Category: Encouragement

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Ho Ho No! The Santa Conversation

This weekend the big conversation happened. You know, the “Santa talk”–the one you desperately dread because it’s your last child. Your baby. Your last tie to the remnants of childhood hope and magic. Its the Elf on the Shelf and letters to Santa. It’s sacred deception in it’s finest form…all in the name of the Christmas Spirit.

And now it’s gone. Insert sad face.

Late on Friday evening as I tucked my almost ten-year-old daughter in to bed, she started down a path I was reluctant to follow.

“Mom, I know we’ve been dancing around this all season. Is Santa for real?” Kolby inquired.

I snuggled in for a kiss. “What do you think?” I asked, hoping for a speck of belief to build on.

“I know it’s you,” Kolby insisted. All the kid’s say Santa’s not real and I have proof.” She then proceeded to list off all of my elf fails, how she hacked my Amazon account and found Christmas gifts I ordered, and what her numerous friends said.”

“Kolby, do you want to believe?” I pleaded.

“No, I’m ready for this Mom.” she insisted.

Here was the moment and it hung in the air, heavy with tension. I paused, checked my heart and then surrendered.

Deep down, I knew I was beat. My reluctance was more about my emotion tied to her growing up than her actual readiness. Kolby seemed proud of herself and confidant that this was a natural part of growth and maturity. Her critical thinking was an indicator that she was ready to hear the truth.

Now, this wasn’t my first rodeo with the Santa talk. Kolby is my third child and I know my role as a parent is not to control my child’s emotions, either positive or negative,” it’s my job to create a safe, loving, and validating environment. My focus needs to be on honesty, connection, and empathy to her journey, not mine.

So we began the talk about who Saint Nicholas really is–a kind and generous man who loved Jesus and embodied the Spirit of giving.

“Kolby, this is a special day because now you become Santa.” I whispered.

I silently prayed for God’s wisdom as I gently guided her from belief in Santa to becoming Santa.

“Kolby, Santa is about unselfish giving and creating magic in the lives of children and those in need all around the world. And now sweetheart, it’s your turn. Are you ready for this big responsibility?”

Kolby, squeezed me tight. “Oh Mommy, I’m ready and so excited! When can we start wrapping presents! Who can we give to?”

Her joy was palpible. She felt empowered and thrilled to have made the transition from little kid to big kid.

I, on the other hand, fought back a few tears and held her tight. I knew my husband would be heartbroken and was now dreading going downstairs to tell him.

“Oh and one more thing that’s very important! Kolby, we never EVER tell someone who believes that Santa’s not real. We only want to spread love, never steal magic from a child.”

Kolby nodded as she drifted off to sleep. “Of coarse Mommy, I would never do that. Thank you for trusting me to become a Santa.”

And that’s when you know God’s timing is simply perfect. Kolby is still a Santa believer–it just looks a little different now, but her maturity is beautiful too.

Merry Christmas my friends!

–Samantha

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The Struggle With Stupid

Woman Wearing Blue Denim Jeans Holding Book Sitting on Gray Concrete at Daytime

I like to think I can take constructive criticism like a man. But the truth is, I don’t.

I take it like a woman and over-think it to death.

I chew on it. I weigh WHO the person is that gave me the feedback. I decide if the person has the street cred to speak into my life. Do I even care what they think? Do I respect them? Should I take the plugs of denial out of ears?

As a writer I can get lot’s of feedback (both positive and negative) so I have to be careful of the “truths” I choose to accept or believe. I think that’s just plain old wisdom. I got torched for some stuff I wrote years ago on the detriments of porn to healthy dating. Yeah-never touching that hornets nest again.

But what happens when you get a “constructive comment” that rings eerily true?

And it stings all the more because the person who gave me the insight passes muster on all of the above. They only want the best for me and they are a trusted authority. Therefore, I should probably listen to this nugget.

(Insert bad word)

So what’s my problem?

Apparently, I have a low tolerance for stupid people.

Ouch! Just saying that out loud turns my face red, makes me want to hide, cast my eyes downward and avoid your potential condemnation.

Because obviously you think I’m an asshole. OMG, isn’t she the wife of a pastor? Yes…I am and I sin too. Dang it! Stop imaginary judging me.

I know, I get it… I’m supposed to be in ministry and be loving and kind and float around on marshmallow clouds of NICE. But I guess my wings slipped.

When I say “stupid” I’m not referring to those who are intellectually challenged. (I’m not that big of a jerk) I’m talking about the little nuances that I define as “stupid”–like rudeness, disrespect, low self-awareness, and vulgarity. Basically, stupid behavior by smart people gets under my skin. I believe the way in which someone conducts oneself speaks volumes and so I struggle when I see unsavory behavior and I become less patient with these people.

I guess I have high expectations and maybe a big boulder in my eye when it comes to my own junk (and I can probably work on that too).

So…how does one gain this gentleness of spirit and tolerance with people that drive them up a wall?

What I’m learning is that real patience means not giving up too soon and writing them off. I need to keep trying to connect with people in different ways. Even though it might take ten different approaches, eventually one will stick and then bamm…the “stupid” behavior goes away because I’m speaking their love language.

I’ve been digging into my heart and trying to pull out the reasons why I’m so impatient–let those go–and add on new disciplines.

Like so many, I think I’m pretty hard on myself, so if I want to give others more grace I first have to extend it to myself. Lowering my expectations also helps. Sylvia Plath said, “If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.” Got it Sylvia. My expectations will be lower than low. I’m going to limbo instead of walk.

I’m also working very hard at taking nothing personally. I will not be offendible. I will embrace this freedom and become immune to other people’s actions. My super power will be CHILL. Watch out y ‘all, the difficult people can not touch my bubble of peace.

NOT MY MONKEY, NOT MY CIRCUS! My cousin reminds me of this line and I always chant it when I get stressed. I am not responsible for the actions of others; I am only responsible for me. I do not have to break up the fight on the playground (I’ve done that) or take responsibility for other’s peoples stuff.

Last and most important, I will remember that God is gracious with me, always compassionate, slow to anger, and abounding in love.

And despite my idiot nature and impatience, He still loves me.

Recently I had a breakthrough with a person who frustrated me and drove me freaking bonkers. All of a sudden, with a different approach our relationship clicked and I saw the magic of extended grace. Had I given up and written this person off I would have missed the beauty of connecting. It was a sweet encouragement for me and a reminder of God’s grace for me and his people.

So, I will continue to fight this good fight, confess, pray and embrace this struggle. And it will be a struggle people, because I have plenty of opportunities to work on this area.

–Samantha

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Goodbye Baby Girl

As if one wasn’t bad enough…

I have now launched my second kid off to college. This time it’s my daughter. 

Just thinking about Faith not upstairs asleep in her room chokes me up. (it’s 5:03 am and she’s probably snoring logs right about now in Arizona)

My Faith…My joy. My tenderness. The beauty that brightens my every day. The girl with the cat like fierceness that commands attention. This child, my middle child, my greatest struggle as a parent and also the greatest joy, the kid I don’t worry about because I know she’ll kick ass and take names. This strong, independent, sensitive, charming sass of a woman, the invader of my heart and hijacker of emotions left my nest.

NO….yes….NO!!!!

I’m so happy for her (but so sad for me)

And the familiar ache, the one I just spent two years nursing back to wholeness after my son left for college is tugging at me again.

A friend called the other night and we commiserated about losing our children to college and growing up. In the blink of an eye, our crazy busy homes are so EMPTY.

I try to cheer her up but I’m wallowing too. I’m the “lucky one” she says, because I still have one kid left.  And while that’s true, there is an emptiness in the home I can’t get back. It’s like one of those LOL Dolls. Try to put that shit back together after a kid has unwrapped it. 

YOU JUST CANT!

Life is like that too. You don’t realize how many layers of love and struggle and sacred joy there are until you finally get to the prized toy and then the journey of unwrapping is over. But you can’t re-wrap an LOL Doll and you certainly can’t recreate the mystical journey of raising a child.

The irony of parenting is real

The honest truth is that my darling daughter was a pain in the ass for a few years as a teenager. (I’m sure I wasn’t always parent of the year either) And then like a butterfly she transformed into a breathtaking and kind young woman. Here’s the suck part. She’s so cool now I don’t want her to leave. If you had asked me this same question when she was 14, I might have paid someone to take her off my hands.

A few weeks ago we did a bunch of lasts before she leaves home. We jumped into the car and headed to Starbucks. Then we drove to church, checked in Kolby in kid’s ministry and headed down to the worship center. Kolby chastised me for trying to hold her hand as she entered the 4th grade room with her. Not this one too!!! Can someone still be my baby? 

Faith sashayed beside me, looking like a model in her black boho hat, animal print skirt and black tank tied just above her perfect belly button. Her new flower tattoo on the wrist caught my eye. All grown up but still my little girl. And for the last time before she tackled ASU she leaned in to me close and held my arm during the service. 

Pinch me! I kept glancing over at her trying to freeze the moment and capture just one more second of her beauty. 

I wanted to stay right there and ENJOY her adorableness forever but the reality of her leaving trailed me around like my dog Zeus in the morning when he’s hungry. Yapping and nipping at my heels. 

Intense joy and excruciating pain all in one breath. Exulting and weeping inside. So conflicted!

And I reminded myself that..It’s OK to hurt when my babies grow up and leave for college!

It simply means I love them.

So even though this isn’t my first rodeo, it still aches like a mother. And I say that literally because motherhood hurts, dang it! It’s so good and it’s so hard. It feels like with each child I birthed another heart I wear on my sleeve that can swell up with love, get trampled and carry a truckload of anxiety, jubilation, guilt and concern.

Last weekend I drove her up to her new apartment in Tempe and moved her in. It’s an urban oasis of concrete, wood, modern and rustic with a resort pool, dog grooming facilities, clubhouse and a Starbucks on the bottom floor. Wait, what?

Only my daughter finagles a way to not live in the dorms her freshman year. But that’s my Faith. She determines what she wants and goes after it like a tornado. Somehow she leveraged her beer budget to live out her champagne dreams.

In all truth, I have to give her props for accepting nothing but the best. I might also be a wee bit jealous at her tenacity. I want this girl’s mojo and I really want the Starbucks! 

I cried my eyes out when I said goodbye. And the next day. And the next day. A week in and I’m starting to recover but it’s the little things that put me over the edge. One less plate at dinner, less laundry to fold, no more waking up in the middle of the night to make sure she’s home safe. No more trips to Starbucks together and church on Sunday’s. No more hugs and train wrecked bedrooms. She’s got her own Starbucks now and she has to pick up her own messes.

Today I Facetimed her and watched as she cuddled up on the cushy white pointelle bedspread I bought for her new bed.  The good news is she seems totally content and capable despite the 116 temperature outside in Tempe. The bad news is, she doesn’t seem to miss me as much as I miss her. 

But I hope late at night when it’s get’s still (and real quiet) and her thoughts get to loud to sleep that these blankets will comfort her and remind her just a little bit of home where her mama can’t sleep too because she’s thinking and aching about her beautiful girl who grew up to fast.

So for all the mama’s saying goodbye this week to their grown up babies, I want to give you a high five. We did it! Now go and honor those feelings, and grab a box of tissues, a girlfriend and a glass of wine. It’s an excruciatingly long time to parent’s weekend!

The most important thing that parents can teach their children is how to get along without them.” ~ Frank A. Clark

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Throwing out the Doormat

There comes a point in life when you wake up one day and have a freaking “Tiffany.”

And Tiffany’s are terrible and wonderful things to have.

Let me explain…

My nine-year old daughter played the part of a spoiled young lass in the school play this year. One of her lines was, “Oh my goodness, I think I just a had a Tiffany!”

The other young actress rolled her eyes with deep sarcasm and said, “You mean an epiphany?”

Kolby flipped her long golden hair and cocked her head playfully to one side “Yes, that’s what I said, a “Tiffany!”

My girl got a big chuckle from the audience.

Well played baby girl…well played, but back to the “Tiffany.”

I had one of those recently, A Tiffany, or rather an Epiphany.

It was a big and scary and powerful TRUTH that hit me so hard I want to vomit when I contemplate it.

The harsh truth I uncovered is that I’m codependent.

I just puked in my mouth writing that.

Like…not a little co-dependent, but more like a lot.

Oh…yuck.

And when you figure out a truth like that there’s only one choice.

Get some healing girlfriend.

I’m talking in third person here, obviously to encourage myself.

I think I came by codependency pretty naturally, as most people do. It was a survival thing as a kid. My dad (as a younger man) was a domineering, emotionally and occasionally physically abusive guy-if you count spanking, slapping and a belt as abusive.

One of the ways I learned to cope was to not piss him off.

That was literally my daily goal for much of my childhood

Daddy’s in a bad mood…let’s stay out of his way. Get him whatever he wants. Make sure he has a good meal, a cold drink in his hand and the remote to watch CSPAN and congressional hearings-his personal favorite.

(Just to clarify…this was my real dad not my step-dad who is a darling.)

Always make sure the house is quiet and clean and chores are done. Make sure my grades are good and I am pretty and well mannered and represent the family well.

Tow the line, don’t fight back, don’t piss off daddy.

And then I grew up and got a life and moved on.

But then I wake up one day in my mid forties and realize I’m still stuck in the same operating mode.

What? Isn’t there a shelf life on this type of dysfunction?

I still take responsibility for people’s bad moods. I am a pleaser, a peacemaker, and I do whatever it takes to keep our home drama free, even if it’s killing my own heart in the process.

It’s hard to let yourself be all that God created you for when your caught up in the cycle of never inconveniencing anyone.

It means I rarely ask for help. I try to meet everyone’s needs and neglect my own. I become a lesser version of me. I apologize for everything. “Sorry” is my freaking middle name.

But somewhere along the line I woke up.

I had a freaking “Tiffany” a few months ago.

And now that I know…there are no more excuses for my behavior.

Things are changing because they have to.

I’m learning big words like “boundaries” and “No.”

I’m back in therapy with a new onion layer to peel, because healing comes like that, in thin opaque layers, one sting at a time.

Goodbye doormat layer…

I now get the opportunity to call “bullshit” when I am treated unkindly. I get to stand up for myself and start the painful process of developing a backbone.

Right now it’s more of a gummy bone, but it’s hardening by the minute.

And I’m not going to lie and say it’s easy for everyone to accept my new boundaries. Like I said, Tiffany’s are terrible and wonderful things and they upset the status quo.

To some degree I’ve confused spirituality and being a “good Christian woman” with being a bottomless pit. I’ve let myself believe that pastor’s wives always smile and play nice. They turn the other cheek over and over and over again… even when it’s emotionally damaging.

They don’t piss off (fill in the blank).

And what a mistake I’ve made.

Jesus called me to forgive not roll over and play dead.

I wonder how many women confuse these two concepts misinterpreting WWJD?

The more I understand emotional health AND spirituality, the more I think Jesus might knock over some tables and call people out when they behave badly.

I’m learning that my spirituality will only go as far as my emotional health and they are intertwined, for better or worse. The only thing holding me back is me.

I sense Jesus standing by my side, my biggest cheerleader, whispering to me to stay strong, to stretch myself and step out of my comfort zone.

Courage, eyes on the prize, stay in my own lane…

Big gulp…

When I read the scriptures I am reminded that Jesus was anything but a doormat. While he went to the cross, he did it with FULL cooperation and at any point he could have taken back his sacrifice. He was God after all… it’s not like he couldn’t interrupt the plot line. The cross was an intentional and dedicated act of love.

Why? Because…he valued people. He respected people and he willingly died for them.

Which begs the question…

How did I forget that I deserve to be treated with respect?

How did I forget that Jesus paid a huge ransom for me to have life and have it abundantly, not live life walking on eggshells.

Dr. Phil likes to say, “You teach people how to treat you.”

I got some work to do…

Today I’m thankful for the Tiffany’s in my life even though the truth hurts.

Sticking my head in the sand and hoping things will fix themselves is crazy—as is setting my expectations on the low side.

These days my expectations about how things should go have moved upward. My bar sits higher–it’s based on grace and truth, on what I would love to see happen, not what I wish wasn’t happening.

And that’s a recovering co-dependent’s love story to herself.

What a gift to take the chaos from within and from it create some semblance of order.–Katherine Paterson

–Samantha

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Going Primal

Lent hit home in a new way for me this year. I like to think of it as my caveman experience.

Sure, I’ve given stuff up before. I’ve fasted a little, prayed a little and given some of the “stuff” up I put too much emphasis on.

But this time it was different. This year Jesus took me deep into the wilderness.

It started with Keto.

Tim and I did the low carb diet in February. We had high hopes to lose a few lbs and get in shape.But one of us had some weird side effects.

That would be me. I stopped sleeping.

Sam’s body in ketosis is a navy seal on steroids. Basically, I felt like Wonder Woman with a surplus of energy.

I only needed 3-4 hours of sleep a night. Think of all those extra hours in the day!

Let’s just say I got $h1t done. Lot’s of it. I mean, I went from snoozing 8 hours a night to having a surplus of 4-5 hours in the day.

I was on fire. Losing weight. Wearing clothes I hadn’t worn in 4 years. Working at all hours of the day. Turning the coffee pot on at 2:00 A.M. to start the day.

Feeling good and PRODUCTIVE and energized!

It was a Keto high of colossal proportions. I felt buzzed all the time without anything to make me feel that way other than my body burning up my fat as fuel. Whoo Hoo!!!

I was simply eating lots of vegetables, fat and protein.

My Keto high lasted for 3 or 4 solid weeks. It was ridiculously awesome.

Until it wasn’t.

Around week 4 fatigue started to catch up to me.I got punchy. My filter for saying innapropriate things dissipated along with the pounds. I was a walking yawn. So, so so tired, but unable to sleep.

I started cussing more. I felt out of control when it came to my mouth. It was like someone slipped me sodium pentothal, and there are just some things that don’t need to be said.

I honestly got more sleep when I had babies–at least I could piece-meal together 5 or 6 hours a night.

By week 5 exhaustion was kicking my ass. I got dizzy at the gym. I almost fell asleep driving. I melted down at work and laughed until I cried and then really started crying because I couldn’t reel it back in.

My co-workers just looked at me in bewilderment.

I am normally a pretty disciplined and self- controlled human.

But this chick was on the edge. Sleep torture is real. I felt unstable emotionally.

Primal. Ragged. Raw. Like a girl on the streets trying to claw her way back to into normalcy.

When I hit 40 days my prayers got real.

I just needed RELIEF. My thoughts were racing. All I could whisper was Jesus over and over.

Then a word came to me.

Lent.

This is what Jesus went through. This is the wilderness.

Obviously Jesus’ scenario was extremely worse and my foray into the desert is on no way on par with his sacrifice and temptations, but to me, it was a Lenton experience.

When Jesus  walked away from food and water and into the dry land to be tempted he gave up all his coping mechanisms and faced the enemy with nothing but his faith.

And here I was…a walking zombie with stress hitting me from every side. Loved ones facing scary health challenges. Uncertainty. The thought of more loss dangling in the air like a balloon a mile high in the sky that you can see but not grasp..

I begged God to deliver from this sleep hell. Melatonin wasn’t working. Was it some type of spiritual battle? I was already fasting and praying, what was I missing?

So, I called in reinforcements.

I reached out to a good friend and got real and we talked about my broken parts. The ones that I can cover up when I have my makeup and rice and facade of control.

We talked about the spiderwebs in the recesses of my soul.

The parts that scream out for attention.

The impulses I bury deep but that find their way out when I strip away the layers of protection I shield my ugliness with.

Why do I stir the pot when I’m feeling insecure? Why do I mutter the “s” word under my breath like I have turrets when things go sideways? I’m a paradoxial mess…working my ass off to fend off financial insecurity and alternately pulling the blonde card when I’m overwhelmed or maybe just a little lazy? And why do I always feel like I have to prove my worth–which basically turns into social awkwardness every time I “try” too hard making me feel even more exposed and vulnerable.

So, I went back to Jesus. This time with a sacrifice of not just repentance, but unawered questions and a bag of tears over the sin I can’t seem to scrub off.

That very evening this beautiful girl came up to me after a class I help teach at church. She told me my blog was helping to change her identity and to remember her worth in God’s eyes.

And for a brief moment I felt like such a fraud. Here I am, wounded and reeling and she see’s something in me, I can’t even see in myself.

Because I forget too.

But in her eyes I saw Jesus reminding me of who I am.

Not perfect. Not even close…but still pursued and cherished.

My heart took a deep breath because I was carrying so much guilt over my sleep deprived “crazy.”

I don’t have to live the lie or DENY my sin. Maybe my best gift and your best gift to the world is to simply share our inadequacy.

Let’s be honest, it’s not like I can hide my “Jacked Up.”

When I  hold back and conceal my wounds, my inner darkness can neither be healed nor become a light for others.

As Dietrich Bonhoffer said, “guilt is an idol.”

I can choose to walk in the forgiveness I am offered or stew in the struggle.

And in the gap of my shortcomings He stands and rescues. Open arms in spite of my brokenness and hesitation.

I am being transformed even as I stumble forward one small step at a time.

I’m still not sleeping well even though I went off the Keto diet.

If I make it to the 4’s (AM) it’s a good day. Obviously, I messed with my bodies delicate chemical balance and it derailed me.

I’m also still struggling with my less than stellar coping mechanisms, although I only cussed once yesterday (#progress)!

I’ve added back in rice and a little wine on the weekends and gotten a few nights of quasi-rest but I continue to exist in a sleep deprived state.

It’s honestly not the best me maybe but it’s more of the real me.

I’ve learned some interesting things about myself in this weakened state that no one warned me about in the Keto manual.

Sometimes I need help. Some battles are more than I can face alone. I need my friends to pray for me and cry with me when the ache is more than I can bear.

Being a Keto Wonder Woman is over-rated. Carbs might be the enemy for some…but for me they are also sanity!

As Max Lucado put so elegantly, “The circumstances we ask God to change are often the circumstances God is using to change us.”

–Samantha

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Cotton Candy Distractions

Both my husband and I were notoriously bad daters. It’s an act of God we found each other.

For over a year I wrote three articles a week for a magazine on being single.

Let’s just say I had plenty of material.

Some might call my problem a “broken picker”.

Rich jerk…check. High net worth…check. Low integrity…check. Yep, I knew how to find em.

Tim, on the other hand, had a “distraction” problem.

He was was not unlike Doug, you know, the dog in “Up,” distracted by every bird that flew by, except in his case it was the lady birds.

He liked them all.

Instead of craving a wife and a real (and often messy) relationship with all the ups and downs, he chose to date many women at a time, shallowly skimming off emotional fulfillment from one, stealing kisses from another, a gym buddy here, and companionship there, and so on and so forth. His bevy of ladies met most of his basic needs and yet something was still missing.

Tim likes to say he filled himself with cotton candy instead of the steak dinner. While the steak dinner satisfies, the cotton candy always leave you hungry for more.

I often do the same thing at dinner. Instead of eating a real meal, I snack. Then I’m still hungry and an hour later I snack some more. Then I lose all control and get chip faced, ending up with nothing but regret and a bag of crumbs. The truth is I end up eating far more than if I had just eaten one good meal and been satisfied.

Back to bachelor Tim…about the time he turned 35, God got ahold of his heart (from a dating perspective) and he ended up taking a year and half off dating (sort of a fast) before it dawned on him that what he really craved was one wife, not five psuedo girlfriends.

True intimacy. One relationship. One treasure worth seeking. The one thing that satisfies.

But it took getting rid of all the distractions before he could understand his true craving.

I was on the same journey. To find the man of my dreams I had to let go of my expectations (and materialism) and let God give me a man of integrity.

I had to give up the guy with the yacht and the Porsche to find the guy with the heart of gold and  a love for God.

Our dating history reminds me so much of what I see around me everyday and it doesn’t go away just because the ring goes on the finger.

I see people chasing the cotton candy that never fulfills and always leaves us starving for more.  They ignore their marriages in the pursuit of outward approval–the cheap trinkets of applause-the corner office, acclaim, the envy of our neighbors.

But do we even know how good it can be?

Marriage, when given our time, attention and efforts is a sacred endeavor.

But…it’s an investment that’s not easy. Lying down my selfish nature, desire to be right and pride physically hurts at times.

Loving and caring about people is risky. Deep and true relationship with raw vulnerability is a rare treasure. There is joy and closeness and laughter to be found and yet there are shadows too.

I know for me, that when I get weary and unforgiveness invades my heart, I pull back emotionally. I get quiet. I don’t speak up. I simmer with annoyance. And that causes a wedge to build if I’m not intentional about tearing it down before it gets too high.

And yet, when I take the risk and engage (and forgive) I’m rewarded with the intimacy, closeness and the connection I truly desire.

Pulling back or distracting myself with the candy aisle only keeps me aloof from the WHOLE experience of love and passion and life.

“Go for something real. Develop an appetite for authentic intimacy. Dive into your marriage, and discover the quiet but profound pleasure of loving and being loved, of truly knowing and being known.”–Gary Thomas.

He goes on, “To be loved well and to be known completely by one is far more fufilling than being adored by many and truly known by none.”

I’ve had the steak dinner and there is no going back.

I’ve been on my knees more for my husband lately–praying for him, lifting up his needs and hoping that God will give him the wife of his dreams and that it will be me. Imperfect, stubborn, but persistent…me, setting the table of our real and messy life with steak knives.

What are you doing right now to invest in your marriage?

–Samantha

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28 Days

28 Days

“My business is not to remake myself, but to make the absolute best of what God made.” –Robert Browning

Self reflection is a tough critic. It points out all the areas that need work. Hopefully it finds some good. Never has it walked away from me without a list of improvements.

In February, I take 28 days to listen to my Spirit led self. It’s not pretty.

In February, I take a step back, remove unnecessary items from my life and reevaluate.

Why? Because sometimes the wants in my life masquerade as needs and it takes time and distance for me to recognize the imposters.

In February there is no extra spending and I get serious about my budget. We embark on a strict eating plan to shed those Christmas pounds( Keto this year) and it’s back to the gym for tough and regular HIIT workouts. There are no no glasses of wine on a Friday with friends (or, let’s be honest, no glass of wine on a Tuesday night when I’m exhausted and just want to relax). In February we, my husband and I, sacrifice the good for the best.

February is freaking hard.

On Sunday, I walk through the wine aisle of Trader Joe’s, as busy people bang into my cart, and I want to scream. Tears well up in my eyes. I feel cranky…my body hurts from the grueling workouts, my shoulder injury throbs and I just want to FEEL better.

I text my husband, “People are stupid and I want a glass of wine.”

He emojis me back a kiss and some encouragement to hang on.

Really? All I want is the wine glass emoji and the girl dancing emoji and permission to blow it. My flesh is screaming for a sugar hit. But I pray for sustenance and steer my cart onward.

Two minutes later, after my internal mini fit, the floodgates of mercy arrive. I have an amazing chat with the checker. We talk for ten minutes about parenting as she ever so slowly bags my goods. I encourage and pour into her heart. Now her eyes fill with tears.

What? I get to my car and weep. Only God could orchestrate that moment. Only in His strength can I get beyond myself and MY neediness for the true things in life that satisfy.

In February I ask myself the hard questions. Is this a real want or a need? Do we really need new floors or a bigger emergency fund? My heart knows the answer. Maybe drooling over HGTV, daydreaming about home remodels and wandering the halls of Home Depot checking out porcelain wood tiles isn’t what satisfies.

In February I connect with my authentic self. But on the path to find her again, after the craziness of the holiday season, I need to put blinders on to the noise around me. It’s Starbucks and the pretty shiny things on social media that lure me and dull my senses.

February revives my heart.

When I learn to live without, I can recognize my real needs. I remember what makes me truly content. I am not a complicated creature. I crave intimacy with God, a close connection to my family and friends, and fun with my “bestest” best friend-my husband. I yearn for purpose at work and ministry, and freedom in my finances and health (both physically and emotionally).

It’s pretty simple really…but so easy to forget.

When I seek God’s face and not his hand, contentment floods my soul. As Tim and practice intermittent fasting, my senses are sharpened and the gift of discernment comes back into focus. I need less sleep and creativity soars. In this space, I develop patience that enables me to wait gracefully and thankfully until God determines the “when” because I trust that in his timing, the things I truly need will come.

When my sugar and carbs and Starbucks addiction pass, I remember I have the ability to choose “real life,” not simply “living” or getting by.

“The World is too much with us,” chimes the poet William Wordsworth, “Getting and Spending, we lay waste our powers.”

February quiets the clamor of the world so I can hear the deeper vibrations of the spirit playing my song.

Oh February, it’s God’s Valentine to my soul.

Maybe you need to get quiet too, still the noise and ask the questions. Listen…what do you hear?

–Samantha

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What’s Under the Tree?

All week long, in the early hours before the bustle begins, our home transforms, one ornament, one decoration, one memory at a time into a Christmas wonderland. I deliberately choose not to hurry and check this task off my to-do list. The dawdling and the stretching out of every precious moment are as delightful as the big day.

My youngest daughter is as enamored by the magic as I. Kolby tears out of bed and runs downstairs to the tree simply to turn on the lights and bask in the glow against the darkness of the morn. She has left a small pile of her favorite ornaments out on the buffet, un-hung, waiting in limbo. I think it’s a stall tactic. I don’t think she wants to be done either. Her joy is palpable.

Even my husband chimes in, “Sam, there is something so fulfilling about setting up the tree.” It’s the hunt at Home Depot with Kolby by his side in a Santa hat, then dragging the tree home atop the car, perilously secured by fraying ropes, to placing it in the stand and covering it with sparkling lights. These tender moments strike a chord in our hearts.

The Hallmark movies would like to tell us the “Christmas Spirit” has arrived, and I couldn’t agree more, but I believe it’s far beyond the cookie baking, the White Elephant gifts, and the house with the most elaborate light and sound show.

This communal magic, the nostalgia so thick you can smell, this sense of forgiveness and grace offered magnanimously by all is not found by believing in Santa or buying more stuff as the world would have us believe.

Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus, but the Christmas spirit is so much more than that.Y

It’s more than the elusive “Fa la la la” feeling, more than the decorations and more than eight tiny reindeer.

I’ve had to be intentional this year to treasure the spirit. I catch it slipping away so quickly and have to deliberately reel it back in. My son will miss his first Christmas at home, ever, thanks to Nevada playing in a Bowl Game in Arizona on the 29th. Football practice does not cease even for Christmas day and a mama who just wants to see her behemoth boy open his stocking with a cinnamon roll in hand.  Soon Faith will leave for college too and my nest will be down by two. If I focus too much on my aching heart my jolly turns into jaded.

I also battle my internal financial scrooge. She is a miserly piece of work-motivated by fear and never having enough, despite God’s provision. And Christmas brings out the worst in her. All the spending at Christmas makes my heart thump with nervousness and anxiety. I remember those days as a single mom when my funds were precariously low and I was just trying to give my kids a few presents, dreading the terror of the great reckoning day in January when the bill came due. Even though we have enough, the fear still chases me at times.

But every morning as I sit alone in the quiet, I am reminded that my longings lead me back to the true reason for Christmas in the first place.

We all want our homes and social lives and even Christmas cards to be unique and beautiful. We dream of a drama free season of kind people, love and ugly Christmas sweaters galore, but when we miss the mark, and life goes askew it’s so easy to lose that special feeling.

What if all this busyness and spending and yearning for the perfect Christmas is simply a metaphor for our deepest desire? –to be known and loved and rescued.

The scene in the Grinch where the Who’s sing in spite of the loss of their decorations and gifts inspires me. Even if nothing gets wrapped, even if I buy all the wrong gifts, Christmas, in all it’s glory will still come. And the Spirit will be there for me if I only cry out for him.

The Christmas story, this tiny baby in a manger, is our symbol of freedom and redemption and the only gift that will give us what our hearts long for, rescuing us from things that can’t satisfy.

Does this mean Target and Hallmark are bad? Heck no! My Red Card with the 5% discount get’s lots of use. But it does mean that Target and my favorite movie, “A Crown at Christmas” won’t heal or fulfill my heart. Shopping till you drop might break your wallet, but it won’t change Christmas one bit.

The Christmas gift that Jesus offers-the freedom to not get caught up in the busyness and glitz and glam is free. This red card was bought with blood.

When I look at Christmas through this lens, it changes the way I celebrate. I slow way down. I want to savor each moment. There’s memories and smiles, tears and heart ache in my blue Christmas bins. No need to rush! Pulling out the ornaments is like examining the pieces of our life and displaying them on a tree for all to see. Decorating becomes an offering of joy, thankfulness and remembrance of those I’ve loved and lost.

Celebrating Christmas with Jesus as the center is a game changer. The lights outside on our home are offered as a gift to the community not as a “check me out, I’m awesome” statement. The cookies I bake are a precious gift of time laughing with my girls. Caroling and parties and time with friends are a treat for my soul, not another “to do”. And paying for it all?–a journey of faith, discernment, and trust. Believing that God knows what we need (and don’t need) and trusting him to provide takes the burden off my weary shoulders.

So this year, I refuse to let Christmas enslave me to the bondage of creation.

We don’t need to be stressed about the finances, the anxiety of image management, the pressure to give the right gift or act in a certain way. We don’t have to dread the family drama and get hives at the thought of weird Uncle Bob.

Christmas is a celebration of the great rescue- not a month-long  imprisonment of debt and uncertainty.

To quote the wise old sage Charlie Brown, “It’s not what’s under the Christmas tree that matters; it’s who’s around it.”

Merry Christmas my friends! May the true Spirit of Christmas fill you with Joy!

–Samantha


Posted on

The Longest 2 Minutes

Kyle Adams People always ask me how I handle the stress of game day when I’m not physically there.

Does holding my breath, yelling at the TV, and pacing count as healthy coping mechanisms?

I wish I had a good answer. The truth is I don’t “handle” the anxiety and nervousness well on my own. I pray every morning for my kids and do my best to surrender my fears and give them to God. That being said, I still feel like I’m watching my kid go into battle.

Watching your son play college football on ESPN in another state and dealing with all those protective mama emotions is just plain hard

First, I want my kid to play well (AKA I want #52 to kick some ass!) Second, I want his team to connect, the offense to jive, the defense to get into a nice rhythm with a W at the end of the day. Last, and most importantly, I hope my kid doesn’t get injured (or anyone playing in the game for that matter).

Happy Mom=No Blood, No Breaks, No Muscle’s or Ligaments Jacked Up and No Head Trauma

Is that too much to ask?

My greatest fear in this college football journey has always been that my kid would go down on the field in another state and I would be rendered completely helpless. It’s not like you can just click the TV remote and magically appear at a hospital in let’s say…Tennessee, to oversee an ACL surgery or worse.

Yes, I’ve let go of my kid. I am no longer a semi helicopter mom. I’m not even a drone mom (one of those mom’s who uses technology to stalk their college age kids), but I am still a mom who would jump in front of a truck to save her kid. My heart aches at the thought of him suffering physical pain.

Then last week happened…my worst fear played out.

Kyle’s team played Air Force in Colorado. It was a gorgeous day in Colorado Springs. The mountains sparkled like a copper penny against the cerulean blue sky. The weather cooperated. It was a perfect fall game day.

I was parked in front of the TV watching the game at home with my youngest daughter. My husband was performing a wedding (therefore unavailable), and my older daughter was at work.

The game started and Nevada scored decisively and quick. The defense and my son Kyle were playing well. Nevada was ahead. It wasn’t the easiest game to watch because the ESPN feed went down in the 3rd quarter for about 10 grueling minutes. During the lapse, the TV switched over to the LSU game and I waited on pins and needles for the technical difficulties to get fixed. Finally, the game resumed at the beginning of the 4th quarter.

Then Kyle made a big tackle. He grabbed the quarterback by the ankle and tripped him up. (At least I think it was the quarterback…It could have been the running back but I haven’t gone back and reviewed the film yet). I jumped up off the sofa and clapped, stuffed some more chips in my mouth and headed to grab another bite when I heard the announcer say, “It looks like Kyle Adams, the linebacker from Ladera Ranch is down on the field.”

I spun around and stared at the screen. There was my son on the ground, his leg shaking and trembling and coaches running out.

This was “that moment.” The one I’ve dreaded for 13 years. Yes, he’s gone down before, but he always popped back up pretty quick. Or, if I was on the field I could see what was going on. This time, they cut to commercial.

Wait…What????

I had to just sit there and wait.

I’d like to say I had positive thoughts at first. But I didn’t.

A few weeks ago one of his teammates had a seizure on the field from a bad fall. Don’t think that wasn’t running through my mind.

The commercial break probably lasted two minutes at the most, but it felt like time just slowed waaaaaay down. Tick, tick, tick…every second stretched out. I picked up my phone. I called my husband. No answer. I called my ex-husband. No answer.

Then I just sat. And waited. And prayed.

Because really in those moments that’s all we can do.

A few months ago my darling step-dad had a traumatic incident when the area around his heart filling up with fluid from a rare strain of pneumonia. It was pretty touch and go there for a few hours. When you get the “Code Blue” phone call it’s a long drive to the hospital. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. All I could do was whisper “Jesus” over and over and clutch the wheel.

Once again, all I could do was twitch and choke out, “Jesus help.”

Finally, the TV coverage resumed. The camera panned over to my son. “It looks like Adams might be OK.”

There was Kyle with a coach holding his arm as he tried to stretch and flex his foot. It was the first time it dawned on me that maybe it was a leg cramp?

I grabbed my phone and texted him. “Is it your knee or a cramp?”

A few minutes later he went back in the game. I watched him closely. He still appeared to be limping a little but he was obviously alive and kicking.

Nevada won the game, although it was very close with some tense moments at the end.

I packed Kolby and I up and drove to the Saturday night service at church. It was there, standing with my arms up worshiping that all the emotion caught up with me. I swiped at the tears threatening to overcome me.

It just felt like too much at that moment. For a hot second, I wished my kid played tennis.

Then I thought of Jesus. I imagined myself in my favorite meadow handing over all the tension and anxiety like a heavy backpack filled with rocks. I felt lighter just giving it to him.

Jesus just looked at me kindly, wiped away my tears and reminded me that he had never left my side. For the first time it dawned on me that EVEN though I am not there, God is. He is present in Kyle’s coaches and teammates. He is in the team doctors and the trainers. And EVEN if Kyle falls, God will catch him.

More tears. Deep breaths. Peace washing over me.

Then my pocket buzzed. I glanced down and pulled out my phone. Kyle had texted.

“Hey Mom. I’m OK. It was really bad calf cramps. When I jumped for the tackle, both my calves locked mid-air It was a combination of the altitude and dehydration. But I didn’t let go of the guy Mom!!!!

Of coarse you didn’t!

And somehow I’m learning how not to drop the ball in those crazy moments too!

Hopefully this wasn’t a test run, but in many ways I’m grateful God walked me through the fear. While I recognize I have NO Control over circumstances in life, I do have the choice to TRUST that God sees and cares and comforts.

My son plays a high risk sport. There is always the potential for injury.

Part of the glory of football comes with the risk. And for me, as a mother…finding the peace and stillness in the midst of the game, in the midst of the storm, is my risk and my interaction with God’s glory.

There is no faith without overcoming uncertainty.

Who knew football could teach me so much about letting go?

By the way, my step-dad is just about fully recovered (Praise God!) and did I tell you my son made the tackle?

–Samantha

Posted on

Pink Gloves and Chihuahuas

If you know me it may have crossed your mind once or twice that “Scrappy” is an awkward name (borderline antonym) for a sensitive and gentle type of gal. I’m an incessant door locker, I look for exits upon entering a room in case I need to flee like Jason Bourne, and I suffer from mild anxiety at well, just about everything. I’m also tall, long limbed (AKA gangly), and struggle to put muscle on my frame. If I ever appeared confident, I was probably faking it.

When I initially picked Scrappy as a moniker it was because I had been through a few tough rounds in the ring of life–lot’s of getting knocked down and getting back up again. Scrappy was simply metaphor for my life, not a narrative.

I was very intentional with the verbiage on my blog, lest no one think I was actually “physically” tough, because let’s be honest. I was a bit of a wuss..

Eight years later, things have changed.

A little over a year ago my dearest friend made me go with her to 9Round Kickboxing Studio to check it out and do a free workout. I was a little leery, but figured, “what the heck?”

That night I came home a dripping sweaty mess. The next day I could barely move but I was hooked. I couldn’t stop thinking about kickboxing. 

I liked hitting. Me…WE are talking about me! This wussy girl liked smacking things. Maybe I was missing something in my life? Maybe there was an angry elf in me after all who wanted some recognition?

I begged my husband for a membership so he bought me two months for Mother’s Day. I begged more, pleaded and prayed and thankfully negotiated a great deal. Finally, I was in! I was going to do this scary tough thing! 

Fifteen months later, this is what I’ve learned from kickboxing:

When I put on my gloves I am not a gentle woman. I am fierce.

I found a hidden place within my spirit that is strong. I am an athlete. I am a warrior. I am a force to be reckoned with and even in my mid-forties, I can still bring it. Empowerment is an intoxicating thing. I walk taller, my core engages in my every movement, and my body rests easier because it has worked hard. 

When I put on my gloves I leave my worries behind.

Sometimes I picture my problems with faces on them as I’m punching the bags or sparring. I pray, yes…I sometimes kick my trainer on purpose, and I pummel. Quite frankly I get a thrill out of beating out my issues physically. That little b!tch, of a problem goes down in a steady trickle of sweat and aggression on the mat.

When I put on my gloves I put off excuses.

One early morn the gym was freezing cold and I complained to my hard-as-nails ex Marine trainer. Bad idea Sam. Bad idea. That day, I learned what it was like to get warm in 33 degrees real quick. I also learned that it can always be worse. When I box, there is no room for complaints or whining. Whatever I’ve got, I leave it on the table. I am currently rehabbing my torn my rotator cuff and labrum on my left shoulder, and although my arms have sadly shrunk, it hasn’t stopped me from boxing with my right arm. I do one arm burpees, planks and mountain climbers. I bear crawl with one arm. I fight with the two good legs and the one good arm I have. Why? Because it could always be worse.

When I put on my gloves, I let go of my vanity.

I’ve always been the girl who put on a little mascara, tied a perky bow on my ponytail and donned a cute workout outfit to go to the gym. It’s just how my mama raised me. I figured it was bad enough getting sweaty and disheveled in front of all those mirrors, I don’t need to run into someone looking like hell on top of it.

Mom forgive me, but YEAH, my thinking has changed. I now put on clothes that are protective, comfortable and cover my parts when I’m boxing, squatting, jumping, kicking and doing my 100th burpee. It’s a paradigm shift of massive proportions for a chronically self-conscious person. I don’t show off my curves when I workout but I will show off all my latest bruises. I have lots of those.

Before, my goal with working out was pretty shallow–either lose a few pounds or maintain my weight. It was never really about true health. That’s changed. I have to eat healthy to fuel my body for workouts. A glass of wine and a protein bar aren’t going to cut it for dinner. 

Surprise, surprise. I’ve actually gained weight!  Gasp! Shock! This might have sent me into a hysterical Slim Fast panic in the past, but I’m now accepting this stronger person’s body. Yes, my jeans are actually loose but I weigh more. I put on muscle and its OK. I am healthy and it’s ENOUGH. 

(That’s like 45 years of therapy right there alone)

When I put on my gloves, I recognize life is more like 9 Rounds then we give it credit for.

There are endurance rounds where I endlessly jump rope and feel like a sprite bouncing on a cloud of marshmallows and then there are the brutal rounds where I chum in my mouth and cuss under my breath and cry at the trainers until exhaustion. Sometimes I get the wind knocked out of me and sometimes I go down in a heap, but I trust that God (and family and friends) are ALWAYS in my corner calling out and whispering to me to get back up again and fight this battle.

No one really blows it in the ring, (except for the lady who came to the gym drunk and got kicked out. OK…maybe she blew it, but not you! You wouldn’t do that)

The only way to fail in this workout is to not show up.  Life is like that too. You just need to show up, be present and put on your gloves. (And drink water not gin before you workout, that helps too.)

Need Some Motivation? Consider the underdog.

There is a video on Twitter I love to watch over and over…

It’s about a small chihuahua that can dance. Seriously, the dog has moves. The thing I adore about this video is that’s it’s so UNEXPECTED.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but this dog says to me, “Don’t let anyone tell you can’t do something! You say dog’s don’t have moves. I say watch me groove, cholo.”

What makes an underdog story good is that it starts with a faulty belief system. The protagonist lack confidence until circumstances force them to find inner strength. They overcome an obstacle to destroy the lie (or bad guy) and live in the truth.

I relate to the underdog. I used to believe lies about my physical strength. I told myself, “I’m not tough. I don’t fight back. I allow people to get to my heart. I’m too sensitive.”

But kickboxing is changing that for me. I might still cry while I’m punching you, because, after all, I am tender-hearted, but I bet you won’t see it coming.

If you have believed lies about your strength, or about who you are, maybe you need to rock the boat too and get out of your comfort zone? Maybe it’s Kickboxing or Crossfit or whatever pushes you past your perceived limits. Just do something a little crazy. Turn off the Netflix, drag your butt off the sofa, text a friend who’s willing to try new $h1t and get out there!

Confront that inner wuss and send it packing!

Truth? The dog can dance and you are stronger than you think.

I didn’t know when I picked the name “Scrappy” I would discover a fighter. Not just a metaphorical fighter who gets shoved aside and wearily marches on, but a real fighter who isn’t afraid of being bold and delivering a crushing blow. 

Keep your gloves up!

–Samantha



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