known by how uniquely and completely we love each other. Yes, please.

If your family needs help, you tell us. We will help. I’m not sure how it’ll work, I just know that it will work. In real life, I have no idea what I’m doing. But when it comes to this blog, I know exactly what I’m doing. I just know. And I assure you that we can expect miracles here. God will provide.

Speaking of miracles . . . let’s talk back to school. For the next few weeks, let’s keep this in mind. It’s all going to be okay. They're going to be okay. They already are.

*And as Beth so wisely suggested - remind your child to find the new student and ask him to play. The best way to overcome nervousness is to help another little one overcome hers. That's the important stuff.

Love You,

*That’s not the exact quote. Went back through my book and can’t find it. But it’s the jist. Love.

THE NEWEST HCBC PICK!!!!

2011-08-18T15:46:00.004-04:00

I love to read - anything and everything onto which I can get my smurf-sized hands.

In real life we tend to stay on the surface of things, but in books and lyrics I am assured that many others have the same tumultuous inner life that I do. In this way, books and songs are like friends who always have time to talk- they help me connect and feel less alone in my spastic little head.

They also make me more compassionate. I read the stories of other’s struggles and I find it a little easier to love the world after finishing each one. If only each of us had a biography we could distribute - we’d all be so much gentler with each other if everyone’s history was required reading. It’s why you are so kind to me here– because you know my story. But everyone has a story with at least as much joy and loss and love as mine. I think about it all the time – as I look around at people and imagine their stories- the state of their hearts - what they've overcome. I just want to stand up at restaurants sometimes and applaud wildly and yell - “BRAVO! TO ALL OF US! LOOK AT US, MAKING IT THROUGH THIS WILD, DIFFICULT LIFE! WE ARE STILL STANDING, DRESSING OURSELVES, BREATHING! BRAVO!”

Craig discourages this though, so whatever.

I also love discovering through reading that my spiritual journey...the one that I'm hoping is leading me towards becoming more loving, more forgiving, more whole . . . is the exact same journey that so many others are walking. We all have the same discoveries and insights and thoughts about ourselves and other people along the way. All of us who are struggling to see things and people clearly . . . we all learn the exact same things in different ways - because Truth is Truth. It’s like we seekers . . . we each walk different paths but end up in the same field . . . a big old green field with wooden signs that say -

We Belong To Each Other, We Can Do Hard Things, LOVE WINS.

I love writers who don’t bother trying to teach me anything new . . . but gently remind me of things I already know. Who show me, through their own stories, what life is teaching them. I read recently...if it's true, it ain't new. And so I love writers who tell stories that nudge me towards the same old Truths and illuminate them in brilliant new ways. These writers invite me to sink into them like a worn sofa and make heart LEAP and swell and break and mend.

Rachel Naomi Remen is one of those writers. She is more than a writer . . . she is a healer. And her latest book, “My Grandfather’s Blessings” made my heart sing and purr and skip and finally enlarge to near exploding.

Which is why My Grandfather’s Blessings is our new HERMIT CRAB BOOK CLUB pick.

Go get it friends . . . pretty please. Monkees of all spiritual faiths (or none at all) will find something in this book to love. This one’s going to fill us with hope and peace and ease us right into the crispness and coziness and insanity of fall.

As always, if you can’t find it at the library and don’t have the money for it right now – shoot me an email and I’ll have it sent to your door. Gotta have this one, ladies.

Love You,

The Waves

2011-08-17T19:03:00.018-04:00

Just wanted you to know . . . we're okay today. We're good. We feel loved and watched over and cared for. We're soaking in our new circumstances along with the sun and the sand and the squeals of our babies and the ocean air.

We're facing these waves together.

Dodging them, riding them, letting them take us under. Coming back up for air just in time.

And we're laughing. Stilllll laughing.

We are holding each other up and the sea is holding us together.

That's how it works, I think.

Thanks for being our Tribe, Monkees.

Love, G, C, Lil C, T and A.