What I Preach

I don't know if all teachers, speakers, and pastors have the same experience, but I am not allowed to say anything from the stage that I am not asked to live out within a week. 

In October I was hired to address a group of young mothers at a church in Oceanside, in which many of the women are military wives, and have husbands stationed at nearby Camp Pendelton, or currently deployed oversees. Their speaker coordinator asked for my talk "What Can Postpartum Depression Do for You?" my least popular topic. Really, who wants to get a morning off from their kids and listen to a talk on anxiety and depression? But I'll drive to any group that asks me to talk about this, because the statistics on women who suffer from depression in our country are staggering (about one in four with be diagnosed in their lifetime).

I try to approach the subject with order, humor and a light hand. I have well organized slides, funny stories about breastfeeding on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, and practical tips. 

But it didn't work out that way, on that day. From the moment I began to speak, a woman in the back of the room burst into tears. About 15 minutes in, someone at every table was crying. As I spoke about risk factors and causes of anxiety, I realized that the military wives could probably put a check next to every one on the list. And somehow without making a conscious decision to do so, I set aside my clever outline and instead laid out my raw experience before them: my fear, my pain, my confusion, my brokenness. And eventually, my rescue.

I didn't get to be a wonderful, funny speaker that day; I didn't feel great about my entertainment value or my skills on stage.  But instead I saw that through me, God gave these women an opportunity to share their pain with each other, and shine light on what had been a source of shame for so many of them. In the group I sat with after my talk, the women on either side of me shared that they had both experienced severe PPD, and neither of them had told anyone before but their mothers and husbands. 

I don't know if I got through all my points on "paths to healing" that day, but I did get to the first: Come clean and tell someone what you are going through. And boy, did those brave women take that step. 

I got to my second major point too, and this one I was called on to practice: All of us mothers need to stop trying to do everything alone. We need to accept that each one of us has both physical and emotional limitations, which are unique to us. We are foolish if we aren't willing to ask for help when we have -- or, even better, before we have -- come to the end of our rope. 

I spoke in two different groups that week in October, each over 50 miles from home. I was sick with a nasty cold, but I pushed through with prayer, cold medicine and adrenaline. By the drive home through Camp Pendelton I was both sobbing with sympathy and snuffling with mucus. I had totally lost my voice by dinnertime. 

By the next morning, I had a migraine, so painful it was difficult to stand. Ignoring my own advice, I drove myself to Sophia's soccer game. On the way to the Olivia's game, I almost couldn't drive. I went home instead, crawled (literally) to my bed, and called my neighbor in tears, begging for Excedrin. She offered to go buy some for me (God bless her), but instead I called my mommy. And she came right over. She brought me food, drink, and medicine. She went to Target for me and bought Kleenex, bread, milk and toilet paper (all of which we were out of because I had been too sick and busy to go to the store). 

She patted my hand and sat with me until I went to sleep. I hardly ever let my mom take care of me like this, even though she wants to do it and is excellent at it. In fact, part of why I got PPD six years ago is that I didn't ask her to help me when I had acute bronchitis and a 10 day old child. She respected my boundaries, but at that moment my boundaries were bad. I needed help.

Meanwhile, my husband had the kids with him for Olivia's game, and another game he had to referee. He got them lunch at a drive through. They were tired and bored, but they made it. Mommy couldn't take care of them, but they survived anyway.

Here's what postpartum depression did for me. It stripped me of the illusion that I can make it through motherhood (or life in general) on my own. I can say that now with absolutely no shame. In return, it gave me the comforting knowledge that there are a lot of people in my life willing to stand by me when I can barely stand. I have a lot more of them now than I did five years ago, and most of them are willing to call me when they are sick, desperate, sad, or all three. I'm so grateful! All our children are also reaping the benefit of this village of imperfect moms, a small army of "aunties" and Mrs. So-and-sos that care for and love them. 

Most of all, I'm grateful to be able to share the most precious piece of my story: that when the only prayer I could pray was "Help me!" God did. He comforted me with scripture and His own gentle presence; through my husband and my friends; through medication and therapy. And ultimately, He called me to share the experience with other women. 

So that whether they ever suffer from a clinical mood disorder, or just experience the emotional ups and downs that are part of being human (especially female), they can experience freedom from perfectionism, come out of isolation, and know what it is to love and be loved just as they are. 

Ultimately, this is always the subject on which I "preach." It is for freedom that we have been set free. I'm beyond thankful that there are women willing to listen. God bless you all.

All I Can Say Is, I Survived

I had a beautifully humbling experience yesterday. 

I was hired by a church in Tustin to speak on the subject of Safe, Sane Friends. (I call it "All My Friends Have Issues" after my blog of same name.) I thought I was speaking to their Mothers of Preschoolers group, which generally means an audience of mothers of infants and toddlers. Many are pregnant; most are sleep deprived. 

But instead, I found out when I arrived that I was actually speaking to their MOPS Next group, which meant mothers of elementary and junior-high-aged children.  (This was totally my error, by the way. They told me two months ago in an e-mail but I somehow missed the detail). So, instead of walking into a room where I feel "ahead" of the women, I am suddenly in a place to share my insights with people who ought to know more than me.

I came clean about this immediately as I opened my speech, and the women seemed appreciative of my candor, particularly when I told them that if they wanted to feel superior and more put together they should go downstairs with the baby moms. I know I was feeling more confident downstaris. I knew at the very least I had probably got more sleep than most of the women in the room and therefore had a mental edge. Plus, I didn't have any spit-up on my shirt. 

In reality, there is absolutely nothing superior about me in a room of MOPS moms. I only graduated out of the early childhood stage of mothering about a month ago. True, many of the women I'll be speaking to this fall have not hit the milestones of picking a preschool or navigating the world of drop-off play dates or getting a child to sleep in their underwear without accidents -- all of which I have done. Twice. But just because I have done those things doesn't mean I did them very well, or that I have any idea what the best way for them to do it is. 

All I can really say about early childhood mothering is that I survived. I am still married. I still love -- and even like -- my children. And I now find that I have come out the other side of the early childhood tunnel with a better sense of myself. 

It's possible that's what young mothers need most: to see someone that has come out of the whole process alive and smiling. The worst thing that ever happened when I was covered in spit-up with a screaming baby in the cart and a yelping  three year old under my arm at Target was to have an older woman say that I should savor every moment because this is the best time of my life. 

What a lot of hoo-ey that was. Parenting is steadily improving with age (check back with me when the girls turn 13). Crawling baby was more fun than sitting-there baby and walking baby was the best. Four years old was way better than three. Elementary school kids are awesome: more independent but still willing to wear t-shirts that say "My Mom is Totally Awesome."

In the strict parenting advice sense I only have two pearls of wisdom. 1) Hang in there. 2) This too shall pass (the good stages and the bad). 

On the other hand, I know God is calling me to speak to women, especially young mothers. So what do I have to share? First, that God loves them and cares deeply about their lives. But also, spiritual truths that I've learned from God's word, wise mentors, counselors, and my own experience (mistakes are great teachers). Here's my advice to moms, for what it's worth (and let's hope the first one was relevant to those beautiful elementary and junior high moms I met yesterday): 

1.Build a network of safe, sane friends by being learning how to be one, and keep those women close. Don't try to do life alone. 

2. Let go of perfectionism. No. Stronger than that! Wage war on perfectionist thinking styles. The "shoulds" and "all-or-nothing" thoughts of perfectionism  lie to you and make you feel that you are doing much worse than you are. Perfectionism keeps you from taking risks, stifles creativity, and robs you of joy. Daily! So embrace the beauty of Imperfectionsim: pursuing love and excellence without expecting perfection from yourself or others!


3. Give yourself permission to rest and refuel, preferably at your Father's feet. Ask God every day to help you choose "the one thing that is needed," as Jesus praised Mary for in the gospel of Luke. Stop working before you get bitter. 

4. Negative emotions like fear and frustration don't disqualify you from a life of faith with God, or make you a bad mother. But chronic fear, anger, anxiety and depression are indicators that something is off. Seek God. Seek counsel. Seek help. God wants you living in a land of joy and freedom, but sometimes we have to travel a desert to get to them, and in the desert, you need a guide.  

5. Don't worry if you aren't currently making a living. Concentrate on making a life. Our culture devalues women who don't earn money, but life is much more than making a paycheck. Even if you have "given up" your career to be with your babies (and you go, girl if you are able to do so),   you never know how the lessons you are learning from being a mom are going to be used in the greater world  around the next bend in the road. Stay-at-home mom status isn't necessarily a permanent state. 

And now, as I step off my soap box, I'd like to say thanks to the MOPS Next moms of Trinity Pres for your listening ears and your laughter. And thanks for showing me, as I follow in your footsteps, that you too are coming out the next stage of mothering alive!

Scraps of Soul, Live!

If you like reading Scraps of Soul, perhaps you'd like to hear
my thoughts in person? 

As my kids go off to school in September, I'm finally able to answer God's call and the desire of my heart to encourage other women and young mothers as they seek to live lives of...

 Imperfectionism: pursuing love and excellence without expecting perfection from ourselves or others! 

If you or someone you know has a group looking for fun and relevant speakers, send them my way. Below is a synopsis of my favorite topics.

Put Away Perfect:
Replacing Perfectionist Thinking with God’s Perfect Will

This talk is designed to help women live with realistic expectations of themselves and their relationships, by changing the way they think. (Romans 12:2) Perfectionism is a very common root of anxiety, depression and dissatisfaction, but it doesn’t always manifest itself in the way we expect: in a high achieving “perfect” body and a Martha Stewart home. Perfectionism is actually a way of thinking that can also cause procrastination and the destroy our ability to take risks and be creative. Having the skills to recognize when you are thinking like a perfectionist can give you more freedom and joy. I focus on perfectionism in our mothering, friendships and even our faith. This is a great topic for both seekers and mature believers.

All My Friends Have Issues:
Real Thoughts on Real Friendships with Real Women

Based in part on my blog of same name, this is a great topic to tie in this year's MOPS International theme on Taking the Plunge: Risk. Real. Relationships. In it I talk about the "enemies" of authentic friendships (competition and comparison, perfectionism, unwillingness to be vulnerable), and "friends" of authentic friendships (honesty, mutual encouragement, and the willingness to learn from one another's differences).

http://www.scrapsofsoul.blogspot.com/2010/09/all-my-friends-have-issues.html

What Can Post Partum Depression Do for You?

Having experienced PPD personally and found that God used this experience to profoundly change the way I saw life and His love for humanity, I weave facts about risk factors and symptoms of depression and anxiety with my own story. Other groups have found this talk relevant for a number of their women, as it helps them know how to help friends with this experience, as well as themselves. I also speak about the concept that negative emotions like fear and frustration don't disqualify us from a life of faith with God. This message is also filled with humor about the conflicting emotions we experience as women; it is ultimately a message filled with hope. Wanna know what I think the Bible means when it calls women the weaker sex? Book me to find out!

Mary Vs. Martha: Choosing the Better Part

My unique take on the Mary/Martha story examines the strengths of both these women's personality types. Leaning in the Martha direction myself, I hate the simplistic interpretation of this story: work=bad and sitting at Jesus feet=good. The essence of this story, from my perspective, is that Martha saw a “should” where Mary saw a choice, and, as Jesus said, Mary chose the better part. In order to live a life of joy and freedom, without bitterness, we have to learn to judge situations rightly and know when to work and when to rest and refuel. This talk is informed by the book "Boundaries" by Cloud and Townsend, which I recently taught in a six-week course for MOPS moms at Mariners Church in Irvine.

http://www.scrapsofsoul.blogspot.com/2010/10/in-defense-of-martha.html

An Amateur Woman:

Making a Life instead of Just a Living

When God called me out of the working world, I found it first devastating and then ultimately liberating. I also found that it was not permanent. In the last six years of being an at-home mom, which I refer to as my Amateur Era, I've discovered that the definitions of amateur, (1) one who pursues an interest for love, and (2) an unskilled person, both apply to me as a woman, wife, mother, leader, and follower of God. An Amateur Woman accepts not her unskilled status! But instead, pursues her passions, dreams and God given talents because she both loves others and is deeply loved by God. This is a message of hope and encouragement to women of all ages, but especially to young moms who feel they've lost their identity when they had babies.

http://www.scrapsofsoul.blogspot.com/2012/08/an-amateur-woman.html

I have been involved in the MOPS group at Mariners Church in Irvine, CA  for eight years, for the last two as the Coordinator of our Friday group. I am now serving as liaison between our Women’s Ministry and our two MOPS groups, which meet weekly and serve over 200 women, as well serving as a Bible teacher and shepherd to our steering teams.

I love the unique opportunity MOPS has to meet the needs of all kinds of women in all stages of their faith in our communities. At Mariners, we find moms come to us because we know they need something -- friends? wisdom? sanity? – and find that what they truly need is the love of God in their lives.

As a speaker, my goal is be relevant, grace-extending and challenging. And I promise, I can make your ladies laugh. I believe we all learn better when we're laughing.

A former magazine editor and current blogger, I am the at-home mother of two daughters (kindergarten and third grade) and have been married to my college sweetheart for 13 years. I am also a quilter, reader, fledgling surfer, renegade gardener, passionate friend, and baker of ambitious but flawed birthday cakes.

Amanda Anderson

Speaker, Blogger, MOPS Leader

www.scrapsofsoul.blogspot.com

belovedcreations@att.net

An Amateur Woman

 A few months ago I was a guest of my friend Elizabeth at a literary society luncheon. The luncheons, held on weekdays in a beautiful place with beautiful food are primarily attended by women. Elizabeth had prepared me for a roomful of middle-aged, well-coiffed "ladies who lunch." 

So it surprised me when, halfway through our Cobb salad, the stranger to my left turned and asked me, "So, are you a professional woman, too?"

I paused with my fork half way to my mouth. I looked at Elizabeth. I looked back at the stranger (it turned out she was a librarian for a prestigious private college). I stammered out a rather inarticulate answer...used to be a magazine editor/writer...actually wrote about this society when it started...still do a little freelance writing...mom with two small children.

But I had a perverse desire to say, "No, actually, I'm an amateur woman. I do this whole woman thing for free." 

I know what the librarian was asking. I think I may have looked particularly employed that day, as I was wearing only remaining dry-clean-only clothes. So she was simply wondering, what is my profession? I rarely feel insecure when I tell people that I quit my full time job six years ago to raise my small daughters. So I wasn't threatened by the question.

It was the wording that gave me pause. And the phrase "Amateur Woman" struck my fancy. I immediately envisioned it written in capital letters. Moreover, between that day to this, I've studied the three main definitions of amateur and found that of all the labels I could be given -- stay at home mom, homemaker, volunteer, blogger, quilter, friend, wife, Christian -- Amateur Woman is one of my favorites.

One definition of amateur is the opposite of professional; someone who engages in study, sport or activity for pleasure rather than financial benefit. Ama comes from the Latin root for love. So, basically, an amateur is in it for love.

I am finding the act of being a woman to be a pleasure, which is good, because I doubt going pro and getting paid is possible. Daily, I am attempting to have a life that I can do for love.

I decided to quit my job when I heard God speak to me, just as I was passing a farm stand on my way to work. A thought rang in my head: "You don't have to be stressed out to be valuable." It was completely non sequitor to my present stream of thoughts, and I knew it came from somewhere outside my self. Moreover, it penetrated to the very marrow of my life's present crises, as God's voice always does. I had lots of rational reasons to be working (financial needs, future career advancement), but at that particular time in my life, what was actually keeping me from  giving notice was not rationality, but fear. The fear that I would be worthless if I stopped pushing myself so hard. 

I gave notice to my editor a week later. It turns out, I do feel valuable despite my lack of paycheck. I won't go so far as to say that I no longer have stress; I am raising children on one income, after all. But it's distinct from and less acute than the working-mother treadmill of stress I ran on for the first two years of my daughter's life, knowing that at any moment a case of the flu, a cancelled baby sitter or a missed nap could derail the whole week, make me miss a deadline or send me into a shame spiral when I had to choose between my daughter's needs and my job.

After the initial identity crisis that is inevitable in our culture when you stop earning a wage, the amateur era of my life has opened up a much larger world to me. I know there are very real challenges for women in our culture, but I have tasted the extreme freedom of being a female with children; it is socially acceptable, by and large, for me not to work in order to raise kids. And while raising kids, I am doing lots of other things as well. While I don't have the freedom to go to the bathroom without a child with me most days, I do have the freedom to pursue passions, from homemaking arts like quilting and cooking, to church leadership, to the very intellectual discipline of being a self-aware, psychologically astute parent. 

Which brings me to part two of the definition to which I relate: Amateur also applies to an athlete who doesn't compete for payment or a monetary prize. 

Until 1971, Olympic athletes had to be amateurs. One could be stripped of their Olympic medals if it was discovered that they had ever been paid for playing their sport, rather than being supported by a parent or other wealthy family member. The Dream Team was big news in 1992, because for the first time professional NBA players were allowed to represent the U.S. in the Olympics. 

Currently, I am being supported by a family member, namely, my husband, and his support allows me to train, like the Olympians, incredibly hard at being an Amateur Woman. Amateur doesn't mean slacker. Amateur Olympians were hitting the pool, the track, the bike incredibly hard. Likewise, though there is no official compensation involved in being an Amateur Woman, my goal here is excellence. Not perfection, but excellence. My own personal best. 

My training regimen is multifaceted.

I strive for energy-sustaining, free-radical fighting nutrition. I prepare unprocessed foods daily and buy mostly organic foods. 

I refine my mind with good literature, parenting books (psychologist Bruno Bettleheim's Good-Enough Parent has been very influential, and I believe will truly propel me to excellence when I get past the introduction), and New Yorker cartoons (some of the most piercing observations on modern child rearing). 

I spent a lot of money the year I turned 30 on therapy.

 I strengthen my soul with Bible study, both group and individual, plus worship every Sunday. 

I surround myself with spectacular coaches, ranging from my husband to a cloud of great witnesses: my friends and fellow Amateur Women of various ages who cheer me on and offer valuable correction. 

I nurture my creative side with sewing projects (quilting, embroidery, purses, baby blankets) and ambitious birthday cakes. 

I cultivate humility by biting off bigger leadership projects than I can chew, so that God has to step in and remind me that he's the boss. Not me.

I'm seeing results. If NBC were to do an inspirational back story on me, I think the character development over the last 10 years would be measurable, enough to possibly bring a tear to the eye of other women who are doing their darndest every day.

And finally, the third definition of amateur that I find so compelling: a person inexperienced or unskilled in a particular activity. Example: Hunting lions is not for amateurs.

With all my growth and striving, there are always elements of womanhood at which I find myself unskilled. And as soon as I master one stage (woman with infant, for example), its over and I'm on to the next. I wake up some mornings with an overwhelming sense of my amateur status.

The women in my life I most admire are 20 to 30 years ahead of me, and though their bodies are older, their souls seem to be acquiring the most coveted qualities of youth: faith, freedom, self-confidence, curiosity. They are dreaming bigger, worshiping with more joy and abandon, praying bolder prayers, learning new technology, seeking peace in their relationships, finding greater value in the simple pleasures of life. They refuse to accept "unskilled" as their status, knowing that the lions of despair, broken relationships, ignorance, fear, doubt, boredom, and complacency must be fought. So they fight. They inspire me, and to them I bestow the honor title, Amateur Women. Women who are doing life for love.

 

What Kind of Girl I Am

"I thought you were the kind of girl who knew when to say, 'no.'"

"I don't really know what kind of girl I am."

-- From the movie Juno

Proactive people show you what they love, what they want, what they purpose, and what they stand for. These people are very different from those who are known by what they hate, what they don't like, what they stand against, and what they will not do. 

From Boundaries by Henry Cloud and John Townsend

I am the kind of girl who likes going to the gym. 

This is as much a shock to me as it is to you. 

In the end of January this year, I signed up for my first ever gym membership. I haven't mentioned it until know because I wasn't ready to go on record. I wanted no accountability. I didn't even want you to be looking for me there (I looked really goofy). But now six months in, it looks as if gym attendance is actually going to stick.

I have long been known -- at least to myself -- as someone who hates to exercise. (For proof read my blog from August 2010 "I Don't Want to Be a Blessing Hog.") There was a brief period in the early 2000s when I enjoyed yoga. But since 2004 I've done it twice. And one time I almost fainted. 

I have never liked to sweat. I don't like pain. I'm clumsy. And I don't like to think about my thighs. And so, over the last 8 years I exercised less and less until I didn't even feel guilty about it anymore. 

Other people would tell me how much they loved working out for it's own sake, and that it made them feel great regardless of whether or not it changed the way they looked. They went on Saturday afternoons! Saturdays! When they could have been reading a book on a lounge chair or napping! They said it was actually addicting. But like someone who thinks they can try heroin but won't get addicted, I didn't believe them. 

In December, Jeff and I spent 24 hours in Las Vegas with a very fit couple who were decades older than us.They went out dancing until 4 a.m. while we went back to our hotel at midnight and fell asleep. As they laughed at us the next day at breakfast, I caught a vision of what life might be like as I get older with exercise... or without. I thought about it for one month, and then I handed my credit card to the guy in the black polo shirt at L.A. Fitness.

And now I'm hooked. I even go on Saturday afternoons. And darn it, but those exercise people were right. I feel better. I don't need a nap as often. And my husband has caught me looking at my bicep in the mirror several times (you wouldn't be impressed if you saw it, but it's very exciting to me). I've figured out some of those intimidating looking weight machines and I've fallen in love with Zumba! Clumsy, size-10-footed Amanda is sweating and leaping and doing salsa and yelling out "ay-yi-yay" along with women who are much hipper and buffer than me, and other women who are much older than me. (One day I told my husband that someone behind me said I was a good dancer. "How old was she?" he asked. "Uh, about 60." "Yeah," my husband said.)

In the last 10 years I have come to agree with (though I had not put words to) the concept from Boundaries, above. I generally define myself by the things I like and stand for: writing, cooking, quilting, singing, serving Jesus, teaching, mothering, flea-marketing, pier jumping. But I defined myself in one negative way: I stood (or rather sat) against exercise. 

So the fact that I now like working out makes me wonder what kind of girl I actually am. I feel I might suddenly get a tattoo, or start speaking in tongues, or decide to home school, or like eel-skin rolls at the sushi bar, or watch "The Bachelor." All previously nearly unthinkable ideas.

I'm turning 35 next month, and I tend to do something momentous at round number birthdays and major milestones. Like, when my first child started kindergarten, I cut eight inches of my hair. And when I turned 30, I had a nervous breakdown. Both of those worked out great in the end. (My hair is still growing out; the nervous breakdown resulted in this blog and lots of personal growth.)

So what shall I  add to my like list this summer? For what shall I now be known? Hubby says the tattoo is a no-no. I'm considering training for a mud run. Hubby thinks that is hilarious. I'll think about it, and let you know.

The Woman My Pastor Thinks I Am

For the last five years, I've been a volunteer leader in the MOPS program at our church. MOPS stands for Mothers of Preschoolers, and it's basically a trifecta cross between a parenting class, a Bible study and a support group for moms of children age infant to kindergarten. For the last two years, I was the coordinator of our group, which had 130-something members, and last month committed to oversee the total MOPS program at our church, which involves something like 40 leaders and over 200  attendees. 

Whenever the pastor to Women's ministries at our church, Shelly, introduces me to someone, affirms me at a meeting, or writes me a "thank you" card (which is often -- she is very supportive), she always says that she loves how much I love being a mom, and how much I love ministering to moms. 

I am always surprised that this is what she highlights about me. You know those bumper stickers that say, "I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am"? Well, I need one that says "I wish I was the person my pastor thinks I am." Because in reality, I have very ambivalent feelings about being a mom.

And I don't think of myself as ministering to moms. I think of myself as a minister to women. Who happen to be moms. And I think this is what makes me good at it.

Let me unpack this a little. 

I LOVE being married. I LOVE my kids. But being a mom is very complicated. "Mom" is a label you get when you give birth, and it never leaves you. And for many women, at least for a time, it erases every other label they previously carried. I think of a spoof "Saturday Night Live" commercial for "Mom Jeans" I saw several years ago. The voice-over extols their comfort-fit 9-inch zipper and the fact that wearing them says to world, "I'm not a woman, I'm a mom!"

I have a personal business card that I hand out to people (moms in the park, women in my Bible study, my sewing clients, my editors), and on it is my name, and after it this: 

"Writer, Quilter, Baker, Scrapbooker, Mom"

One time I gave it to a couple of women who bought some antiques in my flea market booth, and they asked me, in all seriousness, "Why do you have Mom on there last? Shouldn't it be first?" The irony: I write about my kids, I quilt for my kids, I bake for my kids, I scrapbook pictures of my kids. But still: shouldn't the word Mom come first?

And that right there is the issue. Moms struggle so much with priorities.Who comes first: husband? Children? Work? Hobbies? My self? When am I being selfish? When am I being too selfless? Am I giving my children enough attention? Too much? Am I involved enough in their pursuits? Am I living too much through their pursuits? It's a constant balancing act. It could turn into a constant identity crisis. It's a crisis of culture. Everyone is in on the debate: what should life look like for a woman with children? A mom can be judged for "letting herself go" or for spending too much time and energy maintaining her appearance. Nothing we do is off limits for judgement.

Which is why an organization like MOPS is so important. Because though their slogan is "Better Moms Make a Better World" (it used to be "Mothering Matters," which is also true), MOPS embraces the conflicted heart of a woman who loves, loves, loves her kids. Enough to die for them. Enough to kill for them. But who also sometimes wants to strangle them. The heart that sometimes hates being a mom: the constant monotony and uncertainty of it. The immeasurability of it; how can I track progress? The sometimes thanklessness of it. The fact that it is stress and boredom punctuated by moments of extreme joy.  

I need much more than motherhood in my life. I'm ambitious. I'm trying to write a book, and get more published in magazines. I want a speaking career. I have 100 quilts in my head that I want to make. My friends are very important to me. I like taking trips by myself. I like being alone in my car!

The fact that I can say this on stage in front of 100 women or more is probably my greatest strength as a leader, though I do it with fear and trembling, knowing that someone out there might judge me for not always putting my kids first. So it's incredibly encouraging that Pastor Shelly hears me speak, and watches me work, and sees that I love motherhood and the ministry for mothers. 

This week, I was having a five minute conversation with Pastor Shelly on the phone, trying to iron out the agenda for an upcoming leadership meeting. Livie was in the back seat of my car, and I was standing outside at the tailgate in the parking lot of a grocery store. Livie was blowing on a whistle she's gotten from a pinata. She'd been using it to give me whistle commands, signals for things like "get out of the car," "get into the car" and "March!" Which is why she was sitting in the car, and I was on the phone outside of it. 

When five minutes were up, I released my four year old from the back seat, and set off across the parking lot, still on the phone. "I can hear the whistling," laughed Shelly. "I better let you go be mom!" And in this, Pastor Shelly showed me her heart. A woman who sits on the executive board of the 10th largest church in America, who trains hundreds of leaders, who is in the business of healing hearts and saving souls, and who is also an avid runner and gardener and has her contractor's licence, is letting me off the phone. But on that laundry list of things she is, Shelly is a mom, and she loves being a mom. She knows what I'm doing is important. And you know what, I love it! I'm the woman she thinks I am after all.

The Hummingbird and I

This morning, I caught a hummingbird trying to drink from the heavy white fringe of my 1960s-era yellow patio umbrella. She was very persistent in her fruitless efforts. She tried first one strand and then another, eventually setting about a dozen tassels swinging. I have seen hummingbirds try to drink from my Christmas lights before, but never from fringe.

She was moving so fast, as hummingbirds do, that she didn't pause to look elsewhere in my yard, where there are several nectar-rich succulent blossoms, and an actual hummingbird feeder. So she buzzed away, undernourished.

I immediately felt that this hummingbird and I had something in common.

I, too, move rather fast. Recently, a friend rather unflatteringly referred to me as a jet engine. I like the hummingbird analogy better. Moreover, it's accurate. In my constant search for personal fulfillment and productivity, I often look in the wrong place. And the faster I'm moving, the busier I get -- and therefore the more nourishment I need -- the less likely I am to go to the right source. Busyness creates fatigue, fatigue creates vulnerability, and emotional vulnerability leads to unwise decisions.

I look for emotional lift in a Diet Coke can.
I seek sustaining energy from a drive-through window.
I try to find levity and entertainment in TV shows that are either vapid or down-right dark.
I look for approval and encouragement from the people in my life least likely to give it.
I seek validation of my effectiveness in the moment-by-moment behaviors of my over-tired children.
I try to find connection and intimacy on facebook.
I attempt to find satisfaction in crossing yet another thing off my ever-lengthening list.

Many people believe that food cravings are clues to what our bodies actually need. This is far from true: people often crave things they are allergic to because eating these foods creates an endorphin high. The stressed and fatigued body cries out for fat and sugar, which will get you through an hour, but not even a whole afternoon. Emotionally, I find my cravings are equally off. When anxious, I gravitate toward more anxiety-provoking busyness, rather than the rest I need.

When I'm in balance and in my right mind, I might seek these sources instead:


Exercise as an emotional lift.
A protein smoothie or a sandwich for afternoon energy.
Levity in a tickle fight or a dance party with my daughters.
Encouragement from a safe friend who knows me and sees me for my whole self.
Validation in the long arc of my children's character development and the feedback from their teachers and peers.
Connection and intimacy with my husband, who's across the couch from me every single night.
Satisfaction in being God's loved child, and the knowledge that if I seek His kingdom and righteousness, all these other things will be added to me. ( Matthew 6:33).

The hummingbird by nature is not capable of moderation. She cannot walk or hop, but has only two speeds: perch, and full tilt. By nature I might be the same, swinging between breathless pace and breakdown. Thanks be to God that I have a higher calling than my broken nature. And thanks to the hummingbird for the reminder to seek the higher sources.

Revelation Junkie

One of my Christmas dreams was fulfilled this year in the form of the Paper Source Art Grid calendar, a gift from my mom. I have wanted one for years, but as they cost $25 and don't go on sale after Christmas (or ever!) I have never bought one. Hurray for mothers everywhere who spoil us with precious little luxuries. It was a particularly wonderful present because the calendar I bought myself this summer is lost somewhere in my laundry room, never to be seen again.

As I was filling in appointments for the month of January on my pristine and beautiful grid, I noticed in red bold letters on January 6 the single word: EPIPHANY.

Well, that's groovy, I thought. Paper Source had determined that I shall have an epiphany on the first Friday in January. Knowing this wasn't really the case, I looked up Epiphany, which is actually a Christian holiday observed by various denominations throughout the world, celebrating the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. Western Christians celebrate it as the day that the Magi arrived in Bethlehem to meet Jesus, God incarnate; Eastern Christians observe it as the day of Jesus' baptism, revealing him as the Son of God.

Apparently, the word, with origins in Greek, literally means "manifestation" or "striking appearance." Not being a Greek scholar or an Orthodox Christian, I have always used the word epiphany in the common, American sense, as in a sudden understanding of the "bigger picture." I spoke with my friend Wendy on January 6 and told her my initial thought at seeing the word on my calendar. After a chuckle, we both agreed to have an epiphany that day.

Here's what mine was: you can't plan to have an epiphany. Like a revelation of God, a sudden flash of insight comes not at will, like summoning a genie, but when you are least expecting it. However, you can cultivate a spirit that is open to revelation, a mind that seeks understanding, and a soul that wants to find beauty and meaning in the world around you. An epiphany lifestyle if you will.

Being a word geek, I'm going to hit you with one more definition. Here's one of dictionary.com's meanings for epiphany:

a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

Hot dog! Did that definition strike a chord with me! This is what my blog is about: the flashes of insight that come while slogging through the homely tasks of family life. I say in my bio, at right, that I am a follower of muse (open to inspiration in creative pursuits), but perhaps it should say that I am a seeker of epiphanies. It's my favorite thing about God, the first thing I almost always thank him for: that he reveals truth to us, through his word, prayer, friends, children, nature. So I keep my eyes and ears open because I am an epiphany junkie. My girlfriend Tris once said something to the effect of, "Your revelations happen so frequently I don't expect all of them to stick."

It's true, they don't all stick. But I'm still watching for them. In a sink full of dirty dishes. In a board game played with my daughter. In a conversation with my neighbor. In a comment made by my brother. Even in the cream colored grid of my stylish new calendar. Join me on this expectant search for insight, won't you? It's an exciting way to live.

Number 100

Julie: Okay, maybe I'm being a little narcissistic...
Eric: A little? On a scale of one to 10?
Julie: Okay, a 9.3. But what do you think a blog is? It's "me, me, me" day after day!
-- From Julie and Julia


This time last year, I had a gig as a ghostwriter. Part way through the project, my client had a personal crisis and moved to Norway, so we never finished. But that job was enough to get me back into the zone, clicking away on my laptop, waking in the middle of the night when inspiration would suddenly dawn. I got hooked on the heady feeling of actually completing a thought. So on June 28, 2010, I began the Summer of Blog.

I didn't know what it was going to be about exactly, but over the course of the year, a theme has emerged. I call it Imperfectionism.

Years ago, I was seeing a brilliant therapist, who told me I should stop calling myself a Recovering Perfectionist, because it showed I still was one: a person who couldn't accept myself or the world in a state of gray, who set impossible goals, and thought in terms of all or nothing.

As a quilter, I've always been drawn to a look we call "scrappy," quilts that combine all kinds of different fabrics, especially ones that at first glance don't seem to go together. As a seamstress, I've almost been always been able to give myself grace so that I can enjoy myself, an essential because I have all kinds of creativity but am lacking the diligence and math skills to make everything line up perfectly. I call myself a Fudger: I ease seams together and lop off the sides of uneven quilt blocks to make things fit together the best I can. A technically proficient quilter would see all kinds of problems with some of my best work.

And here's the beautiful thing: I call this page Scraps of Soul, because I can truly say this scrappy principle in my quilting is now also making a lot more sense in my life. The bad days, the toddler meltdowns, my personality flaws and limitations, even tension points in my closest relationships, are all starting to look beautiful to me as they get pieced into the fabric of my blessed and redeemed life. How trite and true: its those things that make us grow (and without them what would I have to write about!).

I know that God takes my imperfect faith and with it, saves me perfectly. He is imminently comfortable with my "issues," even as He nudges me towards healing them, one at a time. So I'm approaching my days and years differently, aiming for a B+ rather than an A+, and finding the journey infinitely more interesting and enjoyable than I used to, even if on certain assignments I get a C-.

As Sophia finished up her year of first grade this spring, her teachers were universal in their praise of her writing skills. Leaving open house, I quipped to Jeff, "I'm so proud, sweetie. Maybe she'll grow up to be just like her mother: articulate and unemployed." At this point I sit here typing away with no tangible reward. But I'm loving it, largely because every once in a while, one of you has been kind enough to tell me that you related to something that I wrote, or even that it made you feel better about your life or yourself.

This is an enormous relief to me, because no writer, singer, artist wants to create in a vacuum. I write to be read. And this undertaking, as Julie Powell said in the movie Julie and Julia, is certainly narcissistic. My own life is my inspiration. My closest friends and husband must be sick of me beginning sentences with "The other day I blogged about..." So I'm glad it's not totally without value.

Today is my 100th entry, which was my private goal when I started out a year ago. And I find I've not quite run out of things to say yet. So I'll keep scrapping away. Thank you for occasionally reading this. Thanks for the encouragement. And keep the comments coming.

All Hail Imperfection

When I first started quilting nearly 11 years ago, I was drawn to the traditional. I poured over books on pioneer quilting, the feed sack fabrics of the 1930s, and pictures of Amish black quilts with bright colored stars and perfectly pointed triangles.

There was something so appealing about the rich heritage of quilting, and I wanted to do it "the real way." So I bit off way more than I could chew: huge projects with lots of little points, which I sewed on a 1950 Singer Featherweight borrowed from my mother in law. Or I chose patterns with tons of tiny appliqued pieces, and to top it all off, I hand quilted them. (I should mention here that this was before I had children.)

Early in my quilting education, I learned that the Amish custom was to purposely put a "mistake" in every quilt -- a color out of order in the pattern, or a pieced block upside down, for example -- to remind them that only God is perfect. "What a cool concept," I thought when, I first read that.

But halfway through an early endeavor my thoughts were more along these lines: "Those stinking, smug Amish! Who has to put mistakes in ON PURPOSE???"

I soon learned that one of quilting's prime rolls in my life was to show me how perfect I wasn't. The first project I completed was called London Roads, and it was only as I was wrapping the completed quilt for my boss's baby shower that I realized no one was getting to London on my road; an entire row was upside down. On project number two, I cut out the backing fabric two inches too narrow, and crooked, and was forced to piecemeal it back together on the diagonal. That one still rankles a little.

The mistakes go on and on. There isn't a single project I have finished that I haven't seen an error in. The difference between Quilter Me ten years ago and Quilter Me now is not in the number of errors I make, but in how I feel about them. In the beginning, I usually found the mistakes when I was all finished. Then I said naughty words, and my husband would ask if perhaps I should find a hobby that required fewer sharp objects, less precision, and no math.

Today, I often find the flaws while they are still fresh, and whether or not I go back and fix them depends on a number of factors:
1. How much time will it take?
2. How much money will it cost?
3. How much do I want to get this over with and get on to my next project?
4. Is this a gift for another quilter, or a layperson that will never notice the error?
5. Do I know where I last saw my seam ripper?

Honestly, 7 out of 10 times, I let the mistake lie. And when I give the project away, I don't apologize for it or point out the mistake. There are a lot of quilters who are more fastidious than me, but I've decided if I'm going to stick with this hobby that gives me so much satisfaction, I better give myself some grace. I just don't have it in me to do "perfect."

So the Amish had something after all. Because though my quilts may not point others to the perfection of God, they've made me more at peace with the imperfections in myself. I'm swearing less. I'm enjoying it more. My husband isn't hiding my rotary cutter or trying to talk me into taking up lawn bowling. And we will both live to see me complete another beautifully blemished project.

The Summer of Blog

I'm not usually one to jump in and do something that everyone else is doing, especially where technology is concerned. I was one of the last people in Orange County, California to get a cell phone. I don't often text. I don't have TIVO. Up until a about week ago, I had less than fifteen friends on facebook. I haven't read the Twilight Series. And I don't blog.

There are two major reasons. One: I'm not crazy about falling down rabbit holes. Anything that's going to become a time suck is dangerous for me and my compulsive personality. Two: (and this is hard to admit in writing) I guess I'm a bit of a snob. If it's loved by the masses, maybe it's not quite good enough for me?

But here are some cultural phenomenons I jumped on and seriously enjoyed:
The Harry Potter series (didn't start reading them until book six was out; am currently wearing my Dumbledore's Army t-shirt)
American Idol (David Cook and Simon Cowel are two of my great loves)
Starbucks coffee (you've won me over, you green-labeled black nectar)
the music of Taylor Swift
facebook (I found my long-lost maid of honor and the male fixture of my major teenage rebellion in the same week! The latter I did not friend)

So, though I once wrote -- and hope to again someday -- for a paycheck, I'm joining the masses of people who write for the love of it. I have thoughts. I'd like to share them. It is June 28th, and this shall be my Summer of Blog.

It was tough coming up with a name, for I hope to write on a number of subjects: from motherhood and housewifedom, to quilting, baking, faith, friendship, finding fabulous junk at garage sales, and the mouse currently living in my pantry. Perhaps I'll read the Twilight Series, and blog about that. Hopefully, someone will find it soulful. Possibly, some quilter out there in the universe will pick up the word "scraps." I almost called it "scrappysoul," since that's basically how I feel about myself and my variety of interests, but was concerned people might leave off the first "s." In any case, scraps of thoughts that can be pieced together into something if not profound, then at least amusing, seems to be what blogging is about. So here I go... Bandwagon, anyone?