The Importance of Failure

Someone close to me is walking through their husband’s first major work related “failure.” You know the feeling of dread that a guy gets before he hears the words “turn your head and cough” or “bend over, you’re going to feel three fingers”? These have nothing on the deep, deep sense of dread, shame, and anger he goes through when failing at his job.

I am not a man, of course, so I cannot tell you what a man goes through with complete certainty.

I only have a dad who has failed and a husband who has failed.

And let me tell you, watching a man that you love- fail- just plain SUCKS.

***

When I was a little girl my dad and mom moved my sisters and I from small town Mississippi (where all of our family lived), to the bustling, overcrowded, multi-cultural, drug-ridden side of the biggest city I had ever seen with my own eyeballs.

Fort Worth, Texas.

Before we moved my mom was a youth minister and my dad was a police officer. But one day he had an epiphany. My dad, the police officer with anger issues, felt like he heard God tell him to join the clergy. Become a minister. Go to seminary. Change the course of your entire life for MY sake. Incredibly, my dad listened.

My dad put a lot on the line.

He had three little girls: 8,7, and 3 who had only known life around our grandparents, life in a small town, life roaming in the woods and playing under magnolia trees. He wagered all that on a dream. An epiphany from God.

His dad helped us move to Texas and I will always remember my Papaw crying in the Pizza Hut parking lot as he hugged our necks and said good-bye. I had no way of knowing then that my Papaw and Mamaw would never come visit me. That because we were moving to a different state, my grandparents would not make any effort to be a part of my life. Maybe my dad knew the bitterness he was stirring up by leaving his parents behind. Still, he wagered that on a dream.

We moved to the ghetto. They started seminary. And three months later, I turned nine.

I only remember this because for the first time in my life my mom let me buy party favors for my birthday party. I was so excited. I had Lisa Frank bags with Lisa Frank stickers and coloring books and bubbles and candy for everyone who came. And as the minutes ticked away and no one came, I remember my mom wiping tears off her face and quietly slipping the party bags off the table while my dad took the few presents they were able to afford and unwrapped them, divided them up, and re-wrapped them to make it look like there was more there than there actually was. Like maybe I had a friend who had come and brought me a present.

My parents wagered a lot on this dream.

Dad took a job as a security guard at the local hospital to make ends meet. For a while he worked at a half-way house. Mom went on staff at a small church with a pastor who slept around with women in the congregation and stole money from the church. My sisters and I got lice from the neighbor kids and I spent the third grade convinced that, “Mexican men kidnapped little white girls with green eyes who walked home by themselves from school.”

I’m not sure who told me that, but I had never known anything urban or multi-cultural in my life; I was little and I believed it.

I spent an entire year convinced that I would be kidnapped as I walked home from school.

Several years later my parents graduated seminary and my mom found the perfect job at a church that ended up being our home for many, many years.

But my dad found nothing.

Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. He worked jobs he hated to put food on the table. He doubted whether he ever “heard” God in the first place. He lived, for quite some time, in the land of dread, shame, and anger. He had failed. He wagered everything on this dream. On what he thought was a calling from God. He put it all on the line. Uprooting his family. Changing the entire course of his little girl’s lives. Quitting the only career he had ever known and ever been good at to become “a man of the cloth.” And two years after graduating seminary he was bagging newspapers for minimum wage in the basement of a printing plant in downtown Dallas.

***

I have seen a man fail.

It is brutal. Gut-wrenching. And deeply heart breaking.

To watch someone risk it all and fail is to watch their heart being ripped from their own hands. And to know, that they know, the whole world is watching them fall a part- well, it only adds insult to life-threatening injury.

At least that’s what it feels like.

I would rather be run over by a car, or slowly tortured than to watch my dad or my husband have their confidence and dreams stripped from them.

Take me Lord.  Please. I will endure anything. I will voluntarily be tortured. I will work three jobs. I will scrub toilets. I will make a deal with the devil. Anything. Just don’t let a man that I love be humiliated. Don’t let him fail.

***

Last night, out of no where, Ryan said he would love a Nissan Maxima. Something sporty, but grown up.

“Really, I just so desperately want my own car.”

“What, you don’t love our vibrating 99’ Ford Escort? You don’t want to share a car with me anymore?!? That’s tacky. I want to share an old nasty car with you for the rest of our lives!!!”

I make light of it, but it is a constant reminder of our financial reality. Our failures. I see it in Ryan’s eyes and it kills me. He’s a grown man who has worked his butt off and sacrificed so much, for so many people, for so long. He deserves his own car.  Or at least a car that doesn’t vibrate.

Watching a man that you love stare failure in the face is numbing.

***

So to my friend, who is standing there today, I am so sorry. I have been there.

And here’s what I’ve learned along the way.

1. We all fail.
2. We all process failure differently.
3. Failure, eventually, ultimately, is good.

In light of that...

1. Don’t try and act as if he didn’t really fail. IE: “It’s not your fault, it’s that a**hole boss of yours.” “The test was rigged” “The process was unjust”  “Those results can’t be right... you don’t fail.”

Don’t put the pressure on someone you love of being incapable of failure. Trust me, they are actually capable of great failure. And while it feels good and does no harm to have the initial gripe session where you blame and bash the rest of the world, ultimately, the man failed and deep down he needs to be able to come to terms with his own limitations.

No one wants to acknowledge failure. It’s a bitter pill. But I would wager to say, at the same time, most men don’t want a woman in their life (be it mom, friend, sister, wife, lover) who goes around making excuses for them and being angry at the world for the perceived injustices that their male counterpart is experiencing. So after the initial anger and grieving are over, it’s ok to let it sit there. The failure. It’s ok to acknowledge its existence. He failed. It sucks. But he failed. Don’t make excuses for him.

2. Don’t force the process. Every human will process failure differently. Let him process the way he needs to. You don’t need to send out an urgent prayer request if he wants to keep the whole thing quiet and you don’t have to build him up into superhuman status if he just wants to sit and sulk for a while. The worst part of watching someone you love fail is that you simply can’t fix it for them and you have to allow them to muddle through much of the guilt and shame by themselves. Life is not meant to be a singular experience, that is for sure, but there is something about staring your shortcomings in the face- without the rose colored glasses and overprotective presence of a perpetual cheerleader, that causes you to grow.

Somedays dad would come home from bagging papers and he was just angry. I didn’t want him to be and I remember trying to make the spaghetti noodles extra good on those nights so that maybe it would make things better. Better dinner. Better life. But my sixth grade attempts of “fixing” my dad fell miserably short because what he needed was not a fixer, what he needed was the freedom to be mad. You gotta give them space to process their failures without writing it off as “God’s will” “somebody else’s fault” or trying to fix it for them so that they don’t have to face it at all.

The best thing you can do is give them the space they need to process the failure at hand. Let them know you are there for them and you love them unconditionally... then... zip it. Sit on your hands. Tie your ankles together with rope if you must. But don’t dominate his process of facing failures with lame attempts to rescue him.

3. Finally, as you watch the brutal process and long to make things better, take up the cause of HOPE, because eventually, ultimately, failure is good.

Failure is good for the man who lives in prideful arrogance. Failure is good for the man who lacks grace. Failure is good for the man who has lived a charmed life. Failure is good for the man who lacks compassion. Failure is good for the man who believes he can control his own destiny.

Failure is good for the man, woman, boy or girl who longs to know God; because it is only in our brokenness that we realize our need for grace.

Failure is good for the man who desires wisdom. Failure is good for the man who wants to live empathetically. And failure is good for the man who seeks to love others, because failure makes us real. Failure makes us relatable. Failure evens out the playing field. No one is beyond it or above it. Everyone fails.

Failure makes a man fully a man.

Failure is eventually, ultimately good.

***

I grew up and had lots of birthday parties with lots of friends and lots of presents.

I have more “adopted” grandparents than any kid I’ve ever known, and it has more than made up for the grandparents who chose to take a back seat in my life.

My dad got his dream job after being jobless for nearly three years.

The job was working for Baylor University. He sent my sisters and I to a top-ranked, private college for free. Not one penny of debt. And we have incredible degrees and life experiences that he never dreamed he would be able to give us.

My dad is a pastor now and has been in ministry for over 15 years.  He is an incredibly gifted minister who pours into the lives of others and makes a difference in the world around him.

The dream he wagered so many things against came to pass and his failures have became valleys of the past.

Most importantly, my dad walked a way from his failures a new man.

A man of grace. Courage. And perseverance. A man of empathy, humility, and awareness. Aware that he was not perfect, and no one else was for that matter. My dad came out on the other side of his failures a better man...

And I am convinced your husband will as well.  He is a good man. And this might be the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Don’t lose hope sweet friend.

Gift Giving.

When I was a little girl, I fell in love with giving people presents.

Don't get me wrong, I loved getting presents too. And, I loved saving up my money to buy things for myself. One of my earliest memories is going to Fred's Salvage in Laurel, Mississippi after I had worked a very hard Charlie Brown Sno Cone stand sale in my front yard.

I made three dollars.

All I wanted to buy was scotch tape, cherry chapstick, and garland.

I loved the smell of the first two and was convinced that I needed shiny red and green garland strung all over my room to have a truly magical Christmas. Plus, garland, I rationalized, would attract more customers to my business ventures. And at five years old, I was all about starting my own businesses in my bedroom.

Buying scotch tape, cherry chapstick, and garland is one of my earliest, most cherished memories.

But even more than saving money and buying things for myself, I couldn't wait to pick out the perfect gifts for other people.

I liked giving gifts so much that as I got older my parents would never give me money for my birthday because they knew that as soon as I got birthday money in November, I started Christmas shopping for the month of December! And as much as I wanted things for myself, it was just too alluring to have the money to spend on the perfect gift for someone else. And that's what I did, and still do. I habitually use my birthday money and gift cards to start buying up the perfect present for someone else.

I can't stand it. If I had a million dollars I'd blow it in an afternoon... mostly on other people.

Skye

There's a sixth grade girl who absolutely adores Annie. She babysits her from time to time while I get work done around the house and I hear them squealing and laughing together. It's really sweet.

A few months ago Skye was at a weekend event with us (her father was the speaker) and when we came back after lunch she was beaming. She spent her break buying Annie and I presents. She bought Annie a mirror because, "Annie loves looking at herself more than any baby I've ever played with!" Next door was a funky, cheap jewelry store and she picked out a bracelet for me to wear on stage. One that matched the outfit I was already wearing! She's a fashionista. Her dad was so confused... he was shocked that she wanted to go shopping for us and not for herself.

I found myself telling her, the way an older sister tells their little sis, "Skye, God has given you a tender heart. A lot of times you think about other people before you think about yourself. That's why you love to give gifts. But be prepared: not everyone will give the way you do. And sometimes when you give, you won't get anything back. And sometimes you'll spend a lot of time thinking of the perfect present for someone, and it won't even cross their mind to ever buy you a present. It can hurt your feelings and make you bitter if you're not prepared for it. But you just keep giving anyways. Whether you get something back or not. Keep thinking about other people."

After it spewed out of me, I wondered, where did that come from? Poor girl just bought us presents and I'm lecturing her on the shortcomings of inadequate gift givers. I sounded like a bitter old woman who got coal in her stocking one too many times!

Truth Is

We aren't born with an instinctive nudge to place others ahead of ourselves. In the gift giving world this means that while we might find a million things we love at Target for ourselves, it may not cross our minds to think of someone else while we are shopping. You might be guilty of this if you seem to leave a Christmas shopping trip with more things for yourself than anyone else. You might be guilty of this if you find yourself in the aisle of a department store or browsing online catalogues and seem to be at a complete and utter loss of having any idea what to even get another person (the person is often a close friend or family member at that!). You might be guilty of this if you cringe at having to spend money on someone else besides yourself... like you dread birthdays because- there goes your Galleria money down the drain!

As a mom, I'm excited to teach my daughter how to avoid these pitfalls, and instead, how to become a joyful giver. I believe the reason Skye found so much joy in buying us presents is that she has seen someone in her life exemplify what it means to joyfully think of others. To be excited for someone else. To give, just because.

Oh, if we only learned earlier what it means to cheer for someone else. To want their best. To give them a better present than we get ourselves...

the world would be sweeter

My mom taught us to be good gift givers. She was always excited to give my dad the perfect present. She was always excited to give us each and every birthday gift because she had been looking for them, thinking about them, and buying them for months. The perfect present. You could see her face about to explode she was so excited.

One year I told my mom, "You need to get something else for dad because he got you the most amazing thing in the whole world. It's huge! And I'm afraid you don't have enough for him." I think my sisters told her the same thing. We were very nervous that Dad had "overbought" for her and so she started searching for another gift. And, a few days before Christmas I remember her coming home with another gift. A leather jacket. It cost one hundred dollars, might as well been a million. We assured her that now they would be even.

Dad got mom a full sized body pillow that year.

It was the biggest thing we had ever seen.

This always makes me laugh.

Teaching our Kids to Give their Best!

I've never written a blog like this, and I have to admit, I feel rather old- or out of place- assuming that I have wisdom or advice to pass out to other parents! But I guess I' about to turn thirty, so here goes:

What my mom taught me about gift giving:

1. Listen to those you love and watch what they get excited about in stores or during TV commercials. Keep a mental note. Or an actual note! Go back to the store that day if you can and get the very thing they were mentioning. Keep it for their next big celebration. If you have kids, make a point to say, "Girls, let's remember that daddy really loved that lawn mower and start to save money so we can buy it for him." Teaching our kids to be interested in what their brothers, sisters, or friends like, sets them up for a lifetime of intentionally listening in order to give to others. Setting aside money teaches them that sometimes we give up things for ourselves in order to give someone else a special gift.

2. Start a present closet at the house. When you are at a store with your kids, allow them to pick out a few clearanced items for the gift closet. While you might want to let them get one small item for themselves, the point of the gift closet is to stash away really cool gifts for other people. It teaches them a great lesson to be able to say, "I know you'd love that too, but it will be more special for Julie if we just buy it for her birthday!" The gift closet is about always finding a bargain and having gifts on hand at any given moment, but more importantly, it is about teaching our kids that they can fall in love with fun gifts and be excited about giving those things to their friends instead of having them for themselves.

3. Allow gift giving to be fun. Keep your eyes open for discounted gift bags, ribbon, wrapping paper, etc. Encourage your children to put together the gift themselves. Even if we weren't with mom when she bought things for the gift closet, we always knew what was in there! For me, one of the most fun parts of the process was going into the gift closet and picking out two or three things to put together in a package. Even if it was an odd mix like: snow gloves, lip gloss, and a hello kitty t-shirt, I took great pride in putting together funky gifts and my friends never knew the difference! Giving our children freedom to be creative in the gift-giving process allows them to put their own stamp of approval on the gift and feel like it's truly their own creation.

4. Finally, it's never too late for you to become a great gift-giver. This doesn't mean you spend a lot of money or stress yourself out over finding the perfect gift. There is NOTHING more unattractive about a gift than a giver who tells you her grief over finding the gift, her annoyance, her mall induced headaches, or someone who throws in the occasional, "Well, he better like it. It cost a fortune." Yuck. It's better to give a gift card or a wad of cash than to be in a foul frenzy over buying presents. That's not what I mean!

What I mean is this, as moms and dads- as humans- it's never too late to begin to take joy in other people and what they love. So ask yourself, when is the last time I really listened to my husband and picked up on something he is enjoying and bought him a gift? When is the last time my kids came home from school and I picked up their favorite _______ just because? Go through Target. You don't even have to buy anything, but mentally make the trip about other people and not about yourself! Hard to do, I know!

It's never too late to model what it means to be excited to love on someone else and to show our children how that translates into gift giving ... whether that's a homemade card, a home cooked meal, a fun gift for a friend, or a surprise for dad/mom. Teaching our kids to take joy in bringing joy to others is a priceless gift!

On that note, I thought I'd share my latest purchases for the 'gift closet' that I hope Annie will fall in love with one day. These are ALL from Target and they are all currently 75% off... so go stock up for your gift closet and let the kids do the buying!

Bag of Balls: $5.08

Rake: .75 cents

Lion Bubble Blower: $2.24

I bought one bag of balls for Annie and one for the gift closet. Annie is in LOVE with her $10 ball pit! Summer pools are on sale for $5. Balls are $5. This is the greatest idea I've had in a long time!

The red clearance stickers that I have so grown to love at Target!

Bright Pink Sand Wagon: $2.87.

It comes with a shovel, sand pale, and a few other gadgets. Annie has been pulling it around the house, with her balls in it, all night.

(Another idea: Buy up these blue and pink wagons and use them for your next baby shower gift! Stuff them with baby diapers or teddy bears and use them as a decoration or a gift bag!)

Penwheels: .24 cents.

Party favors or fake flowers for your little girl. You can even chop these penwheels off their sticks, tie string through the middle and use a coat hanger to create your own sparkly mobile. For 24. cents there are about 24 million things you can do with these things!

Hope these ideas have helped. Happy Gift Giving.

Mom, We Need to Talk

I've got two things on my mind this morning friends:

1. Why Facebook, why?

2. Why Mom, why?

What would possibly possess you to publish this picture for the entire world to see? And Lord knows if any of you have met my mom, in the real world or cyber world, this woman will befriend a cat- or cow for that matter-

so when you put a picture up like this MOM a LOT OF PEOPLE SEE IT.

I got an email from Ryan Gregg (band mate, good friend) directed to the whole band and it just said, "OH MY GOSH has anyone else seen this?" Of course I am not a Facebook addict like the rest of you people, so NO, I haven't seen my seventh grade face, awkward body, and weird family dressed in pioneer clothes posing with guns and whips and whiskey bottles plastered all over the forsaken world wide Internet.

MOOOOOOOM

When I was in the seventh grade at Byrd Middle School in Duncanville, Texas I made it onto the volleyball team. The "B" team. I was completely spastic. Completely uncoordinated. And I couldn't even serve the ball overhand. Didn't matter. You would've thought an Olympic volleyball player had taken the court the way she carried on hoopin' and hollerin'. I'm not making this up. Brandi? Brandi can totally vouch for this.

She brought a cow bell and wore her t-shirt and wore pins with my face on it and carried on like we were playing for a million dollars. I was in seventh grade. B Team. Doing the whole underhanded serve which usually went straight behind me, hit the basketball goal, and I would spastically startle and end up ducking. Didn't matter.

I was the world's best volleyball player.

She's the kind of mom with no "child sensor." It genuinely doesn't occur to her that the whole world is not interested in every detail of our lives. It doesn't occur to her to be censored, reserved, shy, or to withhold any feeling or emotion she may have about us or about God or about her former pet cow. Why wouldn't everyone want to know everything about us? Why shouldn't she bear her soul to the world? Why shouldn't she have enough pride and encouragement to save the entire planet from depression and lack of confidence?

Oh my gosh.... I'm just like her, aren't I?!?!?!?!

Well, that's all. Since I'm not on Facebook I figured I ought to respond to this new development in some way.

1. We look like the Manson's mom.

2. Just because we had no money and went on vacation to state parks in Arkansas, free health expo's, and Six Flags doesn't mean the world has to know. I mean, don't you got any Disney Pictures? Where we have little Minnie Mouse ears and look like respectable ladies? Granted, we look like acceptable ladies in that pic... if we were driving freaking horse buggies, plowing the field, and burying babies because of measles...

3. I forgive you for embarrassing me out of love. Sometimes I want to lock you in a closet with lots of stuffed animals and just let you talk your little heart of love out until you lose your voice, but, I'm almost thirty and I've never heard you lose your voice my entire life. That is really amazing now that I think about it. Never once lost your voice. Dad, is that a cruel joke by God or what?

That woman's never lost her voice! Ha! I love it!

I love you mom. Thanks for being so proud of us that you even think we are beautiful with corsets, boas, and whips.

Dear Dadsky...

I already feel like a nine year old on the playground with this blog.

"Noooo, my daddy is better."

I mean, how do you write about someone you love on a lame, commercially lucrative holiday? For that matter, how do you buy them an appropriate gift?

"I love you dad" and "power-saw" don't really compute in my mind. Even a Starbucks gift card so my dad can devour his venti non-fat, extra hot, White Chocolate Mocha's don't really seem to do the trick. And don't get me started on Hallmark cards. I don't come from a card giving family. In my mind, if you need to write someone a card, you make it yourself. Some signature artwork on the front, markers, a glue stick, some old family pictures or magazine clippings, and a heartfelt letter inside, voila! Hallmark has nothing on that business!

Still, here I am wide-awake and keenly aware that I'm not with my dad on Father's Day and I didn't even make him a homemade card this year. And even though I know that he and I both know that a shirt from Sear's or a gadget from Home Depot would not really mean all that much to him, I want to give him something... and all I can come up with are words.

My dad's the best dad in the world.

He wasn't always. And he'd be the first to tell you how far he's come. He'd be the first to tell you his flaws and shortcomings; his regrets from when my sisters and I were little girls. Unfortunately, some days we'd be in line to add to that list.

But mostly, the boy who raised us as little girls is not the man we have now as our father.

We have grown up in his arms and he has grown up in ours.

So if you ask my sisters and I to tell you about our dad, we will tell you about a man who loves us fiercely. We will tell you about a man who cries with us. Who hugs us. Who writes us emails of encouragement. And stands by our side while we defy him, logic, and other guiding lights and make tragic mistakes... still, he stands right beside us. We will tell you about a dad who uprooted his family to follow a dream, only, that dream led to unemployment. For years on end. We will tell you about how that man went and worked at demeaning jobs to pay the bills but never grew so bitter that he quit. In fact, he just seemed to trust God's prompting in his life; he just seemed to get wiser and more kind. Grace. That's it. We'd tell you about a man who has learned a lot about grace. And patience.

But mostly, we'd just tell you about our dad who woke us up by blaring music through the house and singing at the top of his lungs. A man who bought a tiny gun, the size of a toy car, that lit up and made police siren noises, just so he could stick it in our ears to wake us up in the most torturous way possible as teenagers. A man who then got his feelings legitimately hurt when we yelled at him for doing such. The guy who found me in the living room and rocked me the night before I left for college and then, held me again after my first college boyfriend, who I was sure I would spend my whole life with, broke up with me in the car outside of the house. The man who made us all sit on the living room couch and talk through our fights before we could leave the house for the day. Who always sang songs in an atrocious country accent and made jokes that were not funny at all, but made us laugh all the time.

A lot of people don't have good dads and they turn out just fine. A lot of people have amazing dads and they end up mean and crazy anyways. So I get it, a dad or mom or home life doesn't necessarily make or break you. Still, I attribute what I do with my life to my dad (and mom)... who loved me so well that I had the courage to do it in the first place.

I have a treasure trove of beautiful letters from my dad. My mom. My sisters. My friends. I pull them out on days that I am sad and don't want to get out of bed. On days where I am weary and wondering if I am crazy for leading this abnormal, sometimes road weary, homesick life. I pull them out when I need to be reminded that I am not alone. That I am loved. And most of me wants to keep them all private, tucked away just for me.

But the thing about my dad is, he would want you to feel those things to. He would want you to know the love of a father. And while he wouldn't voluntarily share his words with the world, he would understand that when I do it, I give a little bit of him a way. The part of him that every little girl and boy needs. An advocate. A cheerleader. A fan. A coach. A friend. A safe house. A daddy.

With that, here are a few words from a dad who has always loved me well:

"My favorite author, M. Craig Barnes, says that the Christian life is a process of giving up the dreams we have for ourselves in order to receive the dreams God has for us. I pray that God's dreams for you will bring you more joy than you could have ever imagined. I LOVE YOU, MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW, AND I COULDN'T BE MORE PROUD OF YOU....not because of what you do but because of who you are. Love ya, me"

"Jenny, your honesty and transparency, while sometimes raising people's ire, is what sets you apart from so many others. This is a ministry that only a few are willing to embrace. You know, I am your biggest fan, but only because you like what you're doing, not because I need you to be a rock star or a great minister. I just need you to be happy and safe in the arms of a loving God....everything else is just life. Love ya, me"

"J, hey, have I mentioned lately how much I love you and how happy I am that you're getting to do your music?"

"J, how cool is it that you had a chance to meet astronauts, and especially one that just came back last week! I think it is wonderful, and, looking at your other email, I think its great that you allowed God to use you to touch another soul. I know you at times don't like to think about it, but Jenny, you are a gifted minister....not a minister like church staff work, but you are someone who can connect people with God, and that is a rare person indeed.

And the Funny Stuff:

A letter I wrote to my dad after he spent too much money on me:

We, jenny's beloved parents do hereby promise to celebrate her 28th birthday with her at her home on the evening of November 18th. We formally by law agree to her terms mentioned hereafter. No presents. No gift cards. No money. No large items. And no shopping trips. Only small strange items that have already been purchased by strange mother will be allowed (and trust me you know she’s already picked them out). Nothing else will be given. We agree to this joyfully since we have already spent several hundred dollars in cute pregnancy outfits on our daughter since September. We have already paid a thousand dollars for her unborn child. And we plan on giving her a car (which is still under consideration). We just sent her to get an amazing full body massage. And have fed her Mexican food frequently over the past two years. We agree that in light of these expressions of love and abundance we will simply celebrate her birthday by providing a dessert and letting her cook dinner for us. And nothing else! Just our love and company. Here ye, here ye,amen, allalujah. AGREED????

My Dad’s Response:

Oh thouest of jennyith, verily I sayeth unto theeth, we must humbly beseath the divine intervention and guidance of the great god of gifts, for verily I sayeth unto theeit that what thou has proposed goeth against all precepts of parenthood and birthday celebrations both past and present, and yea verily furturieth I dare say.

So lettuce all most humbly implore the lord of gifts, known by the code name of pappy, to see if such a thing has ever been done without the heavens becoming unaligned. Then we'll have our people get wit your people....

My dad has constantly spoken words over me that have given me love, safety, courage, and bravery. Obviously he thinks more highly of me than he should. He loves me more than he should. He dotes on me way more than he should. But isn't that what grace is? Undeserved love that gushes and gushes and gushes? That's what he has given me. A love I have never earned or deserved. One day I want to buy him a boat and a big house and a new car. I want to give him every single thing he has ever wanted! But those are just far off dreams. In reality, I can only give him my adoration. For showing me the love of God by truly being, in my humble opinion, the best dad any girl could ever ask for.

Happy Father's Day... I love you.

Reality Please...

So I think my mom has gotten me another year long subscription to Women's Day magazine.

Thanks mom.

I'm serious, thank you. I find myself needing mindless entertainment for just a few brief moments today, and Women's Day is doing the trick. Not that it's mindless, but it certainly doesn't require much from my heart and soul.

So I'm saying thank you in the same way that my gallbladder says thank you when I eat a salad and not a steak.

Make sense?

Anyways, here I am reading my women's day magazine and the very first ad in the July issue shows a beautiful, baby blue, infinity pool spilling over into a perfect, oil-free ocean. The pool is edged by khaki lounge chairs, yellow striped beach towels, and mahogany poolside tables. I can practically hear the seagulls and feel the wind blowing right off the page. And the ad says this, "If you want to be here...

Stop right there. Yes. I want to be there. I want to be there so badly I might jump in my car and not turn around. I want to stick my feet in the water and look over the ocean. I want to smell the salty sea instead of the stinky diapers. I want to feel the sand instead of the spaghetti that invariably ends up in my hair after Annie's dinner. I want to sleep with the wind and the seagulls. I want to be in the sun, in a bikini, with a pool of gorgeous water waiting to envelop me at the first sign of sweat. Yes, I want to be there. Are you going to take me?

"If you want to be here... (next page) Smell Here,"

And a picture of a Glade wall plug-in hovers obtrusively over the water with a "rub to activate" caption below it.

I am royally disappointed.

Really? Bring me to Fiji on the first page and then leave me with a consolation prize of Glade air freshener scratch and sniff and the daunting reality of life on the next? What kind of ad exec thinks that up? That's just mean.

As if to prove a point, my phone vibrates while I am being mad at Glade for leading me on and one of the guys from the band has sent a picture and this text message, "Guys... I've never been so excited about deodorant before in my life. Old Spice has a new line out. It's called Denali. 'Smells like Wilderness, Open Air, and Freedom' and it does!"

There's a picture of old spice staring me in the face.

Promising me 'wilderness, open air, and freedom.' I tell my friend I am happy he's found underarm freedom. He writes back and says there's one called Fiji that he bets I would like. I write back and say, "Will it physically deliver me to Fiji? If so, I will take it." He writes back and says, "Yeah, just close your eyes and sniff your pits." I write back and say, "I so needed to smile today. Y'all will find me in my closet wearing a bikini, listening to Bob Marley, drinking from a coconut, Fiji deodorant in one hand and my Glade room freshener in another... and I'll probably be high on fumes... but hey, I will have finally made it to Fiji." At one point, he writes back to say he's praying for me.

Praying for me? Do I sound like a woman who needs prayers??? I just want to go to the real Fiji and don't want to go there through sniffing deodorant fumes and reading mean magazines in my house... is that too much to freaking ask for???

He's gonna pray for me... ha.

And then, in a final twist of fate, I get an email update from Southwest Airlines.

"Wanna get away?"

Reality People, Reality.

Reality is this. I just flew home two nights ago from a week of camp. Annie's first night back home she woke up screaming every hour on the hour. The next morning, Ryan blew his back out and he's been on heavy drugs ever since. My house is covered in a layer of dust from being gone for so long, but I only have 48 hours, and I have to choose: do the laundry before the next trip and clean the strange ring out of the toilet or dust. Option A wins.

Reality is this. I have to get Annie from the church daycare in 13 minutes and I still have 200 new emails in my inbox that I didn't get to, and I feel perpetually guilty lately for being a bad friend. I feel a bit lonely and disconnected from my sisters, friends, and my church today. I could really use a girl night. Some coffee. A cupcake. A good laugh. A night out. But all those require a babysitter... and babysitters require money... and I suppose real money comes from a real job. And of course it requires time, which I have very little of today. I have very little of until sometime in July.

And this is not a pity party. It's not even to say that reality stinks. It's just to say. This is reality.

And I'm so tired of picking up magazines and tubes of deodorant and hearing about all the ways that all the products can help me escape reality.

Is that really the answer? Glade? Old Spice? Fiji?

I just want someone to tell me the truth.

Instead of products, people, movies, and songs that encourage me to escape reality, why doesn't someone say, "Here, use this deodorant. It smells good. And while it won't do the dishes, mow the yard, or raise your child for you... you'll smell pretty dang good while you suck it up and be an adult and do the things you have to do anyways."

That's what I want to hear.

"Here, use Glade. You won't be in Fiji and the dust won't disappear and we can't help the strange ring in your toilet and we are really sorry you are tired and only home for 48 hours, but at least the house will smell good."

"Here, drink our soda. It won't give you time with your friends, but you'll feel so fricking hyper that it won't matter."

"Here, use our sugar scrub. It won't actually deliver you to a Thai Massage Parlor, but if you close your eyes and turn up the music loud enough, then maybe, just maybe, you will have a few minutes of peace and quiet in your busy life."

I'd rather here the truth than buy into the lies.

The lies tell me that the answers to my problems lie in people, places, and things. Las Vegas. Wine Country. The Spa. The mall. The ocean. The cruise. New York. Europe. The pool. The deodorant. The glade plug-in.

Truth is, the answer lies within myself and my ability to own my responsibilities, to find joy in my current situation, and to be content with my little apartment far, far away from Fiji.

Yeah, we all need a break from time to time. Everyone can use a vacation. But when I spend my life wrapped up in all the places I want to escape to, I forget that the toil and sweat of each day, the reality of my day to day life... well, I forget that that is reality.

So, I was supposed to pick Annie up six minutes ago and now I am "that mom" who comes late. But that's ok. Today I'm praying for an extra dose of reality. I want to be happy where I'm at. And if I ever find myself lusting over a Glade ad again... I hope Annie will throw up on me and snap me out of it.

Why would I want to be in Fiji when I could be loving on a sweet baby girl who has just puked on me?

Reality trumps make-believe. It has to.