Perhaps you’ve heard the story of Ernest Hemingway’s infamous six word novel.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

While the details surrounding this short sentence and Hemingway’s actual authorship are sketchy, the words themselves offer a compelling  story.  Sometimes, less is more.

I like to amuse myself by coming up with my own six word strings.

There are days when my six words might be “For sale: six children, no refunds.“  Other times I think of my darlings and it’s more like “Battle scars worn proudly for life.”

(Yes, stretch marks are battle scars.)

There have been pain-filled times when the six words could easily have been “What is the point? Goodbye world.”

And then during wonderful times “No words needed in this moment.”

“Remembering promises, doing hard things anyways.”

“Breath on breath. Dancing in dark.”

“Sticky chubby hand curled in sleep.”

“Apology lingers over a fierce embrace.”

“Love sucks. I still need it.“

(Not really. Sometimes. No, just kidding. Sorta.)

“Jesus is my all in all!”

“It’s not about me. Or you.”

Try it.  It’s fun.

If you only had six words, what would you say?

p.s. To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) is collecting six word memoirs on pain and hope.

When it comes to ways we process information, I’ve found that there are generally two groups of people.

There is the first group that listens/reads something and either thinks “that’s kinda dumb” and moves on, or “that’s kinda cool” and looks into it more.

If someone decides something differently than what they themselves have chosen, it’s not a big deal.  They don’t seem to mind whether tons of people agree with them, or if just a handful understand.

This group is the minority.

The second group tends to react very differently when they are confronted with information.  They immediately internalize it, and take everything very, very personally.  If they happen to agree, they are the biggest fan.  If they disagree, they automatically feel as though they must vehemently say so, along with all the various reasons why.

If someone chooses something that they themselves did not, they immediately feel defensive.  It’s as if they assume the other person must think they, too, should be doing that. They discuss everything with the assumption that all people feel the same pressure to agree.

Let’s use Miss A as an example of the first group.  (It’s just the first letter of the alphabet.  That’s all.  Let it go.)

Someone tells Miss A that they recently read blondes are less likely to eat tomatoes.  She smiles and asks where they read it.  They discuss the article for a while longer before moving on to another subject.

Later, the article (and the person who told her) might come to mind when she removes the under-ripe tomato from her burger.  She’ll probably laugh at the nugget of truth in it.  Perhaps it’ll spur her to try yellow pear tomatoes, or even fried green ones, just because it’s interesting to her.

Now let’s move on to the second group, using Miss B as our example.  (Just going on to the second letter of the alphabet.  That’s all. Relax.)

When someone tells Miss B of the article, she launches into a lengthy rebuttal, describing the countless blondes she personally knows who prove that article dead wrong, because they eat tomatoes. All. Day. Long.  She may go on to question the validity of whoever wrote and published the article, since they probably don’t know squat about tomatoes anyway.  Or blondes.

Or she’ll attack the person telling her about the article, because they’re too small-minded to grasp the full scope of hair color and garden fruits and they probably don’t have very many blonde friends, if they have any friends at all.

And why do they hate tomatoes so much anyway?

By the way, I’m blonde and I like tomatoes, just not by themselves.

(That was just useless information.  No one should take my personal preference to mean I think they need to stop eating tomatoes like apples.)

(Especially if they’re blonde.)

So every once in a while, my dear husband has a thing.  I really don’t know what else to call them.  New interest?  Obsession?

This time around, it’s involving the P90X.  The claim is that it’s an at-home 90-day fitness workout series.

Whatev.

It’s closer to the truth to call it WTH90X.  I hurt myself just watching one of the videos.

The website says “The secret behind the P90X system is an advanced training technique called Muscle Confusion”  Yeah, that sounds enjoyable.  My muscles are going to be confused?  And one pays money for that sensation?

There’s no getting out of it, either.  Because the “conversations”

*moving my hands in air quotes because I never actually answered*

go from him saying, “What do you think about doing the P90X together?”  to  “I’d really like you to do this with me.”  and then to  “You said you really want to do this.”

And then a day later he says, “I sure hope you’re as serious about this as you say you are, because I bought a bunch of stuff for it.”

See how that happened?  Oh, he’s good.  Real good.

I guess we’re starting Sunday.  If I don’t die, I think I’m going to wish I had.

Pray for me.

I love my church.

It’s messy and honest.  It’s real.

Church is such a strange word.  It probably conjures up a different picture in everyone’s minds, good and bad.

For me, I’m not just talking about the few hours each Sunday that a group of us get together, although that certainly falls under the umbrella of “church”.  I just mean the people involved as a whole.  How we worship, eat, work, play, and just be together.

AND, how we are not together.  My week is not filled up with church meetings and activities every night of the week.  At least, not in the corporate, organized meaning of the word.  While we do lots of stuff together and are actually concerned about doing real community, there’s not a constant barrage of planned things that I’m always obligated to attend.  It frees me up to actually live out my faith beyond the contained, cozy members I call my church family.  I love that.

As for our actual, regular Sunday gathering, I love that too.  We’re a new-ish group, with more single people than married couples, and we meet in a homeless shelter in downtown Flint.  So, yeah, there are more bumps in the road than most, but the authenticity and genuine care is what speaks to my heart every week.  And, even after almost 3 years, I still look forward to the preaching every single week.

We are far from perfect.  Stuff gets overlooked.  Things get done wrong.  There’s lots of hiccups, mistakes and shift-uneasily-in-your-seat moments.

But what sets these people apart from anywhere else I’ve been is the response to those things.

There’s heartfelt discussions.  There’s willingness for apology and openness to change.  There’s mindfulness of shortcomings while still experiencing the joy of being united in what’s important.

So, while I like the fact that I can wear a dressy skirt one week then jeans and flip-flops the next, the fact that some sit quietly and don’t sing at all while others stand with their hands in the air and belt out each word, the fact that there are all kinds of economic, racial and even favorite ice cream flavor differences represented, the part I like the most is the tender boldness.

Tender in loving and caring for each other and those around us.  Bold in believing and living out the Gospel.

I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen for several minutes.  I’ve typed and deleted a couple sentences.  I don’t know how to begin this; This rambling post that has been swimming around in my head about how I write a lot, but feel like there’s more that I don’t understand than what I do understand, and all the questions that swarm my thoughts on a daily basis, and while I try to be faithful to what I have learned and know to be true I can’t escape the reality that the more I know, the more I realize I don’t know.

I think I repeated myself a couple times there.  See, that’s what happens when I just vomit my thoughts on a page.  At least, I think there is one coherent thought in there, somewhere.

Every once in a while, someone will say or write something so nice to me, thanking me for what I write, or asking my advice, or wishing they could’ve known or thought something earlier, or whatever people say that makes me feel all sunshiny inside.

(It makes the icky comments and mail far more tolerable, by the way.  People are so thoughtful, you know, trying to point out all the things I’m doing wrong, or at least not perfectly.  It calls for some self-examination on my part, but usually I’m just humored by the idea that they think I’m so influential.  Whenever I am feeling down I just go back and read my hate mail, so I can feel like I really am significant and have such impact.)

While I appreciate the nice stuff (Who wouldn’t? What, you think I’m made of angel dust?) I kind of get uncomfortable if I begin to feel like someone is getting the impression that I think I have it all figured out.

Honestly?  I sometimes feel like I am drowning in doubts.

Not drowning as in every once in a while stopping and considering the possibility that I might be wrong about something.  I’m talking about drowning as in Oh my God, please help me have a clue about something.  Anything at all.

(Assuming there is a God, because yes, sometimes I feel like I could be talking to a cute little green man in suspenders just as much as the Creator of the Universe.)

So, yeah.  There’s the gut-wrenching uncertainty that even what I believe right now could be proven wrong tomorrow.  That always sucks.

And while I wish that the topics I write about was stuff that has appeared on glitter-sprinkled scrolls I found beneath a fern leaf in my garden, there’s instead the undeniable truth that much of what I have learned, I’ve learned by doing the opposite and making a complete butt of myself.

I’ve had to battle the weight of crushing debt.  I’ve screamed at my husband with tears running down my face and my hands clenched into fists.  I’ve cried myself to sleep over the horrible way I responded to my children on a particularly frustrating day.  I have felt the chains of anger, laziness, pride, and the inability, no, the unwillingness to forgive.

Heck, if I’m really gonna be honest here I’ll have to say I’ve broken my toe because I meant to angrily kick over a pile of folded clothes and ended up catching the corner of the wall as well.  Because I’m that awesome.

I’ve also known the freedom of taking responsibility.  I’ve felt as if my heart could explode with the exquisiteness that comes from deeper intimacy with my husband.  I’ve enjoyed the results of learning how to better relate with my children and raise them in a way that actually makes life with them a huge blessing.  I’ve experienced liberty from captivity, in several ways.

But my writings aren’t only my stories.  I’ve read letters and listened to women.  Some who can’t contain their joy as they excitedly share their story.  I celebrate with them.  Others, who make my throat swell even as I write this, who have spilled their hearts and related their tales of pain.  I mourn with them.  And then there are the ones who I may not even know, but share their story simply by the way they speak, or dress, or post pictures of themselves on Facebook.  They’re the ones I think about most of all.

And that’s what I pour out on the page.

Every good thing in this life has it’s taste of bitterness, and I am no exception.

I am thankful that I usually think logically and don’t revel in drama.  I’m sorry for when I’m not compassionate.

I am thankful for having zeal, passion, and willingness.  I’m sorry when I’m impatient and irritated with others.

I am thankful for the desire to be authentic and genuine.  I’m sorry that I sometimes call people out when they aren’t ready.

I am thankful that I laugh a lot and have a vast sense of humor.  I’m sorry when I step on people’s toes.  I’m sorry when I focus too much on the light things at the expense of deeper subjects.

I’m thankful for my husband and children.  I’m thankful I love being a wife and mother.  I’m sorry I often neglect and forget to nurture my relationship with female friends.

I’m thankful I notice needs around me.  I’m sorry I can focus on doing instead of building relationship.  I’m sorry I can become resentful of others who aren’t noticing and doing.

I’m thankful for my children and the blessing each one is.  I’m sorry my focus can get warped and I mourn the appearance of “mommy medals of honor”.  (and if you don’t have any idea of what I’m talking about, just be very grateful.)

I’m thankful for my home and all we enjoy.  I’m sorry for often allowing the constant need to care and maintain stuff cause me to act stressed and crabby.

I’m thankful for all the people in my life.  I’m sorry when I don’t appreciate them as I should.  I’m sorry for not serving them as I should.

I’m thankful.  And I’m sorry for the brokenness that is intertwined within it.

“All creation anticipates the day when it will join God’s children in glorious freedom from death and decay.  For we know that all creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.  And even we Christians, although we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us.”

little things are important so often we think that if we just did some big thing, itd help so much or really fix some situation but usually all we need to do is change the seemingly small things they really add up and actually are a big part of our lives

instead of coming up with some great grand scheme or fantastic plan how about doing small gestures of love and kindness right now kiss your husband play ball with your kid smile at the checkout lady give a big tip big things are great sure but usually we just have great intentions with no real follow through and nothing ends up changing

and if you still dont believe that little things are important just look at how confusing such a small thing like using no punctuation has such a huge effect on my ability to communicate and your ability to understand

Awesome photo collection of Dads wearing their babies!

A Dad’s perspective of their home birth

Another Dad tells the story of how he navigated the choice between hospital or home birth.

And yet another Dad tells us why, if he had a uterus, he would never give birth in a hospital.

Thought provoking article about first time mothers.. “If I had a dollar for every woman I have heard say “I want a home birth, but the first one is going to be in the hospital, JUST IN CASE” I’d be a midwife with a lot more dollars.”

This is a long read, but so worth it. I remember the first time I learned about how going through all the natural stages of birth actually affected my hormone levels, helped me birth, and even made me a better mother.  Mothering article, The Hormonal Blueprint of Labor.

One mother’s story of why she chooses not to vaccinate

Lies and truth surrounding breastfeeding.

This article finds me nodding in agreement about the tendency moms have to neglect their marriage, but then seething with anger at the man’s completely idiotic conclusion.  It’s an interesting opinion on marriage and breastfeeding.  Ack, what a douchebag he is, though.

Mothering article on preparing your home for a homebirth.

Another Mothering article, about Elimination Communication.

The yuck factor of breastfeeding in the bathroom.

A thoughtful blog post of the safety of home birth.

One in three hospital births are via cesarean section?!

Five questions a pregnant mom should ask her doctor to help avoid a c-section.

I’ve found myself on a roller-coaster of emotion.

Exhaustion from health struggles.  Humor from watching a child’s antics.  Tiresome comments.  Comfort from my husband.  Irritation.  Too many phone calls.  Joy in friendship.  Wonder and awe in God’s grace.  Sting of tears from sharing my heart.  Singing in worship to my Father.  News of yet another person I “offended”.  Enjoying fellowship.  Smiles from a surprise visit.  Feeling the love of family and friends. Working through the deathly effects of legalism and ungodly judgment. Basking in the feel of falling asleep while cuddled with my dear husband and chubby toddler.  Comforting a worried, tearful friend.  Being flooded with encouraging words.

Someone recently commented about being in ministry, “Feel like I need a seatbelt for the ups & downs.”

Where there is favorable growth, change, or impact, you will also find increased fault-finding, criticism, and even vilification.  The fact that they go hand-in-hand, however, does not make the reality any easier to bear.

You see it even in the great strides that have been made in revitalizing the city of Flint.  While many work for continued progress and advancing new (at least here) ideas, they are met with increased opposition.

(Urban gardeners want to return us to a “plantation” mentality??  Please.)

Of course, criticism can be good, and a wise person will always take the opportunity to examine the issue to see if there is any truth in it, and a need for adjustment or apology.

However, I have found most that most negativity comes from people who

1. just want a good excuse to justify their lack of growth, willingness, action
2. don’t have a better suggestion

When it comes to being in leadership, the flak can get quite personal and therefore more difficult to disregard.

My thoughts are going all over the place regarding where I’ve witnessed the tendency for positive significance to be met with negative opposition.  From the Mayor, to well-known pastors, to most anyone in any type of leadership, to friends, to even ourselves.

What I try to remember is that “Hurting people hurt people.”

May accusations be met with humbleness.  May excuses be met with gentle honesty.  And may enmity be met with love.

I’m really good at controlling my emotions.

No, I should rephrase that.  I am good at controlling my emotional display.

(For most emotions.  Because I wish I could control irritation and impatience better when it comes to my children.  Besides that.)

I don’t always express things like great excitement or sorrow, even when I feel them deeply.  When I am hurt, thrilled or anxious, I usually check my emotions before they spill out into my voice or face.

Maybe this is a good thing.  I don’t tend to be an emotional roller coaster, freaking out everyone around me.  But mainly I think its a bad thing.

What happens to emotions that aren’t expressed?

Sometimes I want to raise my hands in worship.  Sometimes I want to let the tears fall in compassion.  Sometimes I want to allow my voice to tremble as I ask, “How could you say such a thing?”.  Sometimes I want to reach out and squeeze a hand for no reason except that I love.

But I don’t.

I stuff it down, cover it up, move on.  I don’t know what I’m afraid of, really.  What’s the worse that could happen?  Ridicule?  Being misunderstood?  Being labeled?

Please.  As if that doesn’t happen anyways.

Maybe, I’ve been thinking, maybe… if I weren’t so cautious to express those good emotions, they wouldn’t collide around in my heart making it far too easy to express those ugly emotions I mentioned at the beginning.

Just a thought.