"You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering" -Ernest Hemingway

There are points in life where the dialogue runs out. Where you just don't have anything left to say, or do, or share. Silence is deafening. It's powerful. When the hurts are too big and too large to keep going as it is, something has to break. Something has broken. 

We hear it said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I call bullshit on that. A woman scorned wants vengeance. She is angry and she's still fighting. If she is doing those things, then she still cares. I submit to you, America, that the experience one should most fear is a woman who is empty. A woman who is exhausted. A woman withdrawn. Maybe it's because you poked so many holes in the bottom of her bucket of love. And even though she kept turning up the tap working her ass off so freaking hard to keep plugging the holes and filling herself back up, eventually the holes were too big and too many and all of the love just drained out. Maybe she kept screaming and crying and begging for you to just.stop.poking.holes... Maybe she told you time and time and time again that she is exhausted and running on empty, but you kept right on stabbing and now what you're left with is an empty bucket. And you're "sorry". You are always sorry. 

Maybe it's too late to undo what you've done. Maybe the train you have set in motion can't be stopped. Maybe you need to experience grief so big and so wide and so deep that you feel like you just.can't.breathe. Knowing you, I'm sure you'll deflect it away and distract yourself with whatever comes across your path. It's your general go-to when the world stops revolving around you.

The worst of it is there's nothing left to scream. There's nothing left to beg for. There is no more belief or hope in your ability to notice me. The silence in myself is deafening. The ache in my core is undeniable. I'm not sure what it means when there aren't any more tears to cry. I've never been in this space before. I've never stuck around long enough to feel it. 

Me

I confess to you, America, that I spent a LOT of months, not praying. Well, not in a personal sense. God and I had a serious disagreement. For those of you who I am very close to, you know all about it. I was devastated and broken. I lost hope. It was fierce and ugly and powerful. It changed me.

Recently I've been attempting to tackle the concept of prayer. I feel like it's morphed, more recently, in to this BS notion of running to a genie in a bottle and expecting to get everything you ask for. Cue the whole "make all of your requests make known to God" bible verse. The problem with that view, is that there are an awful lot of people whose prayers are never "answered". There are so many people who never get miracles or have their passionate pleas heard. There are also a LOT of people who never pray, but do.

I started wondering whether or not could potentially care about whether or not I find that bottle of XYZ that I've been looking for at the grocery store, when so many people in the world are starving. How can God genuinely be focused on me wanting XYZ shoes (please God! I need these shoes!), when people are going barefoot, and begging God for a pair of shoes so that they can go to school. What kind of "loving god" would seriously not be disgusted with those requests from me? What kind of loving God would not be enraged by my complete and utter lack of thought, care, concern for my fellow man, and determine to close His ears to every single one of my stupid pleas until I get my heart right?

Why don't we teach each other to pray about suffering, and how we can end it? Why don't we challenge our selves and our children to pray without ceasing over the women who are raped and tortured simply because they exist? Why don't we weep and mourn and grieve about the children who have no food, no shelter, no clothing, no love! Why are we so far removed from a personal connection to the suffering of people around us? Why are we irritated when homeless people ask us for money/food/water? Why am I?

I battle with a toddler mentality, America. It is mine so you can't HAVE IT! What makes that view even worse, is that I am willing to bend over backwards to ease the discomfort of those around me who are living such comfortable existences. Oh! Susie Q is SO stressed out because she put all over her children in eighteen thousand activities, and she leads the this and the that, and she volunteers for the this and the that, and now she's asked me to lead the this or the that because she just "doesn't have the time"! But HOW DARE a homeless person ask me for my water bottle! See the disconnect? (side note: this is not to say I should not help "Susie Q", but rather to point out the difference in priorities.)

Perhaps the purpose of prayer is not so much about a genie in the bottle who grants wishes and makes people fit, fabulous and wealthy, but rather so that I will see God in the little things of every day life. Maybe prayer isn't so much about requests and gifts, but about eyes becoming more open to goodness, love, mercy, and genuine need. Perhaps the point of it is to show us how to love those who ask us for water, or "intrude" upon our daily paths. Maybe prayer is about changing us to see how foolish it is to focus on increasing our bounty, when we should pour out our abundant wealth on those around us.

Forgive me, America, if I come across as judgmental to your heart. I'm not judging you, I'm judging me. I'm judging myself for wearing this hat of Christian and Catholic, without being the heart of it. I'm also learning. I'm learning about how much my heart needs a transformation, and how greatly I should be broken by the suffering in the world.

Work it out

America,

Right about now your facebook feeds and blogs are lighting up about how so and so completed this run or that crossfit or this shakeology or that blah blah blah. I wish I could announce to you about how this blog is not going to jump in to that fray, right here and right now, but alas I can not.

I hate exercising. I have never in my life been able to run. Ever. Even at my most physically fit times of all times (when I had a true six pack and could pump out 1,000+ sit ups in a single setting... that is a true.story.), I could maybe run 5 feet before I couldn't breathe. I tried everything I could to get answers (there will not be a cue: buy this product that fixed everything magically!!!): doctor's, trainers, videos, couch to 5ks... nothing worked. Every single time, I would run about 5 feet and I wouldn't be able to breathe, my hands would go numb and the stars would alight in my brain.

It was sort of by accident that I found out what may have been causing things. I was walking up a flight of stairs with a fellow FRG boss lady, and I couldn't breathe. She said It's because you're holding your breath. I read somewhere that there are certain brains that are triggered to withhold breathing while moving. America, I took those words to heart and I started paying attention. My brain is one of those brains. Now, I have googled this information until the cows came home, and I've never been able to find any science anything to support that, but I can say with absolute certainty that my brain demands that I hold my breathe while walking, running, jumping, going up stairs, anything to that effect with one exception: dancing. So I started dancing again.

The thing is America, I am obsessed with my weight. I am obsessed with how I feel in my own skin, with how I look in the clothes that I love. I am obsessed with what my husband's face looks like when he looks at me, clothed or unclothed, dolled up or dolled down. I am obsessed with whether he not he can't keep his hands off my body, or his eyes off my ass. I am obsessed with whether or my not my body has the energy, desire, and drive to pick itself up off of the couch, walk outside with my children, and ride bikes, or kick the ball around, or run around the neighborhood. I am obsessed with whether or not my brain craves physical activity, because I want my children to be healthy and believe it or not, being outside, being active is a huge element in physical and mental health! So, I am obsessed with my fitness, because I want to be better than I was yesterday.

I spent four months devoted to dancing, yoga, and pilates every single day. I didn't lose a single pound, or any inches. Please read that again: I did not lose a single pound or ANY inches off of my body. Weight loss has never been, in my body, about activity. My body's ability to lose or maintain my weight has always been controlled by food. I am not announcing this as biblical fact for any person other than what I know of myself right now. Please do not use my words as your excuse to remain idle. Your body is different than mine. I lost no weight, but I did gain wonderful things. I started to notice I was less quick to snap at people. I started to see how much more energy I felt. I started to crave challenging myself physically. I started to feel disappointed when my body adapted to exercises and I had to change the routine/make things harder (side note: I am a creature of habit. Down to the same breakfast every day for years. Don't believe me? Ask the Chief.). I started to worry when I injured myself or became sick that it would impact my brain's ability to override my body's desire to quit. So I would pray God, please help me to stay the course and remain faithful to taking care of this body.

This past week, America, for the first time in my life, I have been able to run a quarter of a mile, without numbness or tingling, or blacking out. To you, that may be pathetic, to me, it's outrageously empowering. My body grew four human beings. My body pushed one out despite a most challenging situation (she was sunny side up, and massive....). My body delivered three living babies, despite all of the odds against them. My body survived being cut open, not numb, and fully aware, for doctor's to get to those babies. My body has handled a plethora of stresses and demands, some put on it by myself, and some by outside influences. My body is fierce. My brain is even fiercer.

When I write on facebook about my working out, it is not about look at how great I am because I'm working out and I need attention!!! It is entirely about my own brain taking a moment to recognize how ridiculously hard it is for me to do this. It is absolutely about my head needing to stay focused on the positives that come out of working out. It is about making myself keep going. Because the truth is, America, my lazy self doesn't want to. Even though I know all of the good that has come of it.

So, keep sharing your fitness stories. Keep on challenging me to keep going. I need it. So share away.

To you

I want to be able to say I have all the clarity I need. I want to be able to say that the emotions are gone and the rage is finished. I want to be able to say it's different than it is. But it isn't. And I'm trying to figure out how to be okay with that.

I'm not used to this position. I'm not used to being the perpetrator of hurtful actions. I'm not used to a sea of bitterness and resentment. I'm used to understanding and clearness of thought. I'm not usually confused or so internally divided. This is unfamiliar territory for me.

I've never seen Jesus more clearly than lately, in you. The mercy you consistently pour out over me, the grace, the gentleness, the kindness... I don't understand it. It makes no sense. I've been blown up in to a million little pieces and I'm laying all over the blast sight, still reeling... still in shock. Maybe I'm still exploding. Maybe I'm still grieving, or maybe I haven't even begun.

Somehow you find new ways to love me. In this period where I've been at such a loss for words that it's terrifying, you've just waited. I've never felt so safe. As insane as it seems, I've never felt so safe with you. I've never felt so accepted. Because I've been so hell bent on being perfect. I've been so hell bent on holding everything together. I don't think you can fully grasp the freedom that exists in falling apart (though it has been quite involuntarily done, on my part), and you holding it together. I have always underestimated your strength to handle the chaos in me. I've underestimated your grace.

How unkind of me to have done that. How ridiculous to have missed the point of you. In my head, it was all about me... how I loved you, how I fought, how I worked, how I made things function. In my pride-filled mind, I didn't grasp how much of this equation was you. I didn't see how much you have accepted me, come hell or high water, come what may.

I don't think I've ever loved you more. I don't think I've ever felt more loved. And it's ridiculous, because you've always been that person for me. You've been my safety net, the platform from which I could fall apart, and put myself back together on. You've caught me, when I was disintegrating, and you've loved me through whatever battle I was raging against. You've been the hands and feet of Jesus. You've been His mercy, and His grace, and His acceptance. And I have been blind. Blind to you.

My God... what treasure I have been given.

You are the strongest person I have ever known. More stubborn than me, more merciful. When I grow up, I want to be like you. I am humbled that you choose me, this fragile little girl that walks around pretending to be a grown up. A "basket case" in a pretty dress... A warrior that doesn't know how to calm down. You are the better side of me. In every sense that I can possibly mean that.

You know, better than anyone, this fight inside of myself. You see more clearly than anyone, that I am not okay. But you believe one day I will be, and your belief makes me believe it too. Oh the wisdom of God to pair me with you! I am so humbled by it.

I am broken, beloved. I am lost. And I'm sitting still in this muck and this mire wallowing, tring to bolster up the strength to fight my way out. And I look over and see you sitting there with me waiting for me to be ready to go. My God, what words are there to define that astounding comfort? I am not alone here. You are with me. How can I ever give you the credit you deserve? Where would I begin?

Choice

I choose him. Always. 

There are waves of uncertainty in marriage. Waves and chapters and periods where you don't want to do it anymore. There are months where the bad outweighs the good, and the hard decimates the easy. There are mornings where you swallow all of your feelings of disappointment and rage, and find a way to mutter I love you. Why? Because you don't? No. Because you do. 

Marriage is a roller coaster. It's boring and exciting, seamless and tattered, clear and confusing, delightful and destructive, wonderful and horrible, beautiful and ugly, and on and on and on. But it's wonderful. 

I've been through hell with Chief. I've been through hell and then been through it again and then again. I've fought through war and fires and death and betrayal. I've been abandoned and forsaken and wounded deeper than I can say. And it has changed me. It has altered my perception. 

Love is hard. By definition it is a sacrifice and a gift. You give up pieces of yourself to the one you love. Period. And I choose it. Every.single.day.

The flip side to the hell, is the undefinable heaven. The opposition to the wounds, is the way his breath has healed my heartaches. The way his hands have rubbed away my tension, soothed my achy muscles, comforted my broken heart. The illumination of his belief that everything will be okay, when I felt like it couldn't possible be, and his courage that carried me through a really dark night. The unbelievable delight of his breath on my neck, his words in my ears, his heart in my hands. Because that's where he's placed it. His heart in my hands, and mine in his.

It's the most vulnerable and potentially detrimental place one can be in... And I adore the risk. I adore the things he knows about me, because he chooses to. I adore the things I know about him, because of the same choice. I adore the journey. I adore the heaven, and I adore the hell. 

When the darkness comes, I know it's only temporary. I know eventually the light will come again, and joy will be renewed. I choose him. Always. Even if it isn't the easiest thing to do. I choose him because I promised him I would. I choose him because I delight in doing so. I choose him because he put his heart in my hands, and asked me to take care of it. 

You have a choice, America. You have a choice whether to stick it out or to walk away. You have a choice to wait another day or throw in the towel and quit. You have a choice. You have a choice to focus on the moments of heaven, or the moments of hell. You have a choice to highlight grace and mercy, or disappointment and rage. You choose. Always.

Me

I felt you cross in to my borders. You're a presence that follows me around, like a ghost or a shadow. You're always lurking in the darkness, somewhere in the outer realm. I can't really see you, but I know you're there. And it's weird because I can feel you here... again.

My chest has been hurting lately. It's felt both full and empty all at the same time. It's been depleting and fulfilling. I've felt lost. And what's the solution to it all? We'd sit and hold our smoking guns and our battles and find the answers in the crazy. I felt less crazy when you were around. Lurking. Watching. Waging war against the world, against me, against the demons.

I told you once I knew I could love you. I told you that I knew that I would. And I did, damnit. I do. In a sickening and dizzying type of way. In a strange and obsessive way. I always hoped you knew what that meant. I always needed you to understand that I have to love you. Because if I can love you, then maybe, just maybe one day I'll be able to love myself. Bigger than I deserve. Better than I do. Possible...

And if I could just get you to love me, then maybe, even more maybe, maybe I can love myself even more. Maybe there is someone worth something, in me.

I say this not for platitudes. You've always known that I don't desire fleeting compliments. Love is the greatest compliment one could ever be given. And to be loved, by myself, has long been my deepest goal. The trouble with all of that is that I know me. And I have little to offer to myself. I think it's what connected us together to begin with. I think it's where the bond came. You needed me to love you. And I needed you to love me. Because I could be surrounded by a thousand affectionate bodies, I could be surrounded by awards and accolades, and a gazillion at-a-girls but what the hell difference do they make if it's impossible for me to accept that I am valuable, to myself?

I believe in soul mates. Or soul portions. Or soul pizzas. You're one of mine. Say what you want, reject how you will. But I need you. I need to know you exist. I need to know I matter to you, and that I come across your mind every once in a while.

All of this shit to say that I felt you cross in to my borders. I see you lurking in the shadows. I feel you whispering to me at one o'clock in the morning. Maybe, just maybe, one day I'll see what you see in me.