Category: Encouragement

Every morning you have two choices: continue to sleep with dreams or wake up and chase your dreams. The choice is yours…

Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like COVID has made us all, collectively, a lazier lot. Since the second stay-at-home orders in California, our whole world has been rather…”blah.” There’s nothing to do, everyone is worn out, and we are completely fatigued from the masks, job loss, and political drama.

It makes you just want to go back to bed, pull up the covers and watch Bridgerton for the third time, right?

But as we head into almost a year of this pandemic madness, I’m also hearing more and more people who truly want to emerge from their Covid coma. They want to get back in shape (hello Covid-15) and move forward.

But where do you start?

I’m just putting this out there. Don’t kill the messenger, but morning routines are my jam and I think they hugely contribute to living a healthy lifestyle and keeping a positive mindset when the world is unhinged.

Now I know some of you are like, “Girl, I’m allergic to early mornings. My Keurig might break if I woke up before 9am, and oh by the way, your early morning cheerfulness is totally obnoxious.”

I get it.

And I’ll own it…I am 100% that chick who pisses you off because I wake up with a spit eating grin and raring to go.

My 5:15 am HIIT class will vouch for my hypo happy behavior. Honestly, I can’t help it. After a shot of caffeine and a quick run to the gym I am ENERGIZED! The glazed over looks from my gym buddies don’t deter me from non-stop chatter.

Before most hit the snooze button for the first time, I’ve gotten in a workout, a quiet time, a shower and a protein smoothie.

But I wasn’t always like this!

I used to be the one who woke up exhausted every day because one of my kids barfed or peed the bed or stayed out late (or all of the above) and I struggled to fit in a workout, shower and a quiet time in the day. For years I dragged my gym bag to work and spent my lunch at LA Fitness with a devotional propped on the treadmill, half asleep with messy hair, while eating a processed energy bar. Some days I made it to the gym and met with Jesus. Other days I ended up at Chipotle scarfing down lime chips and tacos.

But life changes, kids eventually sleep through the night, and one day you can actually sneak out of the house and get a workout in before they wake up.

But I had to want it. Like want it bad. Because hitting the snooze button after 20+ years of non-stop parenting was way more appealing. And yes…I’m still parenting an 11-year-old.

But here’s what I realized when I stopped making excuses a few years ago.

If I want God to be first in my life, I actually have to make room for him. I have to give him the first part of the day. In the quiet and in the sacred space of the early morning (and without all the noise) I can listen and engage.

I also want my body to keep going for a long time. I want to be there for my kids and grand kids. I want to be healthy, strong and kick ass at building my business, and I can only do that if I place wellness and self-care high on my priority list. I’ve learned that if I don’t workout early in the day it’s all to easy to make excuses. It’s way more tempting to reach for a glass of wine at 5:30pm than hit the gym for a spin class. For reals.

So here’s how I made the switcharoo to achieve that early bird status:

1. Figure out your WHY. Why do you want to get up early and DO that thing you keep putting off and saying you don’t have time for? Define it. Own it. Feel it. Write it on a sticky note in the bathroom. Make a star chart and give yourself a treat when you get 5 stars.
2. Create a morning schedule. Physically write down the things you’d like to complete in the morning and set a time for each. Then stick with it. Lay your clothes out the night before. Schedule the coffee machine. Once you force yourself out of bed early one or two weeks consistently, you’ll find it gets easier and easier to do. Also, you’ll be ready for bed earlier and earlier if you hit the gym consistently. I’m lights out by 9:00pm.
3. Let the light in. Whether natural or artificial, light tells your brain its time to get up and get going. If your room lacks large windows where you can open the blinds up, consider investing in a timed lamp or alarm clock with a light. My Alexa Show does the trick!
4. Prep and eat breakfast. Although there are many of us who chose to skip breakfast, it is key to perking up your energy in the morning. Try prepping protein-focused meals the night before or make a smoothie packed full of veggies, protein and fruit. If fasting is your deal, grab a coffee with MCT oil for energy.
5. Get your body moving. Whether it’s a short walk around your neighborhood or a rigorous 5:30 am spin class, getting your blood pumping will help wake up your body and has a ton of other benefits, like stress and anxiety reduction. Repeat with me…less wine, more workout. Less sugar, less chance of getting sick. Less wine …more energy. (Can you tell I’m doing dry January?)
6. Feed your mind and soul. Stimulate your brain and do something you enjoy first thing in the morning. Try reading a favorite book, doing a devotional, prayers, journaling, meditation, or setting intentions.
7. Last, commit to your new habit. And get ready! You just might fall in love with being an early bird like I did.

What’s your WHY for getting up early?

–Sam

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My phone started blowing up at 4:30 am. One of my dearest loved ones was struggling in a volatile relational problem. There were tears and frustration, misunderstandings and emotional turmoil. I listened and soothed, tried to bring the conversation back to solutions and did my best to empathize and find clarity.

Don’t you just love waking up in the dark to DRAMA?

Instead of my 5:15 am workout I sat on my bed, consumed large amounts of coffee and pulled every psychotherapist trick I knew from up my sleeve. Mostly I listened and repeated back. Fortunately, after years of counseling it feels like I could start my own practice. It’s just the self-application that I find wee bit challenging!

But as I listened to my darling’s sobs, I heard something in her story that resonated closely with mine, and I dared to ask the question.

Why is she giving so much space in her life to this toxic person? And then it hit me…Is it possible I am too?

I pondered my previous evening. A friend asked me about a situation I’m struggling with and I went down the rabbit hole and complained for a solid five minutes.

Wait…what?

You would think I know better. I work hard to be a solution finder not a whiner.

But the truth is, sometimes I forget to take my own medicine. It’s not easy to turn your back on relationships built over time with established patterns and dynamics. People are rarely all bad or all good. I’ve often been guilty of choosing to see only the good and glossing over the darker stuff, to my own detriment.

And yet if we don’t set our boundaries firmly, we allow people negative influence over the way we think, feel, and behave.

There’s a scene from The Princess Diaries I often hold onto when I’m discouraged.

Princess Mia’s best friend Lilly goes off on her in a mini tirade. It was anger fueled by frustration from feeling left out, envy at Mia’s flowy hair and sweet makeover, and a million other things young girls feel. And it all poured out on Mia and left her in tears.

After Lily stomps off, the bodyguard Joe turns to Mia and quotes Eleanor Roosevelt.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Joe…you are so freaking wise!

Sometimes the putdowns are subtle. It’s a little stab here and there. Maybe you change the way you behave around certain people because you don’t want to cause waves, but it doesn’t impact your life too much. Until one day it does. And you explode.

Or maybe it’s a big thing. Someone is openly hostile and creating an abusive and toxic exchange. Perhaps you are allowing a person’s anger and criticism to take a serious toll on your well-being. It’s creating anxiety and unrest in your spirit. You have lost your peace.

I knew what I heard on the phone this morning was just that. My dearest had lost her freaking peace. And I knew as I counseled her that I was really encouraging myself too. Because in my own scenario, the subtle harassment is starting to wear thin and my peace blew out the window a week ago.

I needed to apply some Bodyguard Joe bandaids to both of us.

Here’s what I know but often forget.

The more time, effort and energy you spend venting about people, the more space you allow them to occupy in your life. Generally I try to give my offenses and judgments to God every morning, but I know when I’m holding onto something too tightly it starts to seep out in life and conversations. Now I’m judging the people who are judging me.

That’s when it’s time to get guidance and look for solutions. Call a safe friend or a counselor. Do something productive instead of stewing. Make a plan. So before you wallow in a 20-minute dissertation about how much you dislike that annoying person or how awful your ex is, think about the fact that you’ll be devoting even more time and energy to them.

That’s a sobering thought, right? Do you really want to waste YOUR precious mojo on them? I don’t think so!

There’s about a million other things to choose to use your time and energy on that are way cooler and definitely more positive.

Last, I pray for them and TRY to remember that they are hurting too.

Hurt people hurt people. Repeat. Hurt people hurt people.

We are all the same, simply trying to find purpose, meaning and happiness along the way and when we lose our way–we lash out and project our pain onto others.

But I do know this all too well…

Your life isn’t yours if you are constantly caring about what others think.

So…I am going to take back that five minutes, (or 20) if you please, and use it for something good. I’ll use my words to bless and lift up and not tear down.

I’m thinking a girl’s movie night is on the agenda. A little popcorn and some Princess Diaries should do the trick.

Dear friends, our words matter, our self-worth is already determined, and we are all daughters and sons of the King. We just have to remember we are all in this together, dig deep for empathy and be that friend who will reach out to straighten your besties crowns when they accidentally let it slip.

–Samantha

I look outside and sigh. Ashes fall from the sky like chunky rain. The sun is wearing a reddish hue and the sky looks indignant–a heavy charcoal cloud spewing forth it’s wrath on my white car. It smells like someone is barbecuing around the corner. Unfortunately, the only thing getting cooked here is the nearby San Bernadino Mountains.

The conditions are apocalyptic at best. After a choking morning run, I stopped and snapped this pic at a home I often pass by. The mom probably told the kids to clean up their mess and this is how they left it— an upside down doll on an elaborate contraption. The babydoll resonates with me. I feel a little upside down in the world machine right now too.

I grab the remote, but don’t feel like watching TV. Mainly because my favorite TV buddy-my middle daughter Faith, is gone. I drove with her back up to school over a month ago to Tempe to resume classes at Arizona State. She’s a sorority girl now and kicking butt. I’m so proud of her it hurts. I’m also so sad she’s gone it hurts. It feels like I’ve launched her off to college now twice. And this time might be even harder. This time I’m even more attached.

Do I dare say it? I know everyone hated the stay-at-home orders, but I miss the days when my kids were forced to hangout with me.

March……..Apprrriiilll…MAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY.

It was if the racing minutes slowed down. I’ve heard so many people say that this felt like the longest shortest season they’ve EVER experienced. Life was a blur of fear and lines at the grocery store, masks and anxiety.

BUT, it was also a time of endless movies, long conversations over chips and salsa, DoorDash, my girls going to work with me, remote learning and all the shreiks of twenty four 4th graders on a Zoom chat, our dog over the moon from all the attention, and so much laughter and joy amidst the uncertainty.

It truly was the best of times during the worst of times. I have never been so in touch with my girls and as self aware.

When you strip away all the external fluff in life, it’s the basics that shine through. It’s the simple moments that emerge as the truest parts of our humanity.

It’s holding my daughters hand on the sofa as our eyes get misty in a sappy movie, or singing the “Baby Yoda” song at the top of our lungs in the Starbucks Drive-thru. It’s buying way too many dog toys at Hala’s Pets because it was the only store open in town during the shut down.

It will never be a job or money that define our lives, but the moments that take our breath away—like the dog gulping down a pupachino and laughing hysterically with my kids.

Because time with the ones you love, oh sacred time, you are the great treasure.

For six whole months I got to be roomies with my college age daughter along with my little one. And while “roomies” sounds kinda weird, like I know it’s my kid and all, the circumstances were unique. I got divorced. We moved out of our home right as the stay-at-home orders hit. We all clung to each other and it bonded us in a way I could only dream of.

Yes, I moved during Covid. Let me tell how much fun that was. I rented an apartment sight unseen, and the property management people launched a set of keys at me from a very safe distance. That first night we moved in was a trip. Sitting on the floor with my girls in this new space, chowing on tacos and drinking margaritas (obviously Kolby’s was non-alcoholic). Looking at each other like, “Holy Cow…this is for reals.”

Believe it or not, I gave my older daughter the master bedroom so she could have her own space, for her friends and her schoolwork. I just wanted her to feel safe and at home. I could see how hard it was leaving her neighborhood and home. I could feel her putting on a strong front while feeling overwhelmed too. The master bedroom helped. It became her own her little kingdom with an open door to all her friends. I loved having these kids over and getting to know them in ways I didn’t before.

Mainly because I was simply too busy. Ouch that’s hard to own.

Kolby and I, on the other hand, shared the smaller room decorated a la Kolby and we slept on horse sheets. I only mention that because I still can’t believe I paid so much for those Pottery Barn sheets, And then there’s the fact that I’m 48 sleeping on horse sheets. That too.

I’ll never forget the night I came home this summer and there was a young man (one of Faith’s friends) who was passed out in MY bed. While I knew she had some friends over for a hang out, we do have one big rule-“no one sleeps in mama’s bedroom”. But apparently, he slipped in there when the other kids fell asleep. Faith had the hardest time moving him and finally asked me if she could just leave him.

Seriously?

Uh….NO! Let’s grab his feet and drag him!

I noticed different things about my girls spending so much time with them.

While Faith is the social animal of my three, she is also a tremendously diligent student. I used to have to twist her arm to get her to study in high school, now she goes into her study cave and only reappears for snacks. What? And her friends are the best! They are encouraging and relational and so sweet and mature. I learned they love charcuterie and wine straight from the bottle- glasses are optional. College kids certainly know how to celebrate life and they remind me to lighten up and enjoy the moment. I’ve laughed more this summer than I have in years and I learned that Whiteclaw is an essential beverage to every college students success. Who knew?

But while Faith loves to play, she also needs her down time and that’s when I got all the love. Movies and dinners together. Target adventures. Endless masked coffee runs. Talks about life and healing and starting over. She pushed me to go on my first date and my second and talked me through all the feels of falling in love. She is thoughtful and vibrant and knowing my girl as an almost grown up is so different than as a child. We can confide in one another now and I don’t have to have all the answers any more. She’s certainly smart enough now to figure it out on her own.

I’m not saying I’ve advocated my parent role by any means, trust me, I’m still the funds for her fabulous life. But I’m more of a guide now and less of an authority and that’s a wonderful place to be.

I’m still Mommy to my little one though, and while Kolby’s always been my mini-me, she’s growing up too. She loves to “do” things and stay busy. So, we baked and made crafts, taught the dog tricks and hiked and shopped at every store we could find open. We went to the beach as soon as we could and it’s been our go-to hang out all summer. I think we all fell in love with nature again.

I love the smell of the stables as Kolby rides like a princess on her lesson horse Pillow, the weird tween movies we watch with popcorn and snuggles, and the looks of exasperation we give one another when no one is looking. Kolby is a “no drama little mama,” a ten year old with the insight of an adult. She misses nothing. She loves to lay next to me at night and listen to my meditative prayer app to fall asleep. We have sleepovers with friends often and I love hearing their giggles as I close my eyes at night. Joy is the best sleep sound ever.

The truth is before Covid and before my divorce, I was always so busy doing stuff, I missed out on some of the really good stuff. I spent so much of my time serving everyone else, working multiple jobs, volunteering at church, teaching, ministry, driving to football, cheer and dance, writing and going non-stop that I didn’t have time to stop and smell the roses, you know, the ones I shed blood over planting in my own garden?

Covid changed that and I’m so so so grateful. I got to really know my kids like never before. A global fear and undercurrent of “who knows what the hell is happening” is a great starting place to bond. And while I’m super sad for our country and all the loss I’m also deeply grateful for this window of time I got with my kids to know their hearts so well and simply be with my grown up girl and my growing up girl.

For me, Covid-19 had some serious blessings. It launched me off the hamster wheel of life and brought me back to the main things—faith, love and family. In crisis we come together and realize what really matters.

And right now I sure miss my Faith and I’m deliberately taking the time to slow down and enjoy every moment I’ve got with my little girl.

Thank you Covid.

Blessings,

Sam

I used to be a dating expert. Let’s emphasize the words “used to.”

I know being a dating expert sounds bizarre, sort of like Will Smith in the movie Hitch, but I speak the truth. Honest Abe! A few years ago, I pushed out three articles a week for Christian Mingle for well over a year and a half. By the end of my run, I had tapped into every story and metaphor I could muster up, I started repeating myself, and the dating well ran dry. It was then time to move on to a new topic-something easier, like parenting teens.

Strangely enough, after all the advice I dished out so liberally, dating again in my forties is nothing like what I remember as a young single mom. Now I’m a salty and seasoned single mom, nowhere near as desperate, and far more confident in my ability to tell an unsavory character where the flipping door is.

But dating again after divorce didn’t sound very fun. Actually, It felt like one of those named holiday workouts at Crossfit. Dating was the “Murph” in my mind. Absolutely EXHAUSTING. I mean I didn’t want to be alone forever but the effort to do anything about it was beyond me.

I certainly had plenty of time to contemplate being single again and the thought of putting myself out there again during the quarantine. I considered doing a dating app but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. One day my friend Emmy and I looked at the Facebook dating app and I almost gagged.

I can’t. I just can’t.

No way. I bargained with God. If you want me to go out with someone you will have to make it happen. I’m done with men. Bumble me that Jesus.

And then I met my sweetheart. In a conference room at work, not thinking about dating at all. The only thing I remember about meeting him the first time was commenting to my friends that he looked like Clark Kent and he was hot and barely talked. I don’t remember anything else. (sorry babe)

You might know him as “taco guy” because I wrote about him a few blogs ago. Truthfully, our first date was a bit of a disaster. I was probably not ready to date yet and nervous as heck. I wanted to wear flip flops (as if that could channel a calm vibe) but my college age daughter convinced me to wear heels and step it up a notch. I had a sunburned foot, I was guarded, and I was cranky as crap that night. Such a charmer.

I basically jumped out at the curb and ran to my door at the end of the evening. It’s amazing he came back for more.

Fortunately, the man is persistent. He sent me cute Bitmoji’s and a picture of my favorite bottle of wine and slowly wore me down with his sweet and thoughtful nature.

A few weeks later he convinced me to go out again. And this time everything changed. Our second date was like two different people meeting. I dropped my armor, he relaxed and asked a ton of questions, he listened carefully (that’s like crack to a woman) and we both leaned in as something magical happened.

The first time he kissed me I knew I was in trouble. They say a woman can tell everything she needs to know about a man from the first smooch. Is there chemistry? Is he in a rush or does he take his time? Gentle or aggressive? Appreciative? Confident? Good hygiene? Intuitive?

The list could go on and on. When you kiss, you can’t explain to your partner what you’re looking for with words. You have to use body language which is probably more honest about your true intentions.

And not to brag…but he kissed REAL good.

And I was scared. Scared of dating again. Scared of all the awkward firsts. Of opening my heart. Scared of getting hurt, of abandonment, of boundary pushing, addictions, control and a million other “what if’s”. Brene Brown calls these moments “FFT’s.” Sorry to be crass here, but it stands for “Fucking First Times.”

FFT’s are those scary awkward first time moments in life where we get all weird and turn into weenies. Brene recommends naming it and embracing the awkward. When we accept that we are out of our league and overwhelmed it takes away the power of fear to disable us.

Dating “taco guy” was my FFT moment.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more intentional about praying over each and every date. The poor man! I had about a million unspoken hoops he had to jump through. I would set a litmus test each time with God before we went out and somehow he passed every time. The dude must have an inside track with Jesus too.

“Ok God, my counselor said the important things are faith and self awareness. So, let’s see if he is emotionally mature.”

On the first date he told me he thought one of the most important things is that people are “self aware.”

I just about fell out of my seat.

On the fourth date he asked if he could attend my new church with me after I had literally prayed earlier in the day over that exact thing. So he’s smart, sexy, wants to go to church with me and self-aware? Hmmmm…

Another day I was on the freeway praying over him and the car in front of me came to a quick stop. The license plate said “Gods1Plan.” Ummmm…ok. I guess taco guy get’s another date.

Each “one more date”, I was ever so carefully opening a little bit of my heart. And watching and learning more about him. While we certainly have a long way to go, I’m finally at the point where I’m ready to see where it will take us.

Last weekend, a few months into this dating adventure, I prayed once again and told the Lord I was ready for the girlfriend discussion. That very evening this darling man grabbed my hand and asked if he could call me his girlfriend.

Seriously Lord? Could you be any more clear with me?

He’s probably reading this right now and thinking, “I had no idea your heart was so complicated woman.” LOL

So, if you see me out with a big strong handsome man, don’t be surprised. Apparently God isn’t. And if you see a huge cheesy ass grin on my face it’s because I’m happy and filled with an unshakable joy trusting that sometimes God’s plan is better than my own. That faith has better returns than fear and now I know that my sweetheart was praying about me too, back in that conference room in January.

And I guess I’m a girlfriend now. No dating app necessary.

Does it ever feel like life is a repeating record playing the same sorry assed tune? You finally think you have victory in one area and then God says again, “whoa girl, you still got issues.”

And vanity is unfortunately one I battle.

Like almost every woman in Orange County, I am assaulted by an image obsessed culture. Even when I think I have a handle on it, I am still, at times, like a little girl asking the same silly questions. Do I measure up? Am I pretty enough?

But this measuring stick changes on a whim. Pretty is incredibly subjective, eternally elusive and the world taunts us with it. One day it is skinny with boobs and the next it’s so much junk in the trunk you wonder how they don’t tip over?

And every single time I fall for the “beauty” lie, God whoops my own woefully small butt. I can’t get away with anything! I have the ultimate dad of the universe just waiting to hold me accountable for my folly.

So, I am at the dermatologist for a consult. It is one of those “mommy’s little secret visits.” You know the one that EVERY single woman over 40 has and talks about incessantly with other women but we all hide from the men.

And this very fact slays me because every guy I know says he wants his woman to look natural, but he does not actually mean that. What he wants is his woman to not look “fake” but still be attractive to him. BUT, in all honesty, this takes some serious behind the hood type of grooming that men are oblivious to.

For me…natural takes hard work. My skin needs to look good enough to NOT wear makeup. And a few highlights in my hair certainly don’t hurt. My teeth crave Crest Whitestrips to combat a love of strong coffee chased by the occasional evening Cabernet, they practically jump in the cart at Target, and my body is about as white as Casper the Ghost. Really, my monthly spray tan is a gift to you.

Basically, girls groom to look NATURAL. Fake is a whole different language. Fake is a lifestyle and a fortune to maintain.  I secretly groom like all women do to look NATURAL and show the world I care enough about myself to make an effort.

Oh, the pressure to be a woman!

In all honesty, the quarantine really messed with my head when it came to self-care. And divorce…that too.  

I get on these Zoom calls for work and it is like a magnifying mirror of every flaw, and you can’t NOT look. There you are on a giant screen with your face mask acne and a reflection of some chick who has not seen a facial since December because of the shut down.

And it is humbling y’all. Does anyone know what I am talking about? Can I get an Amen here for all us working gals?

During the pandemic I learned what my real face looked like. No hair dyes. No nail polish. No Med Spa. No brow wax. An extra five pounds from a glass of stress wine every night. And I tried to embrace this wild and untamed woman but I can’t say I wasn’t ready to ditch her too once the shit show was over.

The week everything started to open, oh boy was I ready. So, me, being the over-doer of life that I am, decided to hit it hard. I was going to groom like a mother.

I made all my appointments. Spray tan, hair, whiten my teeth, latisse for my lashes, Med Spa.  I was on a mission to refresh.

So, I am at the Med Spa and there is that one crucial moment when the doctor asks me what I want to do? And I agree that a little IPL might be great. IPL is Intense Pulsed Light. It builds collagen and removes sun damage and brown spots. I’ve done it before and it’s like a facial on steroids.

“But will I bruise or have dark spots? “I ask. Because I have a date and I do not want to look swollen and banged up.  In the past, sometimes I come out with beautiful pink skin and sometimes I look like a beast.

The doctor smiles and says I will look like I am 30. LOL. I sit back and let him blast my face, basking in the lies of pretty.

A day later, I head over to dance in the late afternoon to drop off Kolby. My girlfriend shrieks when I get out the car. “WTF happened to your face?”

I run for the mirror. And there is a clown line of dark marks surrounding my mouth.

Oh, you guys!  I have a date in two hours and I look like someone beat me up. How do I explain this? I guess I could cancel but I am not really the flakey type. I mean… except for all the skin starting to flake off my face like a lizard.

This is that moment when you want to hit rewind.

But I am working hard to own it and take responsibility for my BS, dang it!  And now here is a golden opportunity presenting itself.

Lord, once again, I allowed myself to let vanity take me out and now, I get to own the consequences.

I try to cover it up with a boatload of concealer, but it itches and every time I touch it the makeup comes off. 

I pray, I ponder, and cry/hiccup/laugh at my absurd dilemma and then I decide to simply tell the truth.

When my date arrives to pick me up, I confess.

And it is hard. It is awkward. And on some level, I imagine he will think I am auditioning for the Real Housewives and turn around and walk out the door.

But he doesn’t. He just looks at me weird.

We end up having a wonderful time and I am glad I was forthright because by the time I got home the concealer was gone and I looked like I’d rumbled in the streets again.

God is teaching me so much about being real and vulnerable, even in my weakness, and even in my vanity. While I know the truth will set me free, I also don’t want to let go of my vice grip on my tube of mascara. And that’s OK.

During the course of the evening, my date eventually asked me why I did it. And I thought about it for a minute and then took a risk and opened up.

I told him I did it because I grew up in a home where my mom and dad validated me for being smart and pretty. I thought those were attributes they valued and so I took that on, and it became a key part of my belief system, of what it takes for me to be loved. And now, even though I know better, I still occasionally find myself, once again, on the hamster wheel of proving my smart and pretty.

He sat in the silence for a minute and then told me the first time he saw me, he thought I was the best looking woman he’s seen in years. He said his friend was kicking him under the table as he struggled for words.

And I was taken aback by his grace. He could have poked at me or teased me, but he didn’t, he let me into his vulnerability, and I was so grateful.

In that moment God stitched together a little part of my pretty wound, which I think He does only in the context of another human. Some wounds only repair when you feel safe and accepted by someone, even a new friend who simply acknowledges your brokenness and does not run for the hills.

Hopefully by the next time you see me, the marks will have faded from my face. And we can laugh about it and you can tell me all your beauty fails too. Because I know from talking to every woman it’s a battle, we all collectively face.

But in the meantime, I’ll keep deconstructing the bruises that lie a little deeper, letting Jesus (and not the med spa) reflect his glory onto me, finding my value and worth in Him, but also giving myself grace and compassion for simply wanting to be loved.

“People are like stained glass windows, they sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.”—Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Blessings,

–Sam

The weekend the protests began, all I wanted to do was make plans-lots of them-to distract myself from the noise of the world and let’s be honest, being alone and over-thinking on this insidious evil that has no easy answers.

I didn’t have my little one to care for, she was with her dad, so I had the luxury of time. But something kept telling me not to fill my schedule and to embrace the alone. To lean into the pain of our country and the mounting tension in my own heart.

So I tried to re-frame it positively, “it’s like a spiritual retreat for your soul, Sam.”

Whatever…it sounded daunting.

And so it begins…I wake up at 4:00am and grab my pile of books and Bible.

This weekend my focus is on shame. Shame within me and shame within us all. I watch the news and I feel shame for being white. If I protest I feel like a traitor to the quarantine. I feel scared and sad for all those diminished by racism AND all the good cops diminished by police brutality. I sense there is some unspoken litmus test on social media regarding all this. If you don’t say something you are bad. But what if you get it wrong? Then you are bad too. I want to put my flag on my patio and tell everyone to just be kind and get along but I’m scared to put my flag on the patio because I read online that people are targeting homes in Ladera with flags. It’s like a shame fear fest multilplied 10x by CNN.

Shame is always there lurking in the corners and stalking us. And it’s something that keeps coming up and festering in my heart.

I was out with a new friend the other day and they were asking me hard relational questions that I didn’t really want to answer. Inadvertently, they struck my shame wound and I emotionally shut down. The silence was painful.

All of a sudden this tidal wave of yuck rolled over me and tossed me into a place of heart racing mini-panic. I felt like I was back in 4th grade pummeled off my boogie board by the pounding surf in HB—so disoriented I didn’t know which end was ass up.

In that terrible awful moment my body tensed up and I wanted to vomit. Fortunately, I was at least self-aware enough to know that the revulsion was a shame spiral and not the taco.

I knew I needed to get to the root of it. So this weekend was a search and destroy type of journey. My plan was come back with only half the stuff I started out with.

Around 8:00am, after consuming two large cups of coffee, I head out for a hike armed with a 90 minute podcast on shame. Right before I leave, I pray for God to speak to me on this journey.

When I round the corner after crossing Antonio, this tree stops me dead in my tracks.

It’s like an “atta girl” someone left just for me. Seriously? Thank you Lord.

As I walk I listen to the podcast.

And I get unraveled.

Oh my goodness y’all… if you listen to anything, listen to this. It’s long and it takes a bit to get into but then it hits like a mack truck. I can’t tell you how much this impacted me. I literally burst into tears on a sidewalk in Ladera and bawled for about thirty minutes thinking about the deep and relentless love of Christ dying for the shame I cling to like an old baby blanket. Here’s the link…

Dr. Curt Thompson-On the Enneagram and Shame

Ephipany #1-Surrender the Shame to the only one able to destroy it

Only Jesus is capable of bearing the weight of my shame. He is the only one who offers us freedom from racial divide, injustice, white privilege, prejudice and the sins of our own hearts and our fathers. Only he can bear this burden. It’s too much for any of us on our own. We weren’t made to carry a collective pain like this. Like Pastor Mark Francey says, “sheep aren’t pack animals.” And yes…we are the sheep in this metaphor.

I spend the afternoon listening to music, reading more and reflecting. Eventually my eyes get heavy and my tired body rests and falls in and out of dreams. I almost never nap because I can rarely turn my brain off, but today is different. My soul is at peace. Sometimes a good cry is like fixing a clogged pipe. Once it’s cleared out, clear water flows through again. But boy was I exhausted from the spiritual roto-rooter.

I wake suddenly at 5:30pm on the nose and feel like I’m supposed to go down to the Dana Point Harbor, Its like Harry Potter with his liquid luck. I just know “it’s the place to be” but I have no idea why? The feeling is so strong though I can’t resist. So I grab my headphones and head out. What’s a few more miles?

The beach is glorious in the waning sun. It’s warm and the unmasked folks are smiling which feels like melted butter to my heart. The pandemic stole our smiles and I’m on a mission to find them.

I decide to do something a little wild so I tentatively hit the classic rock playlist. I know, that sounds mildly lame, but I’ve always played it safe with music. But not today.

The first song that comes on is “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen and I can’t stop my huge spit eating grin. AC DC is next, then Journey. I think classic rock suits me. If the boardwalk was a catwalk I rocked it. I don’t know what God was doing to me and in me but I felt like a badass bursting with joy.

As I headed back, a new boat caught my eye. I’ve walked this harbor a million times and never seen it. It was called “Darling Girl.” and I just about fell over, because when I write letters to myself from God they all start with…”Darling Girl.” It’s our thing.

Ephipany #2: God will go to the end of the earth to fight for my heart.

The intentional relentless pursuit of God never ceases to astound me. How the God of the Universe shows me one sign after the next in a world raging with pandemics, social distancing, protests, rioting and unrest, I truly don’t know? And yet, God takes the time to reveal to me how much he cherishes me with a sign and a boat and the sweetest nap hugs.

I turned off my phone Saturday night. I buried myself in my journal and prayers and fell asleep with a delicious solace that ran deep into my core.

Sunday morning I woke to the news that my son who lives in Reno and attends the University of Nevada was on lockdown in his downtown home on curfew while a crowd rioted a few blocks away. They looted the courthouse, businesses and the police station, threw rocks, smashed windows and lit a car on fire. Kyle was relieved he had brought his flag into wash because they were lighting them all on fire up and down the street.

My first instinct was to apologize profusely for not calling and texting and then I thought twice. Yes, I missed out on hyperventilating and watching the news and blowing up his phone, but it’s only because I didn’t know. Maybe I was exactly where I needed to be?

In all truth, I probably helped him more on my knees pleading for his protection than helicopter momming it anyway. I’m ten hours away from Reno, and he can certainly rescue himself.

Epiphany 3: Surrender mama. The King is on the throne.

Sunday was glorious, I spent the day working out, listening to church online and burrowed in my books again.

And I was never so glad to be alone. It was a holy water on my skin weekend where I let go of things holding me back from having an open heart. While I certainly don’t have any more answers to the weight of the world than I did before…I’ve at the very least stopped trying to carry them.

And even if my protests are in the spiritual realm I know God hears them and sees his people groan.

The alone was nothing to fear. The alone embraced me.

If I’d made plans to distract myself I would have missed out on the sweet gifts of tenderness displayed for me and what my friend Emmy calls “God winks.”

Doing the work of healing shame both personally and collectively is messy and deep and it takes hard work. It takes loving your neighbor as you love yourself.

But this means we actually have to love ourselves. Letting go of shame is as much about loving me as it is releasing me to love. Because when I do this well I can better love my neighbor.

Love is the enemy of shame. And love unravels us.

“Nothing can make our lives, or the lives of other people more beautiful than perpetual kindness.” —Tolstoy

When was the last time you retreated from the chaos and got quiet enough to listen?

Nothing freaks me out more than not knowing. Not knowing where you stand, waiting for those test results, not knowing if you are going to lose your spouse or your loved one or your job. Living in that awful limbo land of uncertainty is a hell unlike any other.

You know what I mean…it’s sort of like MAYBE living in a global pandemic. We just don’t know.

Or, it might look like my life right now, getting divorced, living in a pandemic and then getting a breast cancer scare.

Wait, what?

I’m at the doctor getting my left orb, for lack of a better term, stared at for a solid five minutes of pure awkwardness when the doctor finally takes off his reading glasses and tells me he thinks it’s a large bruise from running.

“Sam, you do have a rather large bosom, so uhhh, yeah…these kinds of things happen. Runners often have to put Vaseline on their nipples to prevent chafing. You are going to have to wear more supportive sports bras. Obviously, we will schedule a mammogram, but I think you are good.”

And I wanted to crawl in a shame hole and never come out. Was that his best attempt at an impartial doctoral diagnosis, a chastisement of mammary neglect or an ass backwards compliment? And why did this examination take so long?

He went on, “So tell me about the divorce? I didn’t expect that from you.”

Right. I know…Me. The sweet little pastor’s wife now turned rebel. It’s unexpected. Shocking even. And sooooo juicy.

And I sat there and smiled weakly with my mouth closed BECAUSE I’m not dishing. Especially when I have a blue paper robe on with the opening in front.

Why? Because if I tell anyone all the shitty things he did I also have to tell you all the shitty things I did. Enough said.

Well, let’s be honest, I’ll probably tell you all the shitty things I did anyway because that’s how I process, but since I have to co-parent with my ex for the next ten years, let’s just leave him out of it.

So…here I am, living in an apartment down the street from my old home with my two girls and a dog, starting over and daily embracing a new life, one I never EVER expected to have.

I now get to be my own gym buddy, coffee barista and partner in crime. There’s learning self-reliance and then there’s shelter in place self-reliance. It’s like 2X the alone.

Kolby opened the front door the other day to my apartment and my joint custody dog ran in with squeals, leaps and heavy breathing–this is how he shows joy, by sounding like’s having a freaking heart attack. And Kolby told me, “I think Zeus likes it here best.”

Yeah…me too Zeus. Me too.

My new home is a haven. It’s safe. I can breathe here.

Getting some distance helps me to put things in perspective. I can see how my feelings are all over the map–an ebb and flow of a major life transition and divorce brings them all out. I’m irritated, exasperated, delighted and relieved all in the same moment. I transition between self-confidence and self-doubt, intense productivity followed by Netflix with chips, salsa and wine. I desperately miss my neighborhood, I suffer for my youngest and pray this doesn’t derail her. And I’m now a podcast junkie who runs endlessly listening to Brené Brown and whatever worship or church service my friend Diane sends me daily. Got to war-ship baby!

I helped a friend move the other night and as I sat on her new mattress on the floor playing with her toddler my heart ached. My eyes filled with tears I couldn’t hold back. I missed MY toddlers blond curls and those early days of mothering. I hurt for the life I had, the life I dreamed of and the space in between where the pain sucked the life out of me.

This new life is so different. I’m reinventing my family (and me). I’m spending lots of time with my girls-baking and snuggling, homeschooling and loving. Quarantine life is a crazy confusing and bizarrely healing place if you let it slow you down enough to reflect. Without all this running around to dance and school activities, I finally have time to think and think and think. And that’s good and that’s bad.

I’ve got time for weekly therapy, long runs and challenging hikes, calls with friends and reading everything I can get my hands on. But then I’ve also got extra time for bursting into tears, sleepless nights and kicking a stuffed dinosaur for anger management. I think I’ve had one full night of sleep in the last month. That 2am siren kicks my ass every night. Oh sleep, where art thou?

Divorce is like a death. You go through all the stages of grief. In many ways I’ve done much of this over the last year and a half and I’m finally moving into acceptance and healing-which is a whole new bag of tricks and emotions. It’s like waking up in Oz when you went to sleep in Kansas.

This path is hard but it’s one I’m willing and ready to leap into. And yes, I packed my ruby slippers. But maybe clicking my heels together will take me to a new kind of home.

To all my friends and my therapist who’ve walked with me on this painful journey the last few years I want to say a HUGE thank you. Thank you for the 3 way Zoom calls, the endless talks, the glasses of wine and tears, the prayers, two-0-clock chocolate, the margaritas across the street and the life coaching by Albert. Thank you for teaching me BOUNDARIES. Thank you to my best friends who listened and spoke hard truth and then let me wrestle with it. Thank you to my kids who have supported me every step of the way. Knowing you loved me and had my back has meant everything to me.

Thank you to my readers. Thanks for letting be human. Thanks for letting me tumble off the pastor’s wife pedestal and understanding that what goes on behind closed doors isn’t always the pretty picture you want to see. Sometimes it’s jacked up and messy.

And sometimes you just need to start over and not know the outcome.

“Not all storms come to disrupt your life, some storms come to clear your path.”–Anonymous

–Sam

There are days when my prayers seem like a hard bounce, not unlike the weighted medicine ball I throw at the wall of my gym, that sucker just shoots back at me heavier than before.

“Rescue me Lord, help this situation, heal this relationship, change this circumstance…”

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

And I hear crickets. Or worse, a strong sense that this Holy Spirit Silence means I am to surrender.

“What?” I don’t like that word.

I know I’m not alone when I feel like throwing a mini-tantrum. Why oh why is life so hard sometimes? It’s so good and yet it’s so freaking hard!

The truth is that troubling circumstances test our faith. Job loss, relational discord, family drama, health concerns…they all tempt us to doubt, to fear, to wonder if we are loved. God, do you even see me?

Yesterday, I woke before dawn. Dragged my butt to the gym and came home to read and pray before the cares of the world screamed for my attention (namely packing lunches, backpacks and dance bags).

My quiet time is sacred and I NEED these moments. Don’t mess with Mama when she’s praying.

I thanked God for the trials. I thanked him for the gifts of pain that make me cling to Him. I thanked him with an aching heart for the things I don’t understand. And for a soul restoring thirty minutes I rested in His peace.

Then the shit storm hit.

And it came hard and fast. Troubling emails from a client, texts I didn’t want to open, news that hurt. The reality of painful situations raised their ugly head and it wasn’t long before I broke. Tears held back for too long erupted. I’m the girl who rarely cries, but when I do it’s like a dam erupting. Sobs and hiccups and streaky mascara runneth over.

And I ask myself again for the four thousandth time, God what am I supposed to learn here?

One thing that God keeps drumming into my head is my broken thinking. It’s so easy to focus on the problem instead of the one who solves my problems.

Maybe God wants to change my mind not my circumstances.

I’m pretty sure that sometimes my misery is because of the way I approach a situation more than it is the situation itself. If I hold on to a negative mindset, it just compounds the problem. I chase the pain. If I think the worst, I see the worst. If I think a situation is hopeless, then I believe it is. 

My friend texts me Philippians 4:8. It is a reminder to focus on the good. To train my thoughts like I train my body at the gym. No one wants the suffering of the workout, but we all want the rocking body.

In the same vein, we all want the peace that surpasses all understanding but forget that its in the trials and the tribulations where our faith is exercised and our minds are trained to think on the good–not Jason Bourne every disaster like I’m inclined to do.

Maybe God also wants to change my heart?

Some circumstances might last WAY too long. I know I struggle with this one. Like many of you I have some deep wounds that get triggered. I carry resentment built up over the years when an injustice drags on and on. And yet…I don’t believe God allows these difficult trials and situations in my life to make me bitter or angry. He is teaching me to forgive seventy times seven. Not be a doormat certainly, but not to hold on to the pain either.

Anger over the past doesn’t change you for the better, it only magnifies the brokenness.  A hard heart is worse than any circumstance you face. I don’t know about you, but I do not want to be the angry old lady going postal on a clerk at Walmart because I haven’t dealt with my junk.

I try to remind myself that surrender might simply be one prayer of forgiveness at a time. One day at a time. One plank I pull out of my own eye before I look for the sliver in yours.

Training my thoughts is a daily battle. Sometimes I blow it hard and sometimes I feel the small victories that no one notices but me. I imagine Jesus giving me a high five. “Nice job Sam, you didn’t get butt hurt over that jab at work. I’m so proud of you baby girl.”

We have to remember this journey of following Jesus is hard. We want the easy way. I want the land of milk and honey (or wine and tacos) without the battle to overcome the enemy. And that’s faulty thinking because there is no promised land without a grueling journey.

This peace I am after only comes if I’m willing to pursue it. And we need one another for encouragement and a hand to help us back up when we fall.

I can just make out Taco Tuesday over the next hill. Are you with me?

–Samantha