Confession

It will take me some courage to say this.

It's always hard to let go of something you've held onto for a long time. It's hard to admit that you were wrong.

But I hope that by sharing this I can give you hope. Because maybe you or someone you love is going through what I've just been through. Maybe it will help you to know that you are not alone. And these problems can be overcome. Maybe your loved one won't have the happy outcome I've had, but just knowing it's possible might lift your heart up today.

So I'm going to be brave and I'm going to tell you my story.

When I was little, my parents had a garden. They grew many things, but the thing I remember was that my parents grew tomatoes. My mother loves tomatoes. With a little sprinkling of salt, if she's still allowed salt these days. I remember that so many times in the summer, dinner was BLTs. Bacon Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches. Usually with corn on the cob on the side. It's a summer backyard garden kind of meal.

Like many children I know today, I didn't really like that dinner. Why? Because I didn't like lettuce and I didn't like tomatoes.

Normal kid stuff, you know. I didn't like peas or broccoli either. I didn't like green beans or celery or carrots much. I certainly didn't like the parsnips and rutabaga my mother sometimes made.

I just didn't like any of that stuff. But this isn't about all that stuff. This is about tomatoes.

Because no matter how many vegetables you don't like, no matter what plant's fruits you declare a dislike for, none will give you so much trouble and grief as admitting a dislike of tomatoes.

But this I have done over and over again in my life. I've spent most of my life not liking tomatoes. I learned, over the years, to be careful who I admitted this to and in what circumstances I shared it. Careful as I was, though, I still sometimes got mocked, talked down to, or told I didn't know what I was talking about. Or that I was just plain wrong.

Well, I'm here today to say that maybe I was wrong. Because yesterday, at a friend's house, while my friend tended to her baby, I happily chose a tomato--the ugliest one--from those she had on her counter. I cut it up and put it over lettuce in a bowl. Then I tore up a few leaves of fresh basil and splashed balsamic vinegar and olive oil over it all. A few sprinkles of salt and pepper. Then I ate it. And you know, I have had many salads served to me by friends. And they've have tomatoes on them and I've eaten them without complaint. But this wasn't that. This wasn't me tolerating the tomato bites. This wasn't me politely eating what was offered me. No.

The simple contents of that bowl were super delicious. And it was all the blame of that tomato. Just somehow it was the most delicious thing. Not just the best tomato I have ever had. But also, like, the best salad I've had in ages.

I've been thinking about writing this post for a few weeks now. But yesterday, finishing that bowl of salad, I knew I had to come clean. I had to make sure that there is no one out there in the world thinking that I STILL do not like tomatoes. Because it's just not true. I do like tomatoes.

I, QueenAnn P., do hereby proclaim that I like tomatoes. Or maybe just this: I like good tomatoes and I willingly eat tomatoes.

Over the years, I've often heard the same response when admitting my dislike of tomatoes. It's so common to hear, "You've just never had a good one." Again, I hate to admit it, but this summer, as I have increasingly willingly eaten the tomatoes that have come into my life, I have to say that they might have been right.

There. I've said it. Now you know my truth. I hope it helps you. I hope it strengthens your faith in the goodness of humanity. If not that, then maybe it just allows you to feel, just for a moment, that I'm not crazy.

I felt her presence

Today at the library, I sat down for a moment to vet a few of the picture books I had gathered for Mina. Don't want to take home any obvious duds. My chair backed up to the back of another chair and I could hear the mother sitting there reading a silly poem aloud to her daughter. When they finished the poem, they spoke for a moment about how they liked the poem, and then the mother said, "Would you like to take this book home with us since we enjoyed it so much?"

I'm not sure what it was about this. Her voice? Her words? They seem unremarkable enough. Something more subtle? Probably. I don't know, but it startled me, hearing her. Woke me up. And I thought, "Oh. She's really here. This woman's really with her daughter. Right now."

I looked around. I had come to the library with my four children, but right now, I was not with any of them. John was reading across the way at a table. The other children were out of sight, but I knew that two of them were staring at screens in a nearby room and the other was wandering, looking for books. We come here together but we do not come to be together. We come to do our own thing.

When was the last time I was truly with them, any of them? When did we do something together? Even when I'm paying attention to my kids, I thought, I realized, I admitted, I'm not that with them. Not like she was.

I'm not beating myself over the head with it, although I suppose I still could. It's not about comparing myself to her. It was just a moment of waking up to the truth that I'm not really present with my kids. I didn't know it before like I know it now, today. I thought I was, at least sometimes. But what I heard or felt or understood from that mother to her child: that was presence. I knew it when I heard it, but I don't know how to do it.

A shift is needed

Today I read this:

We can sometimes forget exactly what the great hope of Christianity is. It is not that Jesus Christ will fulfill all of our own natural aspirations for happiness. It is hope in a triumphant future that only God can and will provide.

Each of us faces a choice. We can choose to see ourselves as the Lord's servants and humbly seek to know what He wants us to do with the talents and time He has given us. As such, we can seek to enlarge His kingdom and prepare for his return. Or we may imagine that the story is all about us. Too many fall into this trap. They forget that they are His servants and begin to imagine that He is theirs. They think erroneously that Christ came to make all their dreams come true. For those in such a trap, prayer becomes like dropping memos in a desk in a heavenly office: "Could you please take care of this as soon as possible?"

(Excerpt from: https://magazine.byu.edu/article/return-of-the-king/ )

I love this, and I read it, in part, as an answer to some of the prayers I've been offering lately. I think some of my prayers are very much like a memo request, but honestly, a lot of them are "this is where my heart is today; please help me change." But I realized (or realized again) today that I've been asking the wrong questions, and that's been making it hard to receive answers to the questions I have been asking.

If I ask, "what should I be doing in my life to find meaning?" how is the Lord supposed to answer me if the only answers I'm open to are outside the work that I'm already doing that the Lord has already told me I should make my primary responsibility?

Or, put another way, where is the sense in spending half my mental energy feeling like I'm not a good enough mom and then spending the other half looking for something outside of motherhood to throw myself into? Why do I not throw my whole self into becoming a better mother? Becoming the mother I feel I could be or should be. Or, 'should' aside, the mother that my children need.

Perhaps that could be answered in a lot of different ways. Sometimes I say It's too hard or I don't want to. But viewed from the perspective above, these reasons are just excuses or are completely backward. Which I know. But this family thing I'm trying to do isn't all about me. It's a little bit about me, because it has the potential to grow me into the person God wants me to be. But it's mostly about striving to serve God in the way he's given me to serve him. It's mostly about preparing my children to serve God, if they so choose.

Another answer is that I'm afraid. I am sincerely afraid that if I throw my whole self into this mothering thing (which I'm sure I have done to varying degrees before now over the years), I will still fail. I will still feel inadequate. That's honest. But it's not a reason to go on half-heartedly. In fact, it may be the best reason of all to "humbly seek" as it says above. 

I'm not sure exactly what this looks like. Yet. Will I choose to start making changes as a result of these insights today? What will be my first step? 

Friends Move Away

In the last 2 years, I have had four good friends move away.

These are women I learned from and worked with. They are women who helped me when I truly needed help. Their love and friendship changed my life for the better. They watched my kids for me and listened to me. They hugged me. They asked me how I was and cared about the answer. They showed me by their example how to have faith. How to forgive. How to serve. How to have a positive attitude in the face of overwhelming burdens. How to be loving even when you don't feel like it. How to be warm.

They brought me dinner after Mina was born. They helped me celebrate my birthday. They told me their stories and their concerns. Their kids were my kids' friends. I went to the baptisms of their children. I babysat their kids and celebrated their joys with them.

I watched their families or careers or plans fall apart and get rebuilt again by sheer grit, optimism, and grace. I prayed for them and for their families. I knew I could count on them if I needed help, and I wasn't afraid to ask them for it.

They are beautiful women, women of such strength and faith. Such love. It shines in their faces. And not the bad kind of shiny face. The good kind.

I have not lost these women. I am still connected with them. I can still call, email, text, or message them. I can still watch their children hit important milestones and see them find joys and victories in their lives. Only from afar.

I miss them. I grieve the change in these friendships. I hope and pray for the happiness and success of these women and their families. And while I know I could never replace them, I also hope for deep loving beautiful bright women to come into my life to fill a bit of the empty space these friends have left. And I am profoundly grateful for the friends who are still here. They are wonderful, too.