Two weeks ago, I almost shut my blog down.
and this is the story of why I didn't.
I was seventeen years old when I realized that I could write. I remember the day well. It was one of those impressionable days, the kind that engrave themselves kindly inside of you. It was quiet- her class was always quiet- but that day seemed especially reverent. I went there daily, the obvious reason being because I had to attend class, the other because it was a sanctuary of sorts. In those days, I needed a safe place. I still do sometimes, I suppose.
It was November, I think, and the rain was pouring hard outside. My seat was close to the window so I could see the pools of water collecting in the chasm between the cement and the grass. I was tired, but so awake. There weren't very many literature inclined people in our class; most people just showed up so they could graduate. I showed up because I thought I might be found.
That's usually why I write, I guess.
She started off class in her usual way, with some inspiring quote and a quick word of prayer. And then she said, just like she'd said all the days before, "And remember, when you write: write from what you know."
It's one of the best pieces of advise I've been given, unbeknownst to me at the time. Because I didn't know a lot then, not really. I didn't know that the pain, the trauma, and the heartbreak that I'd experienced mattered. I didn't know I could write from what I knew, when all I seemed to know felt terribly secretive and shameful.
But I did know words held power. I knew this because of how their power had affected me. There are words I've read in books that I could quote to you, words that have impressed themselves deep into the folds of who I am.
Those are the kinds of words I wanted to write.
I thought about what I knew, pondered what seemingly unimportant thing I could offer to the world. I wanted my words to be grand and bold and impossibly profound. I wanted them to be remembered... because I thought maybe those were the only words that mattered.
A week earlier I had written an essay. That day my teacher returned it to me. When she came to me, she smiled. I leaned in to read the comment that was written near the top.
Alyssa, it said, you have the heart of a lion.
I remembering sitting there for a long moment, staring at the red cursive that inked the paper. The words blurred in front of me. Maybe I could write? Maybe I had something to say?
Then I packed up my things, shoved the paper into a folder, and promptly forgot about it.
Until yesterday. When out of the blue, the words appeared again. In a vox. *If you don't know what voxer is, go look it up in the app store. It will change your life.*
Anyway, there they were. Those same words. Five years later.
"You are a lion-heart."
I walked into my bedroom and dug for that paper from all those years ago, hidden deep inside a box labeled "high school english". I found it. I found it, and I wept.
Sometimes I feel that lion-heart inside of me. But other times, like two weeks ago, I don't. I feel shy, insignificant.
Those letters from yesterday, and from five years ago are now permanently embedded inside of me. When she wrote that, the words I had written- the ones I knew surely lacked knowledge and poise and depth- suddenly mattered.
I write because I'd be wasting a gift that Jesus gave me if I didn't. I write because I have something to say. I write because I hope maybe you'll see a glimpse of the Father's deep desire for you. I write because I love it.
So whatever your giftings are, use them. I wish I could take you by the shoulders and get you to take the time to see your worth, see your bravery, and see your necessity.
As for me, I'm going to keep writing.
Because words matter.
I hope you trust me when I say this- there's someone out there who will never forget the words you've given them.
They said I have the heart of a lion. A lion is courage, is boldness, is strength. Lion heart. Brave heart, bold heart. My heart. It beats strong, and it beats courageous. They said I have the heart of a lion.
Maybe someday I'll believe that it's mine.
Your words matter.
and so do you.
Much love.
I went to New York last week. And I had a blog post written detailing all of the beautiful, hilarious, magical moments. But instead of filling you all in on the best graduation surprise ever, I want to just talk about moms.
Mother's Day is quickly approaching, you know. It's a holiday I've loathed since I was tiny, and I have never looked forward to it.
But this year, I'm taking a look at my world. I'm spending some hours and minutes digging deep into my mother-heart. And I'm finding a couple of things. Over and over again.
1. I was made to mother.
2. I am rich with mothers.
I was made to mother. I mother everyday. Without knowing it or calling it "mothering", I mother the world that shows up at my doorstep. I mother even though I'm not married and even though I've not squeezed a hand during a contraction.
I mother.
Because I'm called to it.
This desperate catapult of a life-jacket to a drowning sister, toddler, teenager, working professional, grandmother with soft and thin skin, or that blonde ragamuffin who always shows up at your door the second you've turned off the ignition.
I mother because I can't not.
I mother because there are hearts that have been hurt and need a soft, safe place to simply come undone. I mother because the toddler needs help going potty and because the eighth grader kissed a boy. I mother because she locked her keys in the car so I call AAA for her and wait.
Because, of course.
This is what mothers do.
I've watched it.
You give yourselves away, little bits and pieces of who you are. of your courage, of your deep faith. Even on the nights when you're most afraid. You bear down and find ways to bring life to people just desperate for air.
The mothers. Wrinkled foreheads and hands wrung wondering if they matter.
I see you. You matter.
I see you. Throwing your hair up in a ponytail when you hear "mama!" coming from down the hall as you wipe sleep from your eyes. I see you grabbing coffee as you smile across the countertop.
I see you. Choosing to take the phone and listen to the scared and crying high schooler as she wonders how she will make it one more day.
I see you. At the store with your yoga pants, little Superman hanging off the side of the cart, and the baby in the seat chewing on the handle. I see your kids eating their toast, still in their pajamas with little Elsas all over. I see your patience as you answer the thirty-fourth question in five minutes while simultaneously finding the groceries on your list. And the smile you give them. I see that too.
I see you. Hauling your two littles into McDonald's (yes, McDonalds). One kid hanging on your leg as your maneuver the infant car seat. I see you chasing down little Houdini as he escapes from your hand yet again. I see your exasperated sigh... and I watch it dissipate as you see that ketchup smeared smile and can't help but smile back.
I see you. Staying up until the wee hours of the morning to make sure he is home safe.
I see you. Running a classroom of thirty with ease, as though it's the highest privilege and pleasure and you can't imagine being anywhere else. I see how they watch you. and I see how they love you.
I see you. Reading Go Dog Go for the fourteenth time in a row, giggling with your tiny one each time you get to the fancy hat-with-all-the-things-hanging-off part. Yes, I see the laundry in the corner. But then I see you snuggle in close, smile, and go for the fifteenth time.
I see you. Striking up conversation with the widowed man at the dog park. I see how he lights up at your interest in his story, at your interest in who he is. I see how you light up, too.
I see you. When the little tap on your shoulder comes one too many times and before you can think, the words, "Just STOP it already" come spilling out and cut deep and you feel terrible. I see you doing the hard thing... swooping down with an "I'm sorry" and kisses and a big heap of humility. And I see the smile you share.
I see you. Reminding her of her worth, reminding her that her cancer is not her definition. Reminding her of her identity. Reminding her of the promises. Reminding her of goodness. I see her tears of gratitude.
I see you. Exhausted and terrified that your teenage son doesn't know you love him, so you call him. Just to remind him of your undying love and forever bond.
I see you.
I see so much incredible. I see the incredible of your normal everyday. The incredible of little people with pudgy hands calling you mama. The incredible of people calling you friend, calling you confidante, calling you a safe place. Yes, you. Messy, beautiful, grateful you.
I see you.
And I'm thankful for you.
I was made to mother.
And I am rich with mothers. My part-time mommas with full-time love and full-time heart-space.
Erin. Ears always open. Taught me that home is a safe place that can be trusted and valued.
Erin. Tough to crack, but genuine and refreshingly honest. Taught me that risk can be responsible and dreams are necessary.
Cindy. Strong, but gentle. Taught me that vulnerability is beautiful and homemade waffles can fix any bad day.
Connie. Organized, but flexible. Taught me that spontaneity is worth it and marriage is forever.
Mandy. Selfless and hospitable. Taught me that the cliche isn't crazy; moms can be your best friends.
Carolyn. Beautifully patient. Taught me that spilled milk can be easily cleaned and family is a priority. *I miss you*
Pam and April. My long lost nanny and her mama. Taught me that love withstands distance and time.
Brandi. Faithful and true. Taught me that perseverance pays off and consistency is key.
I am rich with mothers.
Rich with mothers who taught me that I was made to mother.
Happy Mother's day, mommas. I get to watch a generation rise up because of you. and I couldn't be more grateful.
Much love.
