Hello, I’m January
Inspiration and thoughts on God and faith, written by a simple human, navigating life through the messy and sometimes chaotic.
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Weary, Worn, and In Need of Peace? Ask…
The Lord keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. Psalm 121:7
“Ms. January is base. Now you can’t get me!”
Each week prior to our Wednesday night lesson at church, our children have a time of play. Their favorite game it seems week in and week out is a good, old-fashioned game of tag, and each week I am named the “base.” The place children run when they want to be safe. To escape from the things that pursue them. Try to get them. Make them run away, scared.
“Ms. January is base. Now you can’t get me!”
Base. Defined as the part on which something rests or is supported. Also, a structure on which something depends.
“Ms. January is base.” Really??
While these kids may run to me to keep them safe for a minute or two. While others in my line of work depend on me for support and direction, on most days, I feel more like those wimpy, snow-covered branches, than anyone’s base. Anyone’s safe place.
Weighed down by the demands of parenting. By children who do not always listen, or even respect the one who takes care of the home. Weighed down. Wimpy. From the demands of looking out for the needs of others. Tired. Weary. Feeling more like a doormat than any darn safe place.
And on some days, I would like to find my own “base.” A place to run from the daily pressures. From the things, people, and demands that chase me down.
When I don’t want to support anyone, or have anyone depend on me. When all I want is peace. A little time to rest on someone or something else for a change. A break form everything that has weighed these wimpy branches down.
While running away sounds nice, God has something else in mind.
God is base. Now no one can get me!
He wants to be my safe place. My support. On whom I depend.
My base when I can’t strike a balance between discipline and letting kids just be kids.
A safe place to run when the first thing I want to do is slam the front door and disappear for days. Where no one needs my help. My support. My advice.
But, I don’t have to run to find his safety. I don’t have to hide or disappear to find his support. His help. His counsel. His advice. His peace.
All I have to do is ask.
“Come to me, all who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28
So, that is what I did. I went to Him and asked for peace. For Him to be my base, so no one could get me!
See, my untraditional work schedule. The time at night away from my family. Schoolwork into the wee hours of the morning. All of these had worn me down. All I wanted was a day of rest. No obligations. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Just peace.
So, I asked him for it. In the middle of a flurry filled morning that meant the next day my home would be full of anything but “quiet,” I asked for peace.
Maybe a snow day isn’t your idea of peace. Weighed down branches full of snow may not be ideal. And for me, they usually are not either. But, I claimed the peace I asked for the morning before. I claimed the patience I wanted him to give me with my children. And, sure…snow mazes, cookies, and snow cabins made from Lincoln Logs meant I had plenty to do, I enjoyed the time just being the support, the “base” that one little boy had missed, and needed on this day.
No bickering. No fighting. No need to apologize for my lack of patience. No need to run.
Just peace.
From the one who gives me a safe place to plant my feet each time I ask. Even if it is a snow-covered (now maze-covered) front yard.
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My One True Valentine
We love each other because He loved us first. 1 John 4:19
“Mommy, please…PLEASE help me! I can’t find my valentines!”
And so began the task of looking in every bag, every box, every nook, every cranny for the valentines that the little fella swore were in each place we checked. Until we finally gave up in disappointment and defeat. Using the moment as we should have-teaching responsibility for one’s things. Even debating whether to allow him to be left out of the Valentine exchange to reinforce that same lesson.
But, as parents. We want to rescue our children from their choices. From their mistakes. We want to swoop in and save the day. Be the hero. And, while I may be the “superstar” on some days for my kids. The one who saves the day. To drop off left lunches. To repair ripped projects. To bandage boo-boos. To recover lost toys. And, yes, to even bring home a new box of valentines, I am truly not the “superstar” at all.
I am not the “superstar” to be celebrated this Valentine’s Day. And yet, you won’t find his face emblazoned on any cardboard valentine. You won’t find him among the red and pink teddy bears, the foil wrapped hearts, and conversation hearts. Among the red roses and pink balloons.
“I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1
The “superstar” that urges us each day to be his. The “superstar” who knows that love has nothing to do with cute heart shaped lollipops, or raspberry filled candied hearts.
The title of “superstar may belong to me when I come to my kids rescue, but ultimately it belongs to the one who truly saved. The one who poured out enough love to save a wretch like me, and a multitude of others like me. The one who never asked for anything in return. Who often never receives a thank you. Whose reminder of his saving grace is not a sticky note or a sappy valentine, but a wooden cross.
Who expressed his love not with the point of a pencil, but with the point of three nails.
Who doesn’t reserve his love for just one day, but every day.
The true “superstar,” and our one and only Valentine!
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Don’t Worry, God Will Handle It
“Can I stay home today? I am not feeling so well.”
“Sure…” was my response. With a little bit of apprehension. A sinking feeling of dread that had me asking this usually compliant child if something was wrong. If he was really sick.
Now, why exactly would I ask this question? Come on! The child was sick! Certainly he had no other reason to stay home.
But the nightmare I had the evening before. The one that began with the same exact question, had my stomach in knots and my heart filled with worry.
What if? Should I stay home? What if this happens? What if that happens?
Worry.
This is not the only time I have been filled with worry over the last few weeks. Some rational and healthy. Others a little irrational and over the top.
As college looms ahead of us for our oldest son some of these worries include: What if he gets to college and hates it? What if he can’t wash his clothes? What if he doesn’t like his roommate? What if he starves? Gets lost? Doesn’t make it to class?
And, then there are the everyday worries that keep us in a state of constant pessimism, just waiting for that dark cloud to dump a bucket of rain right on us!
What if we don’t have enough money this month to pay our bills? What happens if the van breaks down? How will we fix it? What if something happens to them at school? What if she has problems with her friends again? What if he can’t open his yogurt? What if there is a substitute? What if they don’t like me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if just can’t handle this new job? What if I fail?
What if this nightmare really is coming true today?
Worry. Dread. A dark cloud of pessimism and defeat.
Until God reminds us not to worry. Until he whispers in our ears that He has got this. That, yes, some of those things could very well happen, and because He is always with me, and always with my children, I have no need to worry.
Don’t you call me your shield? Your protection? Don’t you trust me to do just that? Don’t I remind you that I will clothe you, feed you, and keep you safe? Yet you worry day in and day out.
“Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” Matthew 6:27
Sure. I know it is hard not to become anxious. Not to worry. It is hard as a parent, as a planner, as a control freak to let go of the need to control everything. Every little detail. Even those I know I can never handle on my own. And, while I know it is hard to let our children navigate this sometimes scary world without holding their hand all the time, and stressing over every event, every detail, every little thing, God says otherwise.
He encourages us to cast everything that burdens our hearts and minds on Him (1 Peter 5:7), because He will carry all those burdens for us with ease. Which means I don’t have to carry any of these worries with me. I can give them all to Him.
My worry over a silly dream made getting through my day so much harder. Worrying about something that could have happened. That would have happened according to His will if that were the plan, despite any changes I may have tried to make to control it. Despite any of my worries.
Worry that could have kept me from taking a step towards the promise God had given me if I had trusted my overzealous Mommy gut, and not my never failing God, and stayed vigil all day waiting for something, anything to happen. Because while that dreaded dream was certainly about school, God knew it had nothing to do with my kids, but a different set of kids who needed me.
So, while it may be hard to let go of our children. To let go of the need to constantly be there to protect them, and to let go of some of the rational and irrational worries, God wants all of our worries. They are His to carry. His to handle.
Yes, my son may go to college and turn some whites pink. He may have a roommate with whom he doesn’t connect. He may miss a class…or two. But, God will handle it.
I may say the wrong thing. I may not know what to say at times. And, I may fail and get it all wrong.
But, God will handle it.
He will handle the yogurt. He will handle the substitute. He will handle the mean girls on the bus.
I need not worry. God will handle it.
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My Father Told Me So
How beautiful you are, my darling, how beautiful! Song of Songs 1:5
“Mommy, what’s wrong with your hair? You look like a poodle.”
I had been coveting a short haircut for many years, always scared that the curls which adorned my head would make that impossible. That those curls would make me resemble a 30 year old Annie, and nothing like the Halle Berry styles I desired.
What was uttered as a simple child-like observation after taking the pixie plunge, quickly transported me back to middle and high school. The hair that was a source of so much “teasing,” and which apparently made me resemble a poodle according to my classmates, was once again something I began to loathe.
“Mommy, all my friends have straight hair. Why can’t I have straight hair? You even straighten yours.”
Uh oh…Now, 4 years later, she has once again left me speechless. I have been called out. Dealt with. Exposed. By a 7 year old little girl who so needs to hear that her curls are beautiful, before the world convinces her otherwise.
“I just want it straight like yours.” Like “hers.” Like “theirs.” Like all the others who make her feel different. And, I get it, girl. I do. I remember watching those girls in class with straight locks as they ran their fingers through their hair. No tangles at the end of their silky strands. Able to brush their hair so it looked shiny and soft, not frizzy and frazzled like my own.
I remember all the times I made the same plea with my own mom. “Please, make it straight.” The number of times she took me to the salon in an attempt to tame the mass of tangles and ringlets I hated so much. To tame the curls that were the subject of taunts in gym class, when the running around would turn my neatly gelled curls into a heaping mess. To silence the critics that spoke words that made me believe I was not beautiful. To fulfill the longing to just look like everyone else.
The critics I still, 20 to 30 years later, try to silence with bleach, a pixie cut, and a flat iron. Yes, even the white hair that still makes me look drastically different isn’t enough to embrace the idea that my head is adorned with a heap of waves.
Even though I am reminded that it is acceptable to be unique.
Before you were born, I set you apart. Jeremiah 1:5
Even though I am reminded that I am beautiful.
Even though I have a Father who tells me so…
You are beautiful, my darling, beautiful beyond words. Your hair falls in waves, like a flock of goats winding down the slopes of Gilead. Song of Songs 4:1
Even as I try to teach my daughter that the same heap of falling waves, and tangled curls is altogether beautiful.
To remind her that God wants her to embrace who he made her to be. To help her silence the critics who tell her she has to look a certain way. To live this out a little more in my own life, even if it means I have to leave the flat iron in the bathroom drawer on a regular basis.
To be an example of the message I want my daughter to understand and own…that she is “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
The message I was afraid to embrace, and definitely too terrified to boldly state so many years ago.
So, to my former critics, and to those future hair critics who will try to decide what defines beautiful…take a look at this little girl. Take a look at her curls. The curls that some may say resemble the hair of a poodle.
I hope you get to meet her some day, and I hope she will be brave enough to stand up to her critics and say:
“You are wrong! I may look different, but I am beautiful! My Father told me so!”
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To the Mom Wondering Where She Went Wrong
Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9
Dear Mom, I see you there. Weary. Worried. Wondering where you went wrong. I know you worry about judgment, condemnation, and the whispers that you must have done something wrong. There must be something you did for your child to turn out this way. It’s bad enough you define yourself as the mother of a deadbeat, a drug addict, a dealer, a thief, a murderer….but the world does, too.
And, I know you hang your head in shame. Wondering the same things the world does. Asking the same questions.
Where did I go wrong? What didn’t I do right? I was a bad mom. I wasn’t there enough. I worked too much. Drank too much. Thought about myself too much. Focused on the church too much. I neglected my son, my daughter. And, look where it got them.
How do I know this? Because I am the daughter of a mom who asks the same questions. The daughter of a mom who wonders how her son turned out so different than she expected. One who wonders where she went wrong.
I have listened to the cries of my mom as she shares how her heart bleeds each time she hears the comments about my brother. About her parenting. About her failings. And, yes…in some ways she did fail. And, you probably have, too. Guess what? So have I.
I have also sat in the visitation room with you as you play cards, share stories, and love on the son or daughter you want so desperately to be able to come home.
I watch you as you leave each time. As you give a gripping hug. As you wipe the tears from your eyes as you leave the one you love more than life itself.
And, I know when you go home you will earnestly pray that your son, or your daughter will reach for and receive the redemption and grace of Christ. Just as I do when I leave the visitation room one Saturday each month.
Just as I pray my brother will feel God reaching him in the confines of his jail cell.
That he will know how deeply he is loved by me, by his dad, by his mom. By God.
Unconditionally. Despite flaws. Despite his sins. Despite his past mistakes.
That he will know he can turn away from sin and live a life that is blameless before Him.
That the world will accept that this gift is given to him, just as it is given to us.
That it is given to your son. Your daughter.
Given to a deadbeat, an addict, a dealer, a murderer, a thief.
Given to an absent mother. An alcoholic mother. A selfish mother. The single mother. The young, unwed mother. The mothers, who despite what they have done, love their children, and cry at night wondering where they went wrong.
Given to all who have sinned. Including you. Including me.
So, Mom. This letter is for you. I see nothing to condemn in this visiting room. Only what can be used for His glory. Keep praying for that wayward daughter. That prodigal son. The one the world has given up on. The one you may have wanted to give up on yourself, because you just couldn’t handle the judgment of all those around you.
He is watching. She is watching. I am watching.
And, Mom. You did just fine.
Your son will be fine.
Your daughter will be fine.
Because grace is given to all. Whether behind the walls of our homes. Or the walls of a prison. To us all.
So dry your eyes. Hold your head high, and stand tall in the face of the world’s criticism remembering that the God that has saved you, will one day save them, too.
Sincerely,
A fellow daughter…and another mom who wonders where she may have gone wrong.
About Me
I am January! Wife, mother, meemaw, pastor, and mental health provider who makes it through the day with my coffee, my journal, and my God; and I am also on some days a hot mess. A simple human, navigating life through the messy and sometimes chaotic.
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