If My Blog Could Speak

The last six July's of our story have included moving, major life transitions and pain that will bring you to the end of yourself.

Quick run down.

July 2008 ~ We were on a ten week internship, living in a HOTEL room with a 4 year old, 2 year old, 1 year old, and baby newly in the womb, in the strange and desolate land of King George, VA. You cannot imagine the stress of living in a hotel, not just hotel living, but with a child who was at the peak of her strong will. Oh, Julia. Click here for memories.

July of 2009 ~ Settling into a brand new village more permanently; King George, Virginia. We had a 5 year old, 3 year old, 2 year old and four month old. If you have ever had to settle into a new town, start completely over, where the TV is your only friend for a solid four months, you know what I am talking about. It is lonely. It can be isolating. It is A LOT of work and it does not come without ugly tears.

July of 2010 ~ Absolutely the scariest month of my existence. Mark was struggling deeply with his health and I was struggling deeply with my emotional health. Fear was having its way in our home and I've never experienced bondage the way I did that month. We were physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually being attacked on EVERY SIDE! The Lord set us free! Read about it here.

July of 2011 ~ To date, some of the hardest goodbyes I've ever said as we left Virginia and turned our sails to Kansas. And the cross country move? A new, fresh hell!! Feel free to read through our adventures.

July 2012 ~ This month revolved around the delicate and devastating process of admitting my mother into a psychiatric ward. Remember that journey? Remember the story here. Oh, and we also decided that we needed to do an in town move. Well because, we were missing our Penske, of course.

July 2013 ~ Under the trance and fog of grief, we moved our family AGAIN for the fifth time in six years (hopefully for the final time ever) to a place where our children would gain from the sacrifice of saying 'goodbye' once again to the familiar and lovely, and putting down some stable roots. It meant preparing my heart to let go of the position of teacher in my children's lives, letting go of my Kansas home and heart, and it meant unintentionally opening up the tunnel of grief again for my family, asking them to let us go.  My Kansas goodbye written here.

If my blog could speak, I am sure she would tell you that she is holding her breath for the next 9 days in anticipation of the July 2014 jungle headed our way.  I am happy to report we are not living in a hotel room AND we have ZERO plans of moving. Praise the Shepherd. In the darkness of night I pray, "Lord please, let us live here a long time! I do not have it in me to move again!" Thankfully, we all seem to be in good health right now. However, in remembrance of July of 2010, we daily fight the battle of captivity to fear and resistance to bondage. We aren't wrestling perfect drug cocktails and long goodbyes in sterile, white hallways with locked units. And while it will never be easy, I am more comfortable today than I was this time last year, returning my children to the care of their amazing teachers in 16 short days.

Oh July, I am not extremely fond of you. You and your memories make me tired. But yesterday, as the words of Matt Redman flooded my brain I stood in awe;

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did You leave us on our own
You are faithful, God, You are faithful 
Scars and struggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say
Never once did we ever walk alone
Carried by Your constant grace
Held within Your perfect peace
Never once, no, we never walk alone

That chorus will also need to be tattooed to my body. I might be running out of tattoo space. Good thing I have four children :)

I know so many of my readers are walking on broken roads today. I know so many of my readers are facing horror and hell. If anything will encourage you today, know this, YOU ARE NOT ALONE! We will all bare the scars of this world. We will all struggle until the Lamb comes for us. Just because we follow of Jesus, does not mean we walk the road laden with jewels. Just because we call on Christ, does not mean we will not cringe under the cruelty of brokenness and sin. But being found in our Savior DOES mean we will NEVER WALK ALONE! I look back of the July's of this life and weep with hallelujahs. The weight could have crushed us, the pain could have tainted our hearts with bitterness forever. But we aren't crushed, we aren't tainted, we are HIS and we will always be!!!!

~Sara

I'm Going On A Diet

It might have been the cheesy nachos at 1 AM, my crazy-awesome, Jackson date night with Dawn, to hear Christine Caine and Kari Jobe PREACH IT! It might have been the insomnia that has arrested me and refused to release me. It might be this stirring in my gut that my 30 days of high definition is revealing...

But y'all! Y'all!

I need to use my words. I need to type my words. I need to get them out. Not necessarily for you, but for me.

Christine Caine was preaching out of the book Joshua. (*side note* If you don't know of Christine Caine, go google her RIGHT NOW!) The journey of the Israelite's, a story as familiar to me as my own life. But that's what is so delicious about the Holy Spirit, He makes the word, the stories, the passages new. He opens our spiritual eyes to see. And it's only because of HIS work in our hearts that we are changed because of what we read, hear, and experience. One can stand in front of a mirror all day long and see flaws and changes that need to be made in one's life, but it is not merely the recognition of one's need for change that causes change. One must actually BE CHANGED!

Back to the squirrely Israelites. God, in His great mercy, rescued his people from 400 plus years of captivity from the Egyptians. They were excited for like five seconds before they started longing and complaining to go back to Egypt, (yes, the place where they has been held in captivity, beaten, abused, and oppressed) because the dinner entrees were better there. The manna and quail that God was faithfully providing in the morning and the evening, was not getting five stars on their Trip Advisory App. I know that this exact same selfishness and discontentment resides in me. I know my maiden name really is, Israelite. :)

But in Joshua 5, after forty years of faithfully meeting the needs of His ungrateful people, verse twelve says, "the manna ceased!" The way in which the Lord was providing for His people was about to change. And while our God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, the WAY our God sees fit to nourish, satisfy, and provide for his people can change. God ceased to serve them manna because He wanted them to now eat the fresh produce of the promised land; Canaan. God was so before His time, eating all local, organic,  and fresh market. All the granola heads just THINK they are cutting edge. :)

Imagine for a minute, the child who was born during the forty years of the wilderness experience. The child who has never eaten anything BUT manna. Manna is comfortable to this child; now grown adult. The manna is predictable, the manna comes without work, the manna is all this person has every known. And if I know the human race at all, I am sure somewhere in the million people that Joshua was leading, someone opposed the eating of the manna because, "we have never done it this way!". Christine so politely pointed out that those seven words are the death sentence to every church in existence. Furthermore, I would say they are the death sentence to every personal walk with the Lord, every marriage, every family, every friendship, every parent-child interaction, every school, every community, every establishment.

"The manna ceased,"  not because our God is an angry God who was punishing the contentious hearts of a rebellious group of whinos. The manna ceased because God had something better for a people that He adored.

Christine said two extremely profound things that I cannot shake.
One, "how many of you are still eating manna when God desires to serve you promised land produce?"
How many of us refuse to make a change in our marriages, in our parenting, in our hearts, in our patterns, in our addictions, in our routines, in our churches, in our friendships, in our homes, in our worship styles, in our schools, in our communities, in our jobs, because we are comfortable consuming manna because we've never tasted anything else. All the while, the manna is a sad, moldy, stale, representation of what "once was". One of the greatest quotes I've ever read was by Jasoslav Pelikan, "Tradition is the living faith of the dead, traditionalism is the dead faith of the living!" This will also be tattooed to my body at some point. How many of us are eating a daily diet of traditionalism? Because it is what we have always eaten....

We all do it!! We are ALL guilty. We all get comfortable with the manna somewhere in our life. And we all stake our claim in the dirt, "You will have to come pry this manna out of my cold, dead, hand before I (fill in the blank).... And then marriages, families, churches, schools, communities, relationships, ministries, parent-child interactions, friendships, jobs, and a whole entire world dies because no one is willing (because of fear, arrogance, complacency or ignorance) to change the method is which one might nourish, satisfy and provide for the well spring of life; people's hearts and lives.... RELATIONSHIPS!!!

I'm done.

I'm done munching on a diet of manna.
I'm done doing it the way it has always been done....because!
I'm done being controlled by fear, arrogance, complacency, and ignorance.
I'm done consuming a diet that has zero nutrition all under the banner of traditionalism (the worship of tradition).
There is freedom, life, peace, and unspeakable JOY when you taste and see the Lord is GOOD! When you taste Jesus, when you taste the produce of the promise land, when you taste the hope that He can plant in our hearts and lives. When you stop feasting on "what was", when you break free from the bondage of the way it was done in the wilderness and you enter the promise land of really KNOWING JESUS!!

In closing, Christine marked my heart with these words. "We have an entire generation of Christians who have been set free from captivity, but who will spend their entire lives wandering in the wilderness."

HEART.BREAK!

There are people who will never taste and see that the Lord is good on this earth, because they think Christianity is only about being saved from an eternity in hell. Fire insurance. Meanwhile, there is a God who is begging His dearly beloved people to stop their malnutritioned diet on manna, and feast on HIM!!!!!

WATCH OUT! I'm GETTING FIRED UP!!! This is only the beginning!

~Sara

Saying Goodbye To Good

He was gentle as he communicated in no uncertain terms that we would in fact NOT be able to get HD in our new home, "The trees are too dense, ma'am. I cannot get a clear line to the satellite. I am so sorry to disappoint you. Would you like to cancel your service with us?"  "No, no, it's ok. We aren't all wrapped up in the HD thing we will be completely happy to just have any of the channels you can give us. It's either no HD or no television altogether! And I'm kind of a current events junky so I've got to have my news!"  He chuckled. "There is one other thing we might be able to do." "Yeah?! What's that?!" "I know exactly what trees are blocking the direct signal, if your husband wants to he can chop down that tree, that tree, that branch, that tree, and then you'll have a signal NO PROBLEM!! My turn to chuckle, "Yeah, that's not happening!"

I went home to Kansas this week. My dad has no problem getting an HD signal in the glorious, open, plains of Kansas. :) SO.... HD is SWEET! I just stared at the soccer game. It was so real I wanted to kiss Tim Howard's sweaty cheeks all sixteen times he miraculously saved the ball from the goal. I had no idea what I was missing in the HD world.  The news anchors are so up close and personal when recounting the news of the day. It was dreamy. I began to hire some tree trimmers in my mind. We happen to know some AWESOME tree trimmers here in the Sip. Surely, they would understand our plight and immediately help a sister out. Maybe I couldn't live without HD afterall.

On my twenty one hour round trip home to Kansas, my mind chewed and chewed on the cud of this last year, the last 4 years really. In 30 short days, my girls will return to school and we will begin the marathon of another school year. I threw up in my mouth when I figured out that number. Where has summer gone? Where have my lazy, slow, thoughtful, intentional days gone? I was going to teach them piano this summer. In hopes they would be Mozart by August. By golly, I was going to hang a chore chart for the summer, we were going to be the Brady Bunch. I envisioned Abeka flash cards being reviewed daily because my kids weren't going to be those kids who lost three months of information over the summer. *Sigh*

This will be our first July since 2010 NOT to move. Praise the Shep. The last 3 July's in our life have been spent sorting, wrapping, packing, list making, truck booking, and tetris mastering. Moving has the ability to chew you up and spit you out like no other life stress. (Special prayers sent to my sister and BIL!! Power up! You've got this) Touching every item in your house July after July sealed my hunch that we have WAY too much crap.

Twenty one hours on the road gave my mind and emotions the space I needed to evaluate this last year under a microscope and begin to prepare for the year that lies ahead. I had a WAY TOO SHORT ninety minute breakfast date, with one of my life-long, heart friends that validated, encouraged, and blossomed me. She gave me a permission slip to say goodbye to the good and with measured intention embrace THE BEST! It's a lot harder for me to unwrap all of the this with words right now, but oh my goodness I'm so excited about the concepts, ideas, dreams, boundaries, and passions that seem to be finally taking root in my heart and in my life.

The next thirty days will be the first thirty days in a very, very, long time that I can turn my FULL attention back to the three roles that I feel like God put in my soul to be; a wife, a mom, and an artist. I was given amazing opportunities this last year to serve in so many different capacities and I do not for ONE second regret taking on those sweet roles, but it's time to clear cut.

After a long season of grief and constant transition, I'm ready to explore a life lived in high definition. I'm ready to bathe in the details again. I'm ready to use my energy in leveling up from good to great. Grief, change, and raising babies into children, has this completely normal way of re-prioritizing the way you do life. Sometimes, for a season, you cannot live in HD. Details, dreams, and deliberate living take a back seat to surviving and sacrificing your every breath for the livelihood of others.The last eleven years, I have been abundantly blessed to lay down my life to write the story of love on our children's hearts. Not easy. Not dreamy. Not sexy. Not full of accolades and praise. But oh my stars, SUCH A WORTHY CAUSE! Those stories are STILL being written, but for the first time in a LONG time some property has come up for sale in my life and people, we are about to build!!!!

The next thirty days, will be a concentrated time of fasting and over indulging. Ha! How silly does that sound? But it's exactly what I plan on doing. I'm cutting down some trees on my property that have blocked the signal of living in high definition, and in doing so I plan on being able to over-indulge in some areas that have been lived out in a lower quality than I desire.

What does this look like for real over the next thirty days?

1. A year ago I upgraded to iphone, I love it for A LOT of reasons. I hate it for a lot of reasons. This device has the ability to block A LOT of rich signals of HD in daily interactions with the people we are ACTUALLY doing life with. For me? My hubby, my kids, my neighbors, my art. So... we are making rules. When we are all together, eating, playing, worshiping, working etc.. phones are on chargers and silenced. FREEDOM. It's like 1990 again. If you can't reach me, leave a voicemail and I'll check the answering machine when I get home, when I am finished fully showing up to what I need to be showing up to :)

2. I'm going to read a book FOR FUN! A juicy, dramatic, no strings attached book...FOR FUN! I want to lay in my bed with a million covers on my body with only my cold nose peeking out because the air is cranked so low, and get lost in a book. Taking suggestions now.

3. I'm going to listen to music everyday. Sometime in the last year I stopped listening to music. Music stirs me, lightens my load, and inspires all the other areas in my world. From John Legend's incredibly romantic
"All of Me" which makes me want to make babies, to Fernando Ortega's "Sing To Jesus" which puts me on my face before the throne. I want it all. I want to absorb it again. I want to dance in it, cry in it, create with it blaring in the background of my life. Taking itunes suggestions now.

4. I want to walk everyday. Again, sometime in the last year, I traded in riding for walking. Don't get me wrong, I love me some four-wheeling, but I want to walk. We have the most fantastic walking town EVER. I want to slow down and walk. I want to hold my husband's sweaty hand and walk the world.

5. I want to read out loud to my kids. I ADORE the fact that my girls can sit in their rooms in the evening and tear up a chapter book. But I've missed reading out loud with them. I've missed reading to them as they toss, turn and spin on the bedroom floor with their wet, shower heads. Hmmmm...hmmmm....hmmmm. DELICIOUS!

6. I want to create in the kitchen again instead of surviving the kitchen. I love cooking. I love the satisfaction of serving a meal I poured myself into. When trauma blocked the signal of my HD living, the meals were served out of survival... AGAIN, totally ok and normal, but I'm trying to be intentional and that's an area that I want to focus on. If you see me pulling through the drive through of Pop Eyes in the next thirty days, don't throw rocks. Real life happens. :)

7. We are going to play before school starts again. Play the piano, play the vocal chords, play in the street after the sun sets, play the Wii, play house, (by helping daddy on his latest house project) play "math class" (throwing in some Abeka flashcards for fun :), play in the pool, PLAY! PLAY! PLAY!

8. I want to continue to pursue my art. I want focus my extra property on building and refining my craft. I want to do what I know, and I KNOW that without a shadow of a doubt I have been created to create with words. I want to say goodbye to the good and fully embrace the great. Hopefully, that means more blog entries over the next thirty days as I try and process my trimming.

I do not want to just spend the next thirty days living in high definition, rather, I want the next thirty days to be the foundation of clear cutting for all that is to come.

I was reminded once again, as my hands ran over my mom's words in her journal, over her jacket that still hangs in daddy's bedroom closet, and as I breathed in her lifetime of memories stored in the basement and in our hearts;  our time here is but a miniature moment.

Here is to the long journey of recovering living in high definition!
~Sara

This is Your Brain, This is Your Brain on Drugs

*egg cracked and scrambled in the pan*

Y'all remember that commercial? I feel like it was branded into my memory from a very young age of my PBS watching. A man's voice narrating the entire commercial with dark, dramatic lighting.

*dun-dun-duuunnnnn*

Have you ever noticed all the different ways people make scrambled eggs?
Chunky and moist.
Chunky and dry.
Broken down and moist.
Broken down and dry.
Onions and mushrooms added.
Cheese.
Garlic.
Salt, not enough salt.
Pepper, never pepper.
Overcooked, under cooked.

The options literally are endless.

Time continues to grow me.
Time continues to soften me.
Time continues to nudge me more towards a stance that says, "forget all the DIFFERENT ways to scramble, just scramble!"

How often as we journey, do we come upon leftover carnage from the battles people have waged all in the name of THEIR type of scrambled?

Homeschool vs brick and mortar?
Private vs public?
Stay at home vs working?
Presbies vs Southern B's?
Democratic vs Republican?
North vs South?
Grace vs law?
Rent vs own?
Global warming vs fuzzy science?
Cochran vs McDaniel?
Wine cellars vs teetotaler
Walmart vs Target?
Organic vs whatever is at the local store or drive through?
Natural vs give me all the drugs?
Parent lead vs child lead?
Breastfed vs bottle fed?
Grass fed vs grain supplemented?
Dish vs Direct?
FCA vs Choctaw County?
Contemporary Worship vs Traditional Worship?
Home church vs mega church?
Keller vs Piper?
Hatmaker vs Shirer?
ESV vs NASB?
Extra curricular activities for the kids vs let a kid be a kid?
Gaming for kids vs absolutely never let my kids near a device?
Frozen vs Tangled?

And one that is very near and dear my heart these days...
Manufactured homes vs traditionally built? :)

You might laugh, but I have seen it all. People lay it all on the line over something so "first world". Arguments, the majority of this universe cannot even begin to wrap their brains around because today they are focusing on surviving the day and hoping to place a small portion of food on the table this evening for their family! They are rapidly breathing, as they watch the horizon for the next militia to come in fear that this time it might be THEIR daughter who is stolen into the sex trade. They lay awake in bed at night, hoping the next terrorists does not blow himself up in THEIR local market. They sleep in boxes at night, right under our own noses, because they have nothing. What they are called to scramble each day should shame our ridiculous, so called battles!

All last week, I listened to the stories my dad is privileged to be apart of with The Sending Project. A ministry that has decided that it is time to stop working AGAINST each other and *mind blowing I KNOW*, start working TOGETHER; despite race, denomination, socio-economic backgrounds, worship style, language, location and vocation.

My dad has been driving a prayer bus around Kansas City with all different types of churches, denominations, races, cultures, etc.. and they go from church to church praying for each other's ministries and congregations. Not their OWN ministries, but OTHER church's ministries. Talk about negating a competition clause. By the time my dad left on Sunday, I was ready to sell every thing I owned and start over. What are we doing? REALLY?!!

I am so weary of smeared scrambled eggs every where I walk.
It's exhausting.
All the weapons in everyone's hands because of deep insecurity and pain.
It is no wonder that people in North America are leaving the church in droves, while the Eastern Hemisphere is exploding everyday with people whose lives have been changed because of Jesus. We are not desperate enough here in our first world country. We numb our pain with screens, endless food, control, safety, the illusion of peace and niceties. We silence our shame by given our ten percent, washing our hands, and walking away.

I am very unsure what kind of eggs I will be scrambling this next year in my kitchen of life, but you better believe I am trying on a daily basis to strip myself of the weapons I have so long held tightly too and just scramble the heck out of all the gifts I have been entrusted with.

A weary heart often helps distinguish what is good and what is best.
A wounded heart often limps along only able to exude energy in areas that are worthy not wasteful.

Here are to some scrambled eggs that are not just good, but the best!
Here are to some scrambled eggs that are not wasteful but worthy!

Scramble on my friends!
~Sara

Why I French Kissed Dating Hello!

Had there been an actually museum for all things CRS, we were standing in it. Circa: summer of 1999, camper week one. Me, with no ill intentions at all, getting a drink from the drinking fountain in the Lodge Hallway. He, with possible ulterior motives, getting a drink at the drinking fountain at that EXACT moment. He grabbed my hand, because one of Mark Littlejohn's love languages is physical touch. My heart caught in my throat and my mind sped ahead, "He's touching my hand, oh sweet baby Jesus, his strong, calloused, sailing, and tanned hand is touching my hand!" I was slightly distracted by the whole hand touching thing because I just knew at ANY moment that Rusty was going to turn down the hallway and fire both of us on the spot for "hand touching!" At the time I had a severe case of "rule follower". Rusty didn't appear and we retained our jobs. PHEW!

His sun-kissed self, wanted to know if I wanted to go on a double date with him on Saturday, June 12th, 1999. Um, yes, yes, I wanted to go on a date with him probably more than anything my seventeen year old heart had ever known.

Looking back on our first date together, I see all the things he displayed that night that attracted me to him that still attract me to him today. Mark was a little late showing up to our first date, but he was late for a darn fine reason. He had hand made me flowers. Melt. Mark doesn't want to be like everyone else, not because he is egotistical or arrogant, but because he desires to take a road less traveled that includes thoughtfulness and precision. Hand made flowers, a first. A road less traveled. Fifteen years later, the man insists to lay the brick around our house himself, not because he is egotistical or arrogant, but because he wants to take the road less traveled; thoughtfulness and precision.

After we ate dinner at Oby's in Starkville, we went and played a competitive game of charades. And no, that is not some kinky, new, sexual game, hell raisers are playing these days. It literally was an innocent, fun-filled game of charades. We laughed and embarrassed ourselves as we tried to act out Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without words. Fifteen years later, we just recently laughed our heads off and embarrassed ourselves whilst presenting "Love Is An Open Door" as a lip sync duet to the camp staff. Mark showed me on our first date, how fun and light hearted he could be even under pressure. Til this day, hands down, I have the most fun and laugh the hardest when my husband is at my side.

On the long drive home from Starkville, Mark gently leaned over in the car and whispered in my ear, "Can I hold your hand?"  Old fashion? Maybe. But what came alive in my soul when I was on the receiving end of the advancements of a true gentleman, still breathes on today in the sacred space of our marriage bed.

June 12th, 1999, was the beginning and the end of a lot of firsts. Unbeknownst to me (although I had a pretty strong inclination) my last "first date" was in the books. What was ahead was not an easy road, but a road that was less traveled; full of thoughtfulness, precision, fun, and gentleness.

There is no one else in this world I would rather sit in a quiet room with.
There is no one else in this world I would rather play "charades" with. *sexual connotation implied*
HEY! We have a license now.
There is no one else in this world I would rather laugh along side of.
There is no one else in this world that pulls out all my fun like you.
There is no one else in this world that has shown me such sweet thoughtfulness and gentleness.
There is no one else I want to walk down this road with, even when it seems bare, old fashioned, out of touch, culturally abnormal, and painfully hard.
I want to walk with you!

Thanks for taking a risk in the CRS museum and asking me out, and not getting us fired. Thanks for being late. Thanks for being thoughtful and precise. Thanks for being fun. Thanks for always being gentle.

I love you!
~Siba

Why My Daughters Will Never See Me Weigh Myself

They are the most magnificent creatures that have ever existed. We have spent hours, months, and years watching their bodies grow, stretch, change, and bloom into the 3 little ladies they are today. Respectively; almost 11, 8 1/2, and almost 7. We are on the cusp of crossing over into the uncharted territory of tween/teendom. We have intentionally tried to be ahead of the game in regards to being the first people to introduce our kids to sensitive subjects such as; puberty, sex, periods, eating disorders, dating, pornography, divorce, abortion, homosexuality, abuse, human trafficking, adultery, fornication, etc...etc... We honestly believe that if they are old enough to ask the question, they are old enough to receive an age appropriate answer.

They have been told since their conception in my womb, they are lovely, they are stunning, and their bodies have been strategically and majestically knitted together by their Great and Awesome God. Up until this point, when we have plopped them on a scale at the doctor or at home, we whoop, holler, and cheer at how "strong" their bodies are becoming with each pound. The number on the scale signifies one thing and one thing only; strength. Lucy just crossed over into the 40 lbs range and I've never seen anyone so excited in their life, "Mama! Mama! Mama! I made it to 40! I made it to 40! I made it to 40!" Pretty sure my right thigh weighs forty pounds :)!

But I see it in their innocent eyes as they begin to absorb what their culture is telling them on how to define "beautiful". They sit with me and look at prom pictures on social media and ask questions like, "would you let me wear that dress?!" To which their father and I, more often than not, unanimously blurt out, "NO WAY!".

The pool, *ugh*, the pool. The never ending slices of skin that young women (and not so young women) insist on exposing as if their body can only be viewed by young, single, available, upright men. News flash: married men, married women, single men, single women, young girls, young boys, upright men and crude men, can see your body, and they too struggle to keep their thoughts honorable and expectations realistic. For the sake of my marriage, my girl's evolving foundation of modesty, and my son's mental roladex, please PUT SOME FREAKING CLOTHES ON!!! *sigh*

My precious mom had an intense struggle with the scale. Her body, her weight, and her physical identity was never affirmed and validated in her growing up years. She bore the youthful scars of criticism and severe insecurity. Even as her mind was failing her, she saw herself as an extra large woman needing a size 16, even though her frail body was swimming in a medium, size 8. For nearly 40 years, my sweet dad fought the good fought of attempting to tear down those negative ways my mom saw herself. Never ONCE, did I hear my dad criticize my mom. His lips spoke only encouragement and affirmation, exactly what her wounded heart deeply needed. But as I am quickly learning, the wounds from childhood are a hard beast to beat, even with the loving affirmation of a spouse and an AMAZING family and friends. The tender soil of a young girl's developing thoughts about her physical identity MUST be nourished and cared for with the MOST gentle of touches and tailored navigation.

We want our girls to love their bodies!! So much so, that when they dress themselves for school, church, or an outing, we are extremely conscientious with our comments. Mostly limited to, "do you feel comfortable and fabulous in that outfit?!" If the answer is yes, then all other comments and concerns are reserved for things that are immodest or inappropriate. Our children will only hear our voices for so long and what we speak into them better be worth using our word count.

Most of the time, (when I remind myself to slow down and watch) I LOVE having my three girls sit in the bathroom with me when I'm getting ready for the day. I love the freedom of allowing them to see me undone and natural! Especially, when "at my worst" their father enters the bathroom and adores me as if I'm at my finest.

They trace my stretch marks with their fingers and ask me to retell their birth stories over and over again. And not even for one second, do I desire to disguise or rid my body of the markings of their time in my womb. They ask me to identify each cosmetic object in my makeup bag, and beg me to tell them again the stories of the pieces of jewelry in my box. They watch me brush my hair, as I remind them of how golden it was before pregnancy hormones had its way with the color. They watch as I select outfits that make me feel comfortable and fabulous. I want them to care about their appearance but only on a level that breathes balance and security.

Some of my most precious moments with my mom were spent sitting on the edge of her bed watching her get ready for the day. I grew up believing with every ounce in my soul that my mom was the most beautiful woman walking this earth. I never saw my mom fight aging. I loved how her hands had the most gorgeous folds and wrinkles, and the incredibly soft way she would wrap my hands in hers makes my eyes burn. Even when faced with a disease that ages your brain and body in an expedient manner, she aged with a grace that silences me. Buying anti-aging agents feels like the worst betrayal to her in my mind. I lay in bed and dream of aging, because in my mind it means that I can be more like her.

Not only do we want our girls to love their bodies, we want our kids to love food in a healthy, non-addictive manner. We want them to be able to have a relationship with food that exudes joy and not a lifetime of prison. We want them to understand food and not constantly be puzzled by a maze of ignorance. Because there are fewer things more intimate than preparing, creating, and enjoying a meal together with people you love, GUILT FREE! BLISS!

We never want them to look to a number on a plastic, man-made scale to derive value. We never want them to think that they are the sum total of a calorie count or clothes size. We want them to know all the way through their gut and into their toes that they are awe-inspiring and breath-taking. We want them to stand on a foundation this world can never take from them about their true beauty. We want alarms to be blaring in their brains when a man, who in pursuit of their heart, diminishes, criticizes, or devalues them ONE TIME about their body. Because you can bet, my kitchen knife will find his manhood, and that Taylor Swift love story will abruptly end.

We don't want them to weigh their bodies. We want them to weigh their motives, their hearts, their choices, and their life long relationships. We want them to be sound, secure, and safe! We want them to know how we feel about them and their bodies long before they start asking others.

We can see very few more important things in this life than teaching our girls about their bodies, showing them how to develop a healthy love and respect for their bodies, and allowing them to grow into THEMSELVES (not some pornographic Victory Secret version of themselves) with GRACE!

Oh, the true weight we bear when we realize the role we play in how they view themselves, not just when they are little girls, but for their ENTIRE LIVES!

Grow on baby girls! You are safe here!

~Mama & Daddy

The Summer That Built Me

He did not even give me an option. I WAS applying for camp. "No," was not even allowed when we talked about camp. I applied. He walked me through the interview process, "Now remember, you are interviewing with camp royalty. Ms. Newman IS CAMP. She bleeds camp, she wrote the rule book, the manual, the very application you spent endless hours filling out. I'm pretty sure she built all of CRS with her own sweat and blood. No pressure or anything, but if you mess this up you are a total loser." (I'm not sure he said all those things word for word, but that's what I walked away with). " Oh! And Sara, in the south, they say 'yes, ma'am, no ma'am' and 'yes, sir, no sir' so when you answer a question make sure you do it correctly. They take it VERY seriously!" Me in my head, "THEY DO WHAT?!!!!"

He made me do mock interviews. We had photocopied my application so my answers would be consistent across the board. He would stop me and make me reword things so I didn't sound so Sunday School like. I still sounded so Sunday School like. In our final interview prep he says to me, "Whatever you do, do not under any circumstance tell them you believe in speaking in tongues, they don't go for stuff like that in the south!"

Mental note made.
No speaking in tongues.
*clause* I have never spoken in tongues and did grow up in a congregation that spoke in tongues. Why Zach thought this was SO important still puzzles me. *end of clause*

I had to hide on the back porch when I had my phone interview. That was the only relatively quiet place in a house of seven people. I announced to my family before answering, "I'm not clicking over for call waiting so don't even bother asking if anyone called for you! I have an interview!!!!"

Oh if we only had a recording of that interview. Every awkward pause on my part was filled with "yes, ma'ams" even when they didn't apply.

Chief Margie: Good evening, Sara.
Sara: Yes, ma'am, I'm Sara.
Chief: How are you?
Sara: Yes ma'am.
Chief: No, really how are you?
Sara: Yes ma'am.

In my head, "Say yes ma'am, say no ma'am. You don't speak in tongues. You don't speak in tongues. You don't speak in tongues. You don't drink, you don't chew, and you don't go with boys that do!
YES MA'AM!!

Some how, probably because of the endless interview prep and the kindness of Chief Margie, I secured a job as an assistant counselor at Camp of the Rising Son, circa: 1998.

He helped me pack and took me on my first "WALMART TRIP!" Oh, I had been to Walmart before, but not in preparation of camp. It was THE Walmart Trip. He threw stuff in the cart that was not on my official "WHAT TO BRING TO CAMP" list.

ME: "Wait, wait, wait, why so much shaving cream? Just one can will get me through the summer!"
HE: "Just wait" he would say.
ME: "Whoa, why are you buying me a huge, pimped out, box fan? Don't they have fans in the cabin?"
HE: "Just wait" he would say.
ME:"Why are we buying a million tank-tops, I have plenty of tshirts I can bring."
HE: "Just wait!"
ME: "Gold Bond?! That's not on my list!"
HE: "Just wait" he grinned!
ME: "Dales Seasoning?! I have to do my own cooking?!
HE: "Just wait"......

I slept the entire trip to Mississippi. I could tell he was mad. He wanted to show me every land mark between Kansas City and French Camp and the history behind each pit stop. He and Liz were like giddy children passing down a heritage I knew nothing of. I couldn't stop sleeping.

I'll never forget the first time we pulled into French Camp. I'll never forget the way I felt. I had been transported no doubt, to the middle of Mayberry. I'm pretty sure they intentionally decided to take me to one of the most honky tonk events they could muster up to initiate me into southern life; dirt track racing. It was so loud, hot, and well.....dirty. People would try and speak to me and between the noise and the southern drawl I felt like I was in a foreign country. The language was weird, the food was very foreign, and I just couldn't get over how hot I was.... ALL.THE.TIME!

Training Week about did me in. Every second of every day there was a scheduled event; games, activity prep, conferences, manual reading, Babe training, waiter call, TAWG TIME, THE TALK, fire making, cabin cleaning, and more manual reading.

I clung to him because he was the only thing familiar. I made him sit by me during EVERY meeting and EVERY meal. Poor guy thought I would blossom; I clung. He ever so gently kept nudging me towards life. He would hug me, affirm me, and then with the most love he could muster up he gave me a quick kick in the butt and pushed me out of his nest (or personal space bubble, however you may see it!) And in a few days time, that part of me that clung to him began to blossom and he beamed with pride. And then before I knew it, he had performed a blood transfusion on me and camp began to run through my veins.

Today, Camp of the Rising Son staff arrived for training. Circa: 2014. I found a reason to ride up to camp. Maybe I would get a quick glance of him in action. Maybe I would see him welcome another unstable, new staff member and prep them to fly. We crested the hill and there he stood, camp royalty at its finest! All decked out in his new shorts and leadership shirt. It kind of took my breath away. Without missing a beat my heart knew it; Zach Hall IS CAMP. He bleeds camp, he has tweaked the rule book, (and broken some rules) he has rewritten parts of the manual, he has added questions to the very application Chiefs spend endless hours filling out. And without a doubt he HAS built some of CRS with his own sweat, blood, and tears, because he built me sixteen years ago this summer. And when I think of him and the blood transfusion that took place between our hearts, I cannot help but beam with pride...

Thanks Chief, for helping me blossom in more ways than you'll ever know!
I love you so big!
~Chief