Mary Graham

Trusty Chucks Blog

numbers

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248
The days I’ve lived in the shock and reality that I’m married to an alcoholic.

135
135 mornings since I walked downstairs at 6:20 after a night of wrestling with the Holy Spirit’s promptings in a way I still don’t have words to explain and found empty beer cans in my supposed-to-be-sober husband’s work truck. I packed his bags for him and demanded he leave our house.

8
The 8th of September, the day I removed my wedding rings with every intention of not putting them back on. Every thing was broken. Every single thing.

3 + 1
The teeth Harper lost and the soccer season she completed while Chris was gone, physically and mentally.

911
The number my friend Adam called as we stood in the Burger King parking lot on September 27th with a drunk, broken Chris Graham. That night he, against his will, entered a detox facility.

3
The number of times I made appointments with a divorce attorney to begin the process of legally ending my marriage to my husband.

3
The number of times sudden, out-of-my-control things happened which forced me to reschedule or cancel my divorce attorney appointments.

11
Eleven years of marriage in October. I marked the day by driving in a car with my parents and daughters through the mountains as we headed home from vacation. Around 6:30 in the evening, as the sun was fading, I sped down the highway and listened to the song my bridal party walked down the aisle to. It didn’t make me cry, it felt okay. I had peace about what was happening.

2
The number of dead animals I’ve had to take care of as I live here in the country with just my two girls. By “take care of” I mean, I had my 60-something year old aunt scoop one up and throw it in the field. Another one I just mowed around until animals took over. I just really wanted to tell you about the dead animals. I actually did nothing brave.

7
Months I’ve been in counseling; it seems like the work has just begun.

12,000
Hey Mary, Doug here. I wanted you to know we are just returning from India (at Heathrow Airport right now) and I asked Ajai and Indu to put you and Chris on their prayer chain. It is not too big, only 12,000 people who fast and pray around the clock. They are on-their-bellies, pleading-with-God kind of prayer warriors, and it puts me to shame, but what else is new…All they have is your first names, but I figure God has the rest covered. 

30
Chris spent thirty days in intensive, in-patient treatment for alcohol addiction.

4
I visited Chris four Saturdays while in the treatment center. I spent an hour in family group where we learned about the disease of addiction, co-dependency, and life after addiction. I sat with parents who were on their seventh or eighth round of rehab with a child. I sat with spouses who felt hopeless about their situations. I sat with siblings who brought addicts’ children to visiting hours. I sat with alcoholics. I sat with hopeful families and families who were just going through the motions. I sat next to empty chairs because some families were done with this bullshit.

3.5
Hours on November 3rd for Chris to check out of the treatment center, come home, pack his bags, and check back into their transitional housing program. It was just the beginning of the help he needed.

4
Four times I’ve received letters or phone calls notifying me that our insurance is dropping Chris’ level of care. Insurance, much like alcohol, sounds good at the beginning, but just when you need it the most, it lets you down, ruins your plans, makes you feel overwhelmed and helpless.

5
Five months after it was due, my teaching bonus from last year came in the mail. Perfectly timed. Right when we needed it the most. Just like every other single time.

56
Days without wearing my wedding ring. Chris asked shyly, humbly, cautiously if I’d wear it again because he wanted to keep the promises he made the day he slipped it on my finger. He said everything was broken but he wanted to start again. I said yes.

50
Transitional housing days. Days for Chris to continue therapy, continue learning, continue starting again. He practiced going to a job sober, working a job sober, driving home from a job sober. He made friends, played with his kids, saw fellow treatment patients relapse. He established some boundaries, stood up for himself, said goodbye to some triggers. Fifty days of acknowledging the depression, the anxiety, the lack of coping skills. Fifty days realizing that there was help, he was not beyond it, and he wanted it.

14
Chris has been home fourteen days. He came home without fanfare on December 22nd, in the middle of the day, while I was teaching. He sat down at the table with the girls, opened science kits, and began sewing internal organs with Harper. He sewed a brain. He stitched together a heart.

26.80
The amount on the Cheddars gift card a friend sent. She said take the girls to lunch or treat a friend. I used it to go on a first date with my husband. It felt scary and weird. We sat at a table, and I began to get to know my spouse.

1
Christmas season together I assumed would never happen. When Chris left, my first worry was what Christmas would look like. There were many other things I should have worried about first, but Christmas was my first thought. We celebrated Christmas, probably the best Christmas, together as a family.

99
Chris hasn’t had a drink in 99 days.

2018
The year of beginning again, one moment at a time, listening, progress not perfection, redeeming, and learning.

I’m not an enabler, you’re an enabler.

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What’s unfortunate about counseling is I went in because my husband was an asshole, and then suddenly my therapist is like, okay, let’s talk about you.

I’m sorry, what? We’re here because my husband has issues. Let me repeat them for you again…

She was pretty insistent we needed to address some of my tendencies and my past, and I was pretty insistent I needed a new counselor.

But here we are.

Some common things that immediately come up when you begin to address addiction issues (any addiction issues) are co-dependency and enabling. Hearing those words was hard for me but not in the typical ways. They didn’t fit my story the way they would fit a normal addict relationship.

I am not co-dependent.

I am not an enabler.

My personality, my Enneagram type, my birth order, and a million other ways to quantify who I am would tell you my natural inclination is not co-dependency or enabling.

But.

But what if your husband has a secret drinking problem? Could you be enabling him in ways you’re unaware of because you don’t have the whole picture?

Oh. Oh, yes.

That realization was hard. I had to sit with it for a while before I could even acknowledge what had been happening. I would never intentionally accept a life that was less than what I deserve so consciously allowing, helping, or setting Chris up to continue to be a functioning alcoholic would never have happened (hence the hiding and the lying; he ain’t no fool). But slowly over time, as Chris became less and less dependable and more and more withdrawn, I took on more responsibilities and family roles.

Chris can’t remember to take the trash out on Monday nights? I’ll do it and stop complaining about it.

Chris doesn’t ever look at our family calendar and see what’s going on that night or week? I’ll text him reminders.

Chris never notices house/yard work or general maintenance that needs to be done? I’ll help him remember to mow the grass or change the oil in the car.

I know some of you are reading those things and saying you do that with your spouse too. I would say the difference in helping your spouse and being a team versus how I was living with Chris is that he did nothing without being told. He was another child for me to care for. I was in charge of everything and he went where he was told but never shouldered any adult responsibility or burden. I carried all the weight and he came along for the ride. There was a disproportionate distribution of responsibilities in our marriage. I carried 95% and Chris did 5% when he got around to it.

That’s not a marriage. It happened slowly over time, though. We didn’t start out like this, but we did end up there.

It’s like the story of the frog in boiling water (which isn’t scientifically accurate, but whatever). Over time, as you increase the water temperature in the pot, it’s so subtle the frog doesn’t realize he’s being boiled alive.

I was being boiled alive, and I didn’t even notice.

Our family functioned well, because I made sure we did. Chris couldn’t function well so I took away his responsibilities instead of continuing to watch him flounder and fail.

That, my friends, is enabling.

Damn it.

Counseling is hard. I wasn’t there to look in a mirror, I was there to figure out how to handle being married to or divorced from an addict-alcoholic. Let’s not make this about me, please and thank you.

Other uncomfortable questions my intrusive therapist asked me that I wanted to ignore:

If Chris was so damaged and broken before meeting you, what attracted you to that brokenness? What past experiences let you ignore or not see these signs?

How does co-dependency relate to your family experiences?

What holes do you have that Chris fills in unhealthy ways?

What parent has wounded you the most, and how are you trying to recreate that experience now for a better outcome? (Side note: I hesitated to share that one because I didn’t want to hurt my parents, but the uncomfortable truth is we are all wounded, in some way, by our parents. And we are all, in some way, wounding our own kids. Welcome to our broken world. The theory, according to my really smart counselor is those traumatic childhood experiences that scarred us have left such an imprint that our brain–years later–will still try to recreate the experience in new ways so the outcome can change. Our brain is literally trying to heal us from bad experiences by altering the outcome or giving us a new ending. We do this subconsciously.)

Why does control give you the illusion of safety? How does routine damage instead of help?

How do you heal with or without your husband?

And many, many more. Counseling is horribly revealing and uncomfortable.

Between checking him out of the hospital he detoxed at and admitting Chris to his long-term addiction care facility, we had twenty-four hours to keep him safe. And by “we,” I mean “me.” I didn’t want him to come home and my hatred for him was still very, very present, but there also wasn’t anywhere else for him to go and he couldn’t be left alone.

So I got to babysit Chris. He was still sick, still delusional, still in denial, still saying dumb things that made me want to murder him, but here he was, at our house, needing care and compassion before we said goodbye and good luck.

While home, he asked about my counseling. Why I was going, what I was sharing, what was going on there. He seemed to think I was sitting around talking about him. In the beginning, I was. The first few sessions were me verbally throwing up all over this lady I had just met and expecting her to tell me some answers to a few questions I had so I could move on. I wanted my counselor to validate all the choices I was making and help me comprehend the situation I was dealing with.

But then after a few sessions, it became less about Chris’ actions and more about mine. That’s when the hard work began, and I wanted to stop it.

Reminder about my personality types: Enneagram type 8, INTJ, oldest child, and very, very stubborn which leads me to not quitting therapy even though it would be a lot easier that way.

So I explained that to Chris. I said your actions sent me to counseling, but my actions kept me there. I said your hurt drove me to my first appointment, but a life of hurts keeps driving me back.

He found comfort in that knowledge.

Let me end with this: Getting help is not weakness or blame. It’s brave and humbling and hard and worth every moment. Also, if you have a spouse, friend, or family member who says they want/need some therapy help, please don’t take it personally. It’s not a reflection of you or your marriage if someone says they want to talk to a professional. It’s not embarrassing, it’s not punishment, and it’s not wrong. Plus, there’s a really good chance, they’re going to be looking at a mirror during their appointment instead of at you anyway.

Humans are fun, because we believe everyone else thinks about us as much as we think about ourselves. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s what we do. We’re all ridiculous, guys, might as well say it out loud to a counselor and then get comfy in it. It’s an odd little bit of freedom in a broken world.

This week my therapist encouraged me to let my kids watch more television. I was expressing some anger at my current situation of months of being a single parent and how tired I was. She said I needed to allow myself a break and just turn the TV on occasionally.

I resisted this because TV steals your soul. We moved to the country so my kids could play with sticks and dirt. I don’t like TV.

But she said I could argue about this or I could do something that would give me a break and make me feel less angry about being needed all the time.

Huh.

So here’s why you should go to counseling: you might get permission to let your kids watch more TV while you hide in your room and do nothing.

So it’s a win, really. Go. Ask for some help.

coming home, part two

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He wants to, but it’s not time yet. He needs more recovery, more health, more therapy, more accountability.

It was the best answer I could imagine.

It’s weird to say that, I get it. But it was probably the healthiest, most mature thing I had ever heard my husband say. He was self-aware enough to say he’s not ready. He was reflective enough to know there was still much to do. He was brave enough to admit exactly what he needed without worrying about how others might feel.

If I was still concerned about how his recovery was going, this was the first positive action I could trust.

He wasn’t coming home. It was the right choice.

I don’t know what part my confession of fear and invitation for him to return home played in this. I don’t know why God was so adamant I make the offer. But I know it was supposed to happen.

As we wade through the first steps of early recovery, I’ve been reminded again and again from counselors, therapists, and drug addiction specialists at the treatment center that Chris needs hope and encouragement. The first few times I heard that, I hated it. Faking anything is hard for me. My face will tell you what my mouth is trying hard not to say. I want to be honest even when it’s not welcome. I hate deception and empty words. (Related: Enneagram type 8. You ordered the book and read it already, right?)

I didn’t know if I had any hope for Chris. I didn’t know if there was any encouragement left inside me. I didn’t want to pretend we could be okay again, because I honestly didn’t know. There was so much damage and destruction in Chris’ wake so hearing he needed me to be hopeful and encouraging was just asking too much.

It was hard for me, during the majority of his first treatment stay, to say anything vulnerable or loving. I was very detached. I did what I was supposed to do–calling insurance, attending visiting hours, listening to counselors, reading books on addiction–because it is what I was supposed to do, and I am a good student.

But my heart wasn’t in it.

My heart was still busted and bleeding all over central Indiana. I didn’t have time to go find all the pieces and bring them down to Franklin, Indiana, for Chris to stomp on again. So I said very little when we visited; I said very little when we got our few phone calls a week. Chris talked, and I listened. Chris was eager to engage, and I was standoffish.

Telling Chris he could come home hurt my pride, felt unsafe, and reminded me of betrayal. Telling him I was afraid gave him a power I didn’t want to allow him. I didn’t want him to know there were still pieces of me that were his and there was still more damage he could do.

But for the first time in years, Chris was gentle and wise with my heart and his own. Maybe he just needed the hope and encouragement an invitation home signaled.

He decided transitional housing was his next, best step. A half-way house where he was still monitored in a way I didn’t want to do as his spouse. A new program to work. More days of sobriety. Additional time with his addiction counselor. The ability to practice some of the new skills he was acquiring through classes, programs, and a clearer head.

It felt right immediately.

Things fell into place quickly. Within a week, insurance approved his new out-patient program, a bed opened up at the half-way house located at the same facility he lived during his in-patient program, and a flexible job opportunity with recovering addicts who were decades clean presented itself.

What we hoped was best was being affirmed by God who was meeting every one of Chris’ needs.

Today Chris Graham is fifty days clean and sober.

Tomorrow will be two weeks at the half-way house.

He’s slowly earning trust by going where he says he’s going and doing it sober. He’s got his cell phone back and communicating with safe people who can encourage him and hold him accountable. He’s attending AA meetings almost daily. He’s earning trips home to visit us. He’s working at a job that doesn’t isolate him all day, he’s working with sober guys. He’s practicing hard conversations with his counselor and addressing family issues. He’s randomly being tested for drugs and alcohol by his treatment center. He’s currently on medication that will make him violently ill if he consumes a drop of alcohol, even mouth wash. He’s addressing his depression, and I’m seeing parts of his personality I’ve never seen before (like standing up for himself; it’s interesting and exciting. [Again, see Enneagram type 8 for details]).

He really wants to come home. But it’s not time yet. He knows it, and I know it. If anything, we’re both learning that the right things are sometimes the hardest things. I’ve known that a little bit longer than him, but he’s catching up quickly.

I don’t know what’s next. Alcoholics are reminded daily (hourly…every minute…) to take one day at a time. That makes a lot of really overwhelming things feel less overwhelming. So we’re not making any grand sweeping plans, but seeing how things go. As Chris continues to transition out of the safety bubble of rehab, he’s building a relationship with an AA sponsor who is intent on kicking his butt and supporting his sober lifestyle. We’re beginning to search for a marriage counselor to address the mountain of struggles we have ahead of us. We know sometime after the new year, Chris will need to find a different job. The construction job he started last week is a great fit for his current life situation, but we can’t–from a financial standpoint–survive off this income.

Last weekend, Chris came to church with the girls and I. It was the first weekend he had spent with us in months, and it was the first time he had been to our church since August. He was visibly shaking and anxious. I could feel his body shaking as we sat next to each other. I was worried he wouldn’t make it through the service. At one point, he had tears falling down his cheeks. He didn’t participate in the worship songs, didn’t glance at a Bible, seemed disengaged from the whole experience.

Afterward, I asked him if he was okay. I didn’t think it went well. I was worried about him.

He said, yes, he was okay. He was glad he got his first visit over with. It felt weird and good to be back.

I don’t share that vulnerable moment for attention or to make you feel sorry for him, but it got me thinking: how many of us are living lives with anxiety, panic, and pain that we mask with our phones, drugs, co-dependent relationships, alcohol, or a million other things that keep us distracted from what’s going on in our heads and our hearts? How many things are we not dealing with because they’re painful, embarrassing, shameful, or overwhelming? Maybe we’re not all alcoholics, but we for sure all numb and avoid and ignore things we should be confronting. Our coping mechanisms may not be drugs, but we’re all hurting and confused in some way or another, and we trick ourselves into thinking we do a pretty good job of covering it up. The reality is, it will eventually destroy us. It will destroy our relationships, our health, our safety, our quiet, our pretend normal. Sooner or later. That’s not a threat or a scare-tactic, it’s the truth.

For Chris, as he peels back the protective layers he’s built for himself since childhood, he’s having to face some demons and hard realities about himself and his family. Again, the right things are sometimes the hardest things. Actually, the right things are always the hardest things.

Getting to know the real Chris Graham is worth it.

I wonder who I would be–who we would all be–if we had to strip away all the crutches, all the numbing activities, all the hiding we’re used to doing.

I bet it would leave us all pretty raw and exhausted and exposed.

The Grahams are pretty raw and exhausted and exposed right now. But it’s starting to be beautiful too, one day at a time.

 

*Coming home, part one here

coming home, part one

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We were at an impasse.

Chris was nearing the end of his 30-day treatment program, and we didn’t know what was next.

He wanted to come home. I didn’t think he was ready. I didn’t think I was ready.

As he worked through the end of his program with his counselor, they explored other options: a transitional living house or going to live with someone else.

I explained to Chris my reservations, how I was still adamant about keeping our girls safe, both physically and emotionally. While it was hard for them with Chris gone, we had our routines and a new normal. Chris coming home and possibly relapsing was too much uncertainty for me. If that happened, he’d have to leave again. I couldn’t imagine putting the girls through that again, so he wasn’t to come back yet. He needed more time. He needed more sobriety.

Plus, we hadn’t even begun to address the shambles of our marriage. As Chris got sober and the fog of constant alcohol left, he was becoming more of the kind, patient, loving man I married, but there was still a lot of things we needed to address and heal.

I told him I didn’t yet know if he was just an asshole and I hated him, or I hated his addiction which made him an asshole. Because so much of his drinking was done in secret, I thought for years he was just an asshole. So untangling those feelings from my husband and attributing them to addiction was hard, confusing, and tedious.

Understanding where our marriage was and the fears I had about hurting the girls more, I told Chris it just wasn’t best for him to come home.

But as I told him this, I was asking for people to pray specifically about what should happen next. If someone called or texted or sent me a message about praying, I gave them few details but a very direct request: please pray for the next step for Chris and that whatever happens, it would be the best option for all of us.

I wanted to say with complete certainty he shouldn’t be in the house again but I wanted it to be God’s will and not mine.

So the people prayed.

During this time, I was reading The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile. I was learning in brutally honest ways how my tendencies were helping and hindering my life. I was taking a hard look at where my motivations are and how my God-given personality traits can be used in healthy and unhealthy ways.

(If you haven’t read the book yet, please stop reading this blog post and immediately go get it. It will crack you open in a way nothing else has. The way the Enneagram has helped me see myself and others clearer is life-altering.)

I’m an eight on the Enneagram; also known as the Challenger. I’m here to say hard things, lead others, and stand up for justice. I’m motivated by fear—not fear of others but fear of being controlled and fear of being betrayed. There are a million other things that make up my personality, but reading that book was difficult because no one should know me that well. It’s a little too exposing.

So I’m reading this book, processing through all the things it’s helping me understand, and praying about what’s next for Chris.

And I keep hearing this one answer from God when I pray. One word: fear. I ignore it because it’s probably just me, not God, and every time I ask what Chris should do next, where he should go, how we should proceed, what I should do about my marriage, I just keep hearing that one word.

Fear.

So I sit with it for a while, I sit with it for days. What about fear? Fear of what? And then I hear it plain as day, what would I do next if I wasn’t afraid?

I know the answer to this before I want to. I know what I would do if I took fear out of the picture. I know what happens next if I wasn’t living afraid. I know what God has been reminding me again and again through this season.

I need to ask Chris to come home even if I don’t want to. Even if I’m afraid about what could happen.

I can’t control this. God is in control, not Mary Graham. And while I am doing everything I can to control what little I actually have control of, God is telling me to let him do this. To let him take care of me and the girls and Chris and just be obedient.

That night on the phone, I tell Chris through tears he can come home. When his thirty days is up next week, he can come back to our house and try again. I’m afraid and fearful, but I know it’s what I’m supposed to do.

He listens and soon we get off the phone.

Two days later, he calls me with his answer: No, he’s not coming home.

 

Coming home, part two here.

the fall of 2017

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Every autumn, we have our family pictures taken.

We get dressed up, Kaitlyn Huff comes over, and we pose for some family photos. We’ve been doing this for years. Kaitlyn took Ellie’s pictures for the first time when she was two months old. I think Kaitlyn was only a few years older than Ellie at the time.

But now she’s expecting her second child, and I have wrinkles I don’t like to acknowledge.

When October rolled around again, Kaitlyn texted, “Can I come and take pictures of you and the girls?”

This wasn’t unexpected. The nights were cooling off, the days were getting shorter, and the trees were beginning to change colors. Those things meant it was family picture time. I’d been wondering about what to do about them.

Kaitlyn offered the answer.

“Yes, let’s do it,” I replied.

She came on a Thursday afternoon as the sun was in its golden hour. We ran around the yard, hiked down to the blackberry patch, stood next to the newly harvested back field.

Chris didn’t join us. He was still in rehab.

It felt weird and right. It felt sad and joyous.

This was us right now. The girls and I. The day we had our family pictures done, Chris had been gone sixty-four days. When I held up the crushed beer can sixty-four days ago and told him to leave, I thought it would only be a momentary absence and also a forever one.

I thought the worst and the best.

On August 24th, I became a single parent. Chris wasn’t capable or healthy enough to help shoulder this load. It has been me and only me since that day. The girls have seen my absolute worst and, I’d like to think, they’ve seen me at my best. Sometimes in the same moment. Sometimes in the same breath.

We did our family pictures with the three of us because that’s who our family is right now. And right now, about two weeks later, it’s still just the three Graham girls. We are surviving. We are healing. We are laughing.

I don’t know what next year’s family picture will look like. But this one—in this exact moment—was really important to document.

These photos are either going to be a reminder of how we survived the worst moments in our little family’s history or a great introduction to the new family unit we’re evolving into.

These photos are going to be a memory of us still breathing through devastation.

These photos are going to be a souvenir of 2017 and all its setbacks and triumphs.

These photos are us, broken and beautiful, bruised but still standing. Still full of joy. Still loving. Still hopeful. Still trusting God to write the rest of the story in His time and not ours.

These photos are the Graham girls in the fall (in more ways than one) of 2017.

 

If you’re local to Indy (or not!) and need photographs made, Kaitlyn Huff is your girl. Tell her Mary Graham sent you. Tell her to wear her blue bra.

thanks for a great summer, Amazon Prime

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I would just like to take a moment to thank Amazon for bringing everything I ever needed directly to my door and for the ability to never leave the house for anything.

This is not a drill; I would not be the well-rounded, competent, happy-ish person I am today without ye, Amazon. I would also not be as well rested.

This is only a slight exaggeration. Seriously, how did we live lives before Amazon and, more specifically, Amazon Prime?

Don’t answer that. I don’t want to be reminded. It was a dark time.

As I think about all the things that made our summer, I feel like half my time was spent telling people to buy something specific off Amazon that made my life easier/better/happier/less stressful/more organized/smell better.

Basically Amazon has improved my life and here’s what I bought so you can buy it to and improve your life also. Because nothing says fulfilled more than buying more crap. Whatever.

Wall tapesty
All the college kids and me are really excited about all the hippie tapestries Amazon sells. I had a big wall in my office I wanted to cover with something, so I ordered this guy and he arrived within a week. Hanging a tapestry on your wall will illicit a wide range of reactions from people, but stand firm in the knowledge you’re cool in your head and nothing else matters. *mental high five*

Lotta From Stockholm clogs
I’ve been wanting some clogs from this company for over a year. They’re a little too pricey for my budget though so it’s taken me a while to pull the trigger. As I get older (36 soon, suckers!), I’m slowly getting rid of cheaper, low quality shoes and investing in better, higher-quality, well-made, supportive footwear. (Read that sentence again and try not to think of your granny.) I’d rather have 3-4 really great pairs of shoes than 10-15 cheap ones that will only last one season. It was finally time to order these, but their website has some pretty expensive shipping charges (it’s actually coming from Stockholm, duh). I figured out what shoes I wanted and the correct sizing on their website then searched on Amazon for the shoe. Amazon doesn’t carry every pair Lotta From Stockholm makes, but they did carry the ones I wanted and it was free shipping with my Prime membership. So I ordered from there instead. They got here super-fast (the confirmation said 2-3 weeks, but they were here within a week) and I saved a lot of money on shipping. The Amazon price and the company’s prices were pretty comparable, but I was pumped to save the shipping cost with Prime.

Trader Joe’s Everything But the Bagel seasoning
I don’t have a Trader Joe’s near me but when everyone started sharing this seasoning on social media I had to try it. Amazon is weird because they sell so many things you never think to look for there (see: clog paragraph above)…like this specialty grocery store product. It’s is definitely a little more expensive than I’d usually spend on some food seasoning, but it’s amazing and I love it. No regrets. (Once you have it, put it on eggs, potatoes, cucumbers & cream cheese, bagels, green beans, EVERYTHING.)

Oil diffusers
Our family has used Young Living oils for about three years now (no, I don’t want to sell you any; no, I don’t want you to join my team, there is no team to join.) and one of my favorite things to do with oil is diffuse it. I have a diffuser in my office I turn on while I work. The girls each have one in their room for bedtime. In the winter when I’m sick, I bring one into our room. I love diffusers. But I don’t always love the price. Oils are expensive–I don’t need expensive things to put my expensive oils in. Gah. These diffusers are inexpensive, work really well for us, and don’t seem to need super-special filtered water to make them run well. Also, they’re cheap enough that if it breaks in a year or two, I’m not going to be choked up about it.

Wool dryer balls
Again, I don’t have oils to sell you or a class I need you to sign up for to learn all the secret oil voodoo. But I do like using oils in our home and the way we’ve gotten rid of some unnecessary chemicals. One unnecessary chemical I got rid of this summer is dryer sheets. I was tired of buying them, the artificial smell it left on our clothes, and always finding one in my pant leg on my way to church. So I bought a three-pack of these wool dryer balls to replace the dryer sheets. The box says they last at least a year, and I can use them as-is or I can add a drop or two of essential oils to them for scented clothes. I will admit they are LOUD and you’re well aware you’ve got some tennis ball-like objects in the dryer so if your office happens to be by the laundry room, you can’t dry clothes while you’re talking on the phone or teaching class. (Side note: if you’re interested in oils and overwhelmed with how much information there is about them, start with a diffuser and some wool dryer balls. Easy and low-key.)

Teal recorder
Apparently third grade is when all the blessed little children start learning how to play a recorder in school. Ellie is SO EXCITED for this. Her parents are LESS EXCITED for this. When we registered for school, parents had the option of buying one through school for $5 or supplying their own. You know I went to Amazon to see if I could get one for less than $5. Answer: yes, you can. Of course, I didn’t buy the less-than-$5 one though because they have so! many! colors! and I got excited and now Ellie’s getting a teal recorder. I’m still not excited about the at-home practice that is sure to come, but at least it will look cute sitting in its little holder full of spit.

Meal prep containers (reusable or disposable!)
I know you’ll probably ask why I don’t just buy some Tupperware from Target and call it a day, but hear me out. I LOVE these containers. I prep breakfast all week for myself (a knock-off version of the Starbucks boxes), put leftovers in them for Chris to take to work, share meals with my grandma, and take them when we travel. If I have the chance to wash them and reuse them, I do. But if they have to be thrown away, that’s okay too. You get a ton and it comes with silverware sets I didn’t even know about when I ordered them. I got them at the end of May, probably use at least one every day, and can’t recommend them enough.

Korean face masks
One night at bedtime, I asked the girls two things they were thankful for in relation to the new house so we could thank God for them in our prayers. Harper said new friends at school and living next door to Aunt Penny. Ellie said her own room and the new face masks I got in the mail. So I have to put these masks on the list even though I’m probably not as thankful for them as my super-weird daughter is. But they are enjoyable. Also, they make you look a little bit like a scary serial killer and that’s fun for everyone.

Rolling laundry hamper
At our old house, our laundry area was in the basement and no one ever saw it. It could be as messy and overflowing as we wanted and it was our little dirty secret. But now our laundry room is right inside the house if you enter from the garage. If you were to visit, you’d enter through the front door and never see it, but I get to see it every time I leave or come home. Oh, laundry, I loathe thee. Because of this, leaving baskets full of clean or dirty clothes drives me crazy. So I ordered this laundry hamper. It fits PERFECTLY inside the laundry room closet so I can open the door, throw towels-socks-whatever into the correct section (there are three total) and no one knows just inside that closet are all the things I should have washed a week or two ago. The best part is it’s on wheels and so I can roll it out, park it in front of the washing machine when it’s time to tackle it, and then roll it back in when I’m done. It’s the cutest, most organized I’ve ever been with laundry avoiding.

This maxi dress
If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know when it arrived I wore it for nine days straight. This is not an exaggeration. Finally Chris gently asked if it was time to wash it. RUDE. Also, it has pockets and if you’re tall like me–it’s not too short! It’s a miracle! Buy it in all the colors! Wear it with a sweater for fall! (I ordered the gray one; since I’ve ordered it, they’ve added a sleeveless version. I don’t like than one–sleeves forever.)

A new bed and mattress
Here’s why this is so amazing: we don’t own a truck. So picking up any large furniture or home item after we buy it at a store is a mess. Can we borrow my dad’s truck? How do we get it here? Will this fit in our SUV? How many children should I leave behind to make this purchase happen? We’ve all abandoned a child for the greater household good but I don’t have many more to spare. So when we needed a full-size bed and mattress for Ellie’s room, I ordered them from Amazon. It did take a little longer than the two-day Prime norm, but still, the UPS man delivered them TO MY FRONT PORCH and I just had to drag them inside. (The specific full-sized bed frame and mattress we bought is linked above; I HIGHLY recommend both. That mattress is shockingly comfortable.)

School supplies
All of them, I don’t even have anything to link to. Back-to-school time is stressful enough without trying to ram my shopping cart down the three small school supply aisles with every other person on the east side of Indianapolis. Next year, I won’t even try it. Ordering all the supplies off the school’s lists and having them sent to my doorstep is what dreams are made of.

I would like to say that’s the end of my list, but it’s not. When I told my friend Krissy I was writing about my Amazon favorites, she asked if I was sharing a chandelier I got for Harper’s room. I hadn’t even thought of it. So I’ll probably do another Amazon buy list later (specifically to home goods I’ve purchases as we set up and decorate our new house), but for now, I’ve got to stop because the UPS man just pulled in to deliver my water filters. For real. Perfect timing, delivery dude.

Before I go–did you buy anything on Amazon this summer you can’t live without? TELL ME. I PROBABLY NEED IT TOO.

DISCLAIMER: AFFILIATE LINKS USED.

that’s the problem with lasts

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“If you’re sure, I’m getting rid of these,” Chris told Harper as he walked toward the garage holding her training wheels.

“Yep, I’m sure,” she replied.

It was a Thursday evening, after dinner, and before it started cooling off for the day. It felt sticky and humid after a few days of unseasonable cooler June weather. The girls were riding their bikes around the driveway when Harper requested her training wheels off.

In seconds, Chris had removed the small back wheels and Harper took off.

No hesitation. No fear. No stumbles. Her daddy held on to the back of her seat, took off running next to her as she peddled, and when he let go, she confidently rode to the end of the driveway, turned into the grass, and made her way back to us.

I didn’t realize that Thursday was the last day a Graham child would need training wheels.

We are officially done with trikes, training wheels, bike carriers full of sleeping children, and tiny, short legs pumping hard on a Big Wheel.

It was our last day with training wheels, and I didn’t give it the attention it deserved.

That’s the problem with lasts, you never know it’s actually the end until it’s too late.

Last month my grandma had her family reunion. We weren’t able to go–we were in Michigan camping–but the Kimery family gathered to catch up, meet new members, talk about their losses. And one big loss for our family was my grandpa. Last year he attended the reunion, ate the fried chicken, and laughed with the remaining siblings of my grandma.

Every reunion a Kimery child (like my grandma) will pose with her family, children and spouses, grandchildren and spouses, and all the great-grandchildren. For some, there might even be great-great-grandchildren. My grandma is one of twelve. That leads to big family reunions.

After the weekend was over, my aunt posted  this year’s family picture and last year’s family picture to Facebook. The glaring difference was my grandpa. His wide smile, his big ears, his huge personality.

I wish I would have known it was his last reunion. I wish I had known in one month he would be gone.

The days are slow, but the years are fast. I hate cliches, but there is truth in many of them.

Last Christmas as we gathered in Ohio to celebrate Christmas with Chris’ family, his uncle was taking a lot of pictures. Maybe more than normal. His daughter–Chris’ cousin–made a comment about it, saying something about how many pictures he wanted.

His response, quietly so the whole room couldn’t hear was well, you just never know.

We all stood for a beat longer than normal taking that in. Then we moved on with the holiday festivities. I felt it hard and tender–his comment–as we were wading through the first Christmas without my grandpa. As we were navigating Chris’ grandpa being moved to assisted living and having to be brought home for Christmas dinner.

That’s the problem with lasts, you never know it’s actually the end until it’s too late.

I don’t remember the last diaper I changed, the last bottle I gave my daughters. I don’t remember the last conversation I had with my grandpa, the last meal we shared together.

They weren’t important in that moment. They weren’t anything but another day in a busy week, another moment to get through so we could get to the end of the day, the meal, the task.

But they were lasts.

And I forgot to pause and acknowledge them. I forgot to remember them. I forgot to quiet for them.

Last weekend we sat on the curb in front of one of the two gas stations in our small town. As floats, tractors, and donkeys passed by in the annual summer parade, I pulled my hat down low and just cried. I cried for my grandpa who loved small town life, loved the people, loved the community. I cried for the day because last year, this was his last full day alive–the Saturday of Derby Days–and the next morning we were rushing to the hospital to pray and say goodbye.

It had been a year since he passed away.

When we moved here in January, my grandma told me my grandpa would have been so happy to know we moved here. He loved small-town life and, more specifically, this small-town life. She was sad he never saw this.

Sitting at the parade on Saturday, warm sun on my face and the sounds of kids screeching for candy as the floats passed, I couldn’t help but think of my grandpa. Those were his friends driving by on tractors. Those were his neighbors lining the streets. This was his community that came out in droves to stand in line for over an hour to pay their respects at his showing.

The last conversation. The last hug. The last laugh. The last meal. The last week. The last holiday. The last sleep. The last ride. The last time she crawls.

The last.

Growing up, I celebrated lasts. Lasts meant progress and maturity.

Now, I mourn them. Lasts hurt. Lasts sneak up on you when you’re least prepared and leave you different. Forever.

electronics + kids: how, where, why

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I never planned to be the parent who said judgey things like My kids don’t watch much TV or I don’t really let my kids play on electronics but here I am.

*awkward shrug*

Even though I believe strongly in limiting screen time in any form, saying it out loud makes me feel gross. I know all too well the shame or defensiveness that comes up when someone shares a different parenting or household philosophy than yours. I want to argue about it even though I know that’s not going to help anyone.

Also, so much of parenting is evolving and learning new ways of doing things as your children mature and grow. So this post can be tricky to write, because I don’t want to demand you live this way with your own kids or say it’s the only way to do it. Plus, how we’re doing electronics at our house didn’t just suddenly happen one day. Where we’re at right now–with our two daughters who are six and eight–has been a process and is still ongoing.

With all of that said, here’s how we do electronics, how we got to where we’re at right now, and some ideas to get your wheels turning on what this might look like in your home (now or in the future).

A typical week of screen time at our house follows this pattern:

-Sunday night family movie with dinner in front of the TV after the girls have had baths. I think Sundays are for resting and a quiet evening at home is a great way to reset before our week starts.

-Wednesday is early release day at our school so the girls are home about an hour earlier than normal. I still have work to do and so they’re allowed to watch about an hour of Netflix before we turn it off for homework, dinner, and playing.

-Saturday morning cartoons in their pajamas; I think it’s the right of all Americans to be lazy on Saturday mornings, to be really slow to get out of your pajamas, and to watch animals with human characteristics fight crime.

And that concludes our TV time; that totals about 3.5-4 hours a week.

We have a TV/DVD player in our SUV but only use it when we travel long distances. It’s one way we’ve been able to travel for days on end and survive; it’s a privilege and super-special to get to watch TV in the car so the girls are excited and engaged when they’re actually allowed to do it.

I feel pretty strongly kids shouldn’t be watching TV (or playing on electronics) as we run errands, drive to school, or head to church. Or even as we drive across town. My kids get to bring books, color, play with small toys, sing songs, listen to audiobooks, listen to music, gaze out the window at their surroundings, or…wait for it…SIT AND DO NOTHING while passengers in a car.

Being bored is part of being a kid. Kids NEED to be bored sometimes.

I’m not here to entertain them or to keep them entertained. It’s not my job–it’s actually their job! as kids! to figure out what they like to do! what they don’t like to do! what they enjoy!–and too much screen time for my kids dulls their sense of what they are capable of doing, thinking, creating, learning, enjoying because they don’t have to use much brain power in front of the TV.

But I had to learn this, not just hear it or read it. When Ellie was little, she watched a lot of TV. She watched TV in her high chair while I made dinner. She watched a show every night before bed as part of her bedtime routine. When I was pregnant with Harper and tired, it was easy and convenient to turn on the TV to get a break. Sometimes it was actual for her safety I turned on the TV because if she asked me one more question, I was going to hold my hand over her little mouth and probably put a tiny bit too much pressure on her cute little face.

I get it; it’s hard and more work for parents when you limit TV and screen time.

I picked this hard eventually, over time, but not from the get-go.

With electronics, my kids get about an hour a week. That’s not a typo, I said a week. My girls spend about an hour a week on iPads or tablets. Sometimes less. They don’t have their own devices (again, they’re six and eight), and I believe they have no business having their own technology at this point.

Our house (please don’t rob us…) contains many iPads, laptops, tablets, and iPhones. Way more than we need. But none of them are Ellie’s or Harper’s. They are Mommy’s and Daddy’s and we share with them. You know what kids need to own? Bikes, toys, some good markers, and clean underpants. Maybe a toothbrush.

They don’t need to own electronics unless it’s a super-awesome boom box with dual-cassette player.

Or something like that.

At restaurants, my kids have to wait for their food–hungry and impatient–just like everyone else. We don’t pacify them with apps or movies. They get to color on placemats or play with Legos they brought in from the car. They also get to talk with the adults at the table, listen to how people interact with each other, engage in conversations with people who are (hopefully) modeling how to treat people, listen to others, have a dialogue.

It’s hard to hear adults complain about “kids these days” when no one is actually paying attention to kids these days. They’re learning from whatever is in front of them, and I’d rather it be me than a screen.

I am fully aware my kids use electronics at school to learn, and I think that’s awesome. I’m sending my children to a public school I trust and I believe will make wise, informed choices about my children’s learning. I’m not against education software and apps, and we have them downloaded on our tablets at home. BUT.

Always a but, right??

Nothing they’re learning at this age is dependent on an app. It’s a bonus, not a requirement. So when Harper’s kindergarten teacher requested 20 minutes of Star Reader every night, we recognized the value of that app reading stories to our child. The bottom line was my five year old needed to be read to at least 20 minutes a day and we chose to do that with actual books in our hands, sitting on the floor in the living room.

For some parents, their season doesn’t allow this and the app is a way to make sure their kid gets read to. Awesome. For other parents, especially ones who aren’t good readers themselves, modeling critical thinking skills while reading is hard and the app is just better for their kid. Super. Great. This reading teacher approves.

But for us, that’s not the case. For us, it would have just been easier and more convenient.

I buy my groceries online, because I like the convenience. I don’t want to miss out on reading to my kid due to being inconvenienced. I have the time.

So we pickup groceries we ordered online, and we sit on the floor reading books with our kids even when we have other things we’d like to be doing.

(I think it’s important to admit I don’t always enjoy being with my children, reading to my children, or playing with my children. Yes, I know time is fleeting and I need to “soak up every minute” [NOTHING MAKES MY EYES ROLL HARDER THAN WHEN SOMEONE SAYS THIS ON INSTAGRAM. IT’S ANNOYING.] but sometimes…most of the time, there are other things I’d rather be doing. Being a parent means sometimes…most of the time putting my children first. They’re not a burden even though sometimes I act like they are. It’s actually just me being selfish. I acknowledge that. I am a selfish parent. [And do NOT get me started on “self care” and “me time” because that’s now what I’m talking about right now. Stop being dramatic.])

When the girls do play on electronics, it’s always out in the open family areas and never in their rooms. They have to tell us exactly what they’ll be doing and not venture to another app or website while they’re on their device. We’ve started conversations about internet safety and talk about what is appropriate to look at and what is not. We’re also starting to discuss how permanent the internet is; what we post will follow us for-ev-er. (Obviously, these are age-appropriate conversations for their current levels and will get deeper as they age. But it’s never too early. Let’s assume at some point, our kids will find something on the internet that is questionable. How they react to it or handle it is up to us at this point so we can’t ignore that reality.)

We went almost TV-free a little over two years ago. Until that point (when my girls were four and six), we had been unrestrained in our TV time. I wrote about that first summer with no TV here if you’re interested in my initial thoughts and struggles.

If your kids have been uninhibited in their TV or screen time, the first few weeks (…months…) are really hard. I know it sounds silly, but I suggest making a long list of things kids can do when they’re bored to combat the impending whining. It’s coming. For sure. When kids wants to turn the TV or iPad on and are told no, their little brains don’t even know how to come up with something else to do. In the beginning, help them out by giving them some specific options. Just saying “go play” doesn’t always work for my kids. Have options ready! The best defense is a good offense! (I don’t even think that makes sense here but I felt it was encouraging nonetheless.) Eventually, they’ll be able to do this on their own, but if they’ve been relying heavily on screens for entertainment, this doesn’t come back immediately.

If this post or our family’s routines are something that interests you, I take no credit for it. I’ve read tons of books on parenting, technology, raising kids, etc., had lots of conversations with friends/fellow parents, plus lots of trial-and-error that have all combined to give us this narrative. I know eventually the things I described above will change because my kids and their needs/maturity will change.

Books (some related to technology and some not) I’d recommend if you want to start processing through changing your kids’ screen time:

Bringing Up Girls by Dr. James Dobson (or Bringing Up Boys if that’s your gig; it’s not mine so I haven’t read that one)
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua
The Blessing of a Skinned Knee by Wendy Mogel
Free Range Kids by Lenore Skenazy
Bringing Up Geeks by Marybeth Hicks
The Year of Living Danishly by Helen Russell (not about parenting or technology, but about our culture versus others)

And a few I hope to read soon to continue the conversation on technology and screen time in our family:

Battlefield of the Mind For Kids by Joyce Meyer
The Gift of Enough by Marianne Miller
Irresistible by Adam Alter

What do you think? Have you read anything lately that changed your screen time thoughts? What works for your family?

DISCLOSURE: AFFILIATE LINKS USED.

let’s demand Jesus

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There’s a rhythm to a church service.

Each church is a little different, but overall, there is a schedule for singing, a time for the message, an intentional break for communion and meditation. Each component has its time and its place. People like consistency and church is one of the places that obliges.

In the majority of churches, you don’t interrupt the sermon to demand to be baptized. It’s not the appointed time. It’s not on the schedule. It’s unexpected.

But that’s exactly what my grandpa did.

I wasn’t there. It wasn’t at my church. I didn’t even know this story existed until after my grandpa had passed away. My aunt told me.

My paternal grandparents weren’t church people. They didn’t go to church on Sundays, didn’t make an effort to show up for Easter and Christmas to get their obligatory church in. They weren’t interested. They didn’t put much stock in God or Jesus or Christians. It seemed unnecessary, too fussy, too many rules.

But in their seventies they bought Bibles, put on some fancy clothes, and started going to church with my aunt. I don’t know if it was fear of death and the unknown, resignation after a life of quietly protesting Jesus, or a butt-kicking from the Holy Spirit (I’d be willing to guess it was a good mix of all three), but they wanted Jesus in their old age. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t a little shocked when I heard they were going to church, that they owned Bibles, that they were reading them.

It seemed out of character.

One of my favorite things about Jesus is the absolutely crazy, over-the-top ways He shows Himself. The way He surprises those who think they can’t be surprised, those who think they have things figured out. I love that my God is creative, loving, and writes the best stories. He is the Author of All and loves the unexpected thrill of a plot twist better than anyone.

My grandparents loving Jesus was a major plot twist.

When I was younger, my grandma made Easter dresses and Christmas dresses for me, my sister, and all my cousins. She helped us get ready for Christian holidays with ruffles and lace, poofy dresses and matching hats. But she never joined us at church. She never celebrated with us. My grandparents never (to me, at least…) said church and God was wrong, but they were not interested.

But seventy-something years in, they decided they were.

They had been going to church for a while one Sunday when my grandpa, in the middle of listening to the sermon, decided he needed to be baptized. I don’t know what the message was about or what he heard that made him react so strongly, but my grandpa realized suddenly he needed Jesus and he wanted to be baptized.

So he stood up in the middle of the minister’s message, interrupted the lesson, and demanded to be baptized right then.

Demanded is the absolute best word for the above sentence. He demanded to be baptized. He didn’t ask. He didn’t quietly talk to the minister after service. He didn’t go home to consult friends and family. He didn’t wait for the appropriate time in the schedule. He didn’t fill out a comment card asking for someone to call him. He didn’t wait for the invitation hymn at the end of the service. He needed Jesus right at that moment.

He could not wait to be baptized.

After seventy-odd years, his need was urgent and immediate.

I want Jesus like that. I want to hear His stories, see His grace, and understand His mercy in such an overwhelming way there is not even time to think what would be socially acceptable. I want to react before I worry who might see or what someone might think. I want eyes on Jesus and no one else in my periphery.

I demand Jesus.

I am desperate for Jesus.

Sorry if that seems pushy, but I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.

I need Jesus. I need Him to interrupt my schedule, get in the middle of my plan, and prompt movement and reaction to His love in inappropriate times, when it’s not on the agenda, when it seems like bad timing, when it’s not convenient.

My grandpa was sinful and flawed. He hurt people, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not intentionally. He was selfish and mean. He was not always honest. He was sad and angry and hurting. He was demanding in lots of areas of his life.

He was exactly like me.

He was exactly like you.

But the difference–where things changed for him–was when he realized he needed help. Help from the Ultimate Helper, the Redeemer of Broken Things, the Healer of All Wounds. My grandpa realized doing it alone wasn’t working for him anymore, and he demanded help. Immediate, live-giving help.

And so they baptized him.

My grandpa became a Christ follower, a son of the Living God in a small brick church on a Sunday morning when it wasn’t convenient, planned, or appropriately-timed.

I bet God wishes we were more like my grandpa in that way. More Holy Spirit spontaneous. More Jesus-reactionary. More God-led than schedule-led.

Can you imagine what church and life and our world would look like if we stopped paying so much attention to what’s next on the plan and started being more Spirit-prompted?

I think there would be more dancing in the streets like David.

I think there would be more feasts and celebrations like the Israelites had when they finally made it to the Promise Land.

I think there would be more people in our homes and less loneliness.

I think there would be more Rahabs taking in strangers not even sure why other than because God told us to.

I think there would be more Isaiahs speaking out against destructive living.

I think there would be more honest conversations and better understanding.

I guarantee there would be more Jesus followers.

///////////////////////////////

Today is the third anniversary of my grandfather’s passing. It seems the older I get, the more I want to know family members who were always around but I never paid much attention to. Because I was young and dumb and distracted. Because time doesn’t mean much when you think you’ve got plenty. But now–and especially as I’m reading through the Old Testament and I see how inter-related we all are even generations removed–I want to know my grandparents. What made them who they were, who they are. I want to understand their choices, their lives, what lead them to their places. I see more similarities between us as I get older: as a parent, as a child, as a friend, as a human, and the realization grounds me. Who I am is because of them. Not just in a biological, you-had-my-parents-thanks-for-that way, but in a way that explains my struggles, my characteristics, my joys. We are more alike than different. I just wish I had realized that sooner.

my beginning and theirs

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I can hear her little feet padding down the stairs, normally followed by the tippy-tap of a dog’s paws.

Wordlessly, she slides onto my lap, warm from sleep with glazed eyes and messy hair. She’s still small enough to be held, and this is the one time of day she’ll let me lean her back, cradling her in my arms like I did years ago before she didn’t know to fight me.

I’m an earlier riser and at our old house, I’d stay in bed, playing on my phone and killing time until the rest of the house woke up. But now, at our new house with more space, I can rise without alerting everyone and make my way somewhat-silently to the kitchen. I scoop the coffee grounds, fill the pot, and wait for the first few glorious smells to hit my nose.

I fill my cup, sit down at the dining room table, and open my Bible.

It’s quiet. I’m alone with my God. I’ve got hot coffee.

This is my starting place. My grounding. My safe return. My hopeful beginning.

I’m still trucking along on my year of reading the Bible from beginning to end. I’m about a week behind, the daily readings still signifying May when it’s now June. May was hard and defeating. May was ground-shifting and eye-opening. It’s not lost on me–the irony–that I’m still reading May’s stories even though it’s June. I’m still replaying conversations, heartbreak, and shock from May too. May probably won’t leave anytime soon even if I’ll soon move on from its pages.

On the wall in my dining room, a sign reads: “In the morning when I rise, give me Jesus.”

Yes, please. One million times.

I’m not sure how I got through May without Jesus.

At some point during my quiet time, a daughter of mine will wake up and wander down the stairs. She’ll climb into my lap, I’ll whisper “Good morning” and “I love you so much” into her ear. She won’t respond, but snuggle in tighter. I’ll rub her back, kiss her cheeks, positioning her so I can continue reading scripture as she slowly wakes up while being held by her mom.

She starts with me. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, when my daughters wake up, they find me. They rest in my arms, snuggle into my side as I’m sleeping, sit on my lap as I’m drinking coffee.

I am their grounding, their safe return, their beginning.

Since we moved, I’ve thought often of getting back into the routine of mornings spent at the gym. About rising at 5:30 and making the longer-than-before drive to the Planet Fitness in the neighboring town where I can work up a sweat while lifting weights and running on the treadmill.

But then I think about our mornings together. Jesus and I. The girls and I.

How I start my day with Him. How He steadies me for whatever will come and how I, in turn, steady my daughters.

Eventually, I’ll take a backseat to the mornings. They’ll grow and look for me less. They’ll (hopefully) begin to look for Jesus in their beginnings, in their waking, instead of their mother. This is bittersweet to acknowledge, even though it’s more sweet than anything.

I remember all the mornings I didn’t start with Jesus, and I feel sad for all I missed out on. All the encouragement. All the peace. All the wisdom. All the quiet. All the safety.

I have lost count of the times I’ve come with worry, brokenness, weariness, stress, confusion, or anger, and He’s answered me with exactly what I needed. If I show up, He will too.

Every single time.

I don’t know what people do without Jesus. That thought has come to my mind more times than I can count the past month. There were days in May I couldn’t get out of bed. There were days in May I couldn’t recognize my own reflection because my eyes were too swollen, my skin too lifeless and gray.

I have no doubt I’d still be there without Jesus.

I don’t know what people do without Jesus.

Here’s what is currently steadying me in the mornings:

Relent, Lord! How long will it be?
    Have compassion on your servants.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
    that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
    for as many years as we have seen trouble.
May your deeds be shown to your servants,
    your splendor to their children.
May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;
establish the work of our hands for us—
yes, establish the work of our hands.
-Psalm 90:13-17, NIV translation

I cried out to him with my mouth;
    his praise was on my tongue.
If I had cherished sin in my heart,
    the Lord would not have listened;
but God has surely listened
    and has heard my prayer.
Praise be to God,
    who has not rejected my prayer
    or withheld his love from me!
-Psalm 66: 17-20, NIV translation

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.
Worship the Lord with gladness;
    come before him with joyful songs.
Know that the Lord is God.
    It is he who made us, and we are his;
    we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving
    and his courts with praise;
    give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;
    his faithfulness continues through all generations.
-Psalm 100, NIV translation

 “Praise be to the Lord, who has given rest to his people Israel just as he promised. Not one word has failed of all the good promises he gave through his servant Moses. May the Lord our God be with us as he was with our ancestors; may he never leave us nor forsake us. May he turn our hearts to him, to walk in obedience to him and keep the commands, decrees and laws he gave our ancestors. And may these words of mine, which I have prayed before the Lord, be near to the Lord our God day and night, that he may uphold the cause of his servant and the cause of his people Israel according to each day’s need, so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the Lord is God and that there is no other. And may your hearts be fully committed to the Lord our God, to live by his decrees and obey his commands, as at this time.”
-1 Kings 8:56-61, NIV translation

In the midst of chaos and confusion, He’s telling me to worship Him. It feels fragile and weak. It feels hard and painful. But He’s in the mess and He’s in the healing. When I start my day weary and already tired, He shouts joy and grace over me. When I start my day angry and numb, He showers me with peace and love.

Then I can do that for my daughters.

Just like my Father does for His.

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