Looking at beauty

I was sitting with an unassuming co-worker, a man in his 70s, who caught me completely off-guard by asking me, “Do you feel more beautiful now than you did twenty years ago?”  

I long for this kind of engagement, but so often I’m asked to talk about our farm or our renovations.  And yet, while I love probing questions, he hit on a sensitive topic, probably the one I have the hardest time with.  I couldn’t begin to gather my thoughts in one place or to think how to answer him succinctly.  So I resorted to being straight with him.

I prefaced my response with the obvious: at nearly 50 I’m definitely not getting any better looking, and I’ve never felt like I could possibly relate to the “pretty” people around me. Even as a grown-up I noticed years ago I didn’t feel entitled to have cute hair or fashionable clothes, I just felt that was all for the cool moms. I just figured beauty—in its traditional sense—wasn’t going to be part of my life, like not being an Olympic athlete or trapeze artist or talk show host; it’s just never been a stand-out characteristic of mine, and so I’ve simply tried to focus on other aspects of who I am.

And yet I admitted, in answer to his question, I honestly do feel more beautiful now than I ever have. It has nothing to do with my outsides; I am getting wrinkly and saggy, more rounded in the middle section, and less and less what the world would deem physically attractive.  In fact, as an ordinary middle-aged mom, I feel nearly invisible sometimes, which is actually my dream superpower.

But ironically, I feel more secure about myself now than I did when I was young and in better shape. I feel my heart softening and expanding. I’m calmer. Eager to understand and learn and admit I’m still learning. More relaxed.  Interested in others.  Wiser. More forgiving, accepting, open, vulnerable. Less judgmental.  Less inclined to gossip. Curious. Better able to see another perspective and to recognize pain and fear behind arrogance and brashness.  Not there yet.  Just more aware that this is the kind of person I’m striving to be.

I remember making a list years ago, just a random sampling of skills or characteristics I wanted.  One entry was “to feel beautiful.”  Not that I’d have to necessarily be beautiful, but I wanted to be able to feel it.  Given that I believe a large part of beauty is simply confidence, I realize I am beginning to truly feel that beauty inside.

Interestingly, it was just after this exchange a friend called.  We talked for nearly an hour in the parking lot about the very idea the grandpa and I had just discussed.  She’d posted pictures and thoughts recently and is on a mission to switch up the narrative we women have about our bodies, how we view them, and our outward appearances in general.  Yes, of course, love it, for sure.  But she’s typically beautiful.  Like in a way the world would accept: young, thin, blond, attractive features, just basic good looking for our culture. Easy for her to feel confident and to be a spokeswoman for embracing ourselves as we are.  I told her that and she says that’s what everyone says. :)

This topic comes up frequently between us.  She knows my insecurities, and while she lives in a culturally acceptable and celebrated body, we still talk frankly.  This past week we were texting more about this.  I told her the whole looks/body/beauty thing is so all over the place for me. While I’m game for being vulnerable about nearly every topic she can throw at me, I hate opening up about this because it’s so personal, an area of my life where I’m not completely confident—especially around her. I’m still working on ignoring the advertising and expectations of the world, trying to really figure out how I feel, and reconciling feeling so ugly as an elementary school girl, average in high school, and just meh ever since with wanting to honestly not worry about it.  There have been moments, singular instances or photos where I have felt congruence in how I’ve been portrayed with how I feel inside, but mostly I try to ignore my appearance because there’s not a thing I can do to change it.  It’s very uncomfortable to me when people say my girls look like me.  I have no response, I feel very awkward about acknowledging them; they are cute like in a girl-next-door way, and I have never felt that way ever. 

But I don’t think pretty and beautiful are necessarily synonymous.  While the world elevates and celebrates the handsome and glamorous people based on what is currently acceptable and idealized, not many in the entertainment industry are what I’d consider truly beautiful people.  The definition paraded has to do with youth and body shape, which is so limiting and destructive.

I think my 73-year-old mom is attractive.  And I have noticed some very striking grandmas with modern gray-white spiky short hair in on-trend classy outfits—I absolutely love this look.  But others are soft and wrinkly and lumpy and sweet, the smiley warm kind with twinkly eyes you just want to cuddle up with while she reads to you, accepting, loving, cookie-making grandmas just oozing beauty.  All very beautiful in their own ways.

I remember in a class years ago the man not much older than me talking about his career as a photographer.  He has captured some of the most “beautiful” people in the world in his photoshoots.  But he mentioned one woman in a leprosy colony.  He emotionally told us, with all sincerity, that she was the most beautiful woman he has ever known.  This impacted me profoundly and has stayed with me through the years, helping me notice true loveliness in people.  I think we just know it when we see it.  To me, it’s light, courage, authenticity, humility, contentment, confidence, resilience, selflessness, humor, and a willingness to engage, listen, and relate with others.

I’ve had several conversations with girlfriends about the incessant nonsense bombarding us and our daughters.  It’s nearly unavoidable, and it takes intense strength to not get sucked into the unrealistic expectations and dramatic pulls, even as an older mom. But in spite of this backdrop, I feel like I’ve been very intentional with my daughters because I know the power of truth. I’ve tried to teach them of our worth, our identity, and how none of that is tied to appearance.  We’ve talked about the purposes of our bodies, the gifts they are, humility, including others, being a true friend, working hard, trying new things, being aware of and kind to others. I love that they feel free to express themselves, that they wear little to no makeup, that while they want to take care of themselves, they embrace their bodies without any kind of degradation or even a sense of worry.  We talk about being healthy, why it’s important to eat well, to sleep, to exercise, to manage stress, to look at the big picture; and I hope they’ve internalized a desire to use their bodies, strength, intellect, personalities, and minds to do good in the world, rather than using their bodies as ornaments or accessories or for attention.  I feel like we’ve talked about true beauty in this sense, not ad naseam, I don’t want it to be a major discussion point, but I feel like they get it.

I love my friend’s pursuit, her quest to help women recognize they are more than what they look like on the outside.  I love that the mannequins and posters in many stores are showcasing regular people with believable bodies like the real people we know and are and that their personalities seem to be the focus rather than a flawless rendition of only a body.  I love that they use models of all types: freckly, petite, full-figured, long kinky hair, short funky hair, mixes and shades of skin and ethnicities from all over the world. Some of the current advertising I applaud is reminiscent of the Benneton ads from the 80s, some of my absolute favorites from my teens, so forward-thinking for the era. I feel like we are making strides in focusing on diversity as beauty, and I’m impressed with the campaigns to fight the onslaught of the counterfeit paraded as real, attainable, normal, and desirable. I love that we are making an effort to look beyond our physical appearances and that we are appreciating intellect, creativity, kindness, boldness, problem-solving, strength, tenacity, and individuality.

As I was talking with Todd on our long fall drive about the mixed messages surrounding beauty, I asked for his perspective and he asked for mine. Unexpectedly, sharing about my physical appearance stirred some very deep emotions for me. As I talked about how I felt about my physical looks I felt weak, less-than, helpless to be anything more than what I was naturally born with, resigned, like hiding.  But then I explained how the older I get, the more confident I feel.  I have lived a long time, and I continue to feel so much stronger and sure of myself. As I shared this perspective, I felt emboldened, calm, secure; I sensed the power of these characteristics parting the fog and cacophony of the world voices. As we continued to wade through the variables, we concluded it’s simply a matter of how we define beauty.  But for us, we are less drawn to perfection and picture-perfect models and more inclined to authentic everyday people who make us laugh, who are regular with flaws and personalities, who are intent on adding their strength and gifts to the world, and who have beautiful hearts and minds.  This is the beauty we believe in.

Leaving the chore chart behind

I was wiping down the oven and made my way to the side of the fridge where my mom lists are.  But after all these years of re-writing it, trying different configurations, making individual lists on sticky notes right there on the kitchen counter, I think I’m just going to be done. I ripped the chore list off the fridge and didn’t just toss it into the trash; I crumpled it ceremoniously.

I had to go back to what the purpose of chores is.  Obvious.  I just want my kids to know how to work.  The last thing I want is to raise slackers who will be a burden to future roommates and spouses.  I want them to recognize what it takes to keep a house running, to know how to take care of their possessions and areas, to notice when there’s something needing to be done.

And yet despite my best intentions, I have felt like a failure in this department in recent years.  When the kids were little and home more, it was easier, matter of fact, routine.

But these days I’m the absolute worst at enforcing chores.  And so is Todd.  He, because he’s never around.  Me, because I am.  And I see their crazy lives.  They leave at 6:30 every weekday morning, and Fridays they usually have work till 7, go out with friends and get home at 11.  Most Saturdays in the summer B has to be downtown by 7 to make/sell crepes at the Farmers’ Market and works the afternoon shift at Great Harvest.  Callum also heads out early in the summer to get his lawns done before he also works the afternoon at Great Harvest.  Until just recently C worked at the gymnastics club and B at a local pizza place on top of their other jobs. They also do cross country and track and have rigorous school schedules.  So I’m seeing all their comings and goings and get it.  They’re hardly ever home. But when we finally gather at night I see B up till 11 with her flashcards, C in bed with his scriptures… I take it all in.

Am I being soft? Perhaps lazy? Should I push harder and be the parent?

Callum was unexpectedly home for maybe 2 hours yesterday afternoon, so I told him now that his mowing was done for the season he could put away the trimmer, mower, etc. that had been sitting on our driveway for the past seven months, which he did.  But then I suggested it would be the perfect time to get his chores done since he’d be leaving at 5:30 the next morning to go hunting with work all afternoon then his fancy dance all night.  He said he should’ve stayed gone.

I remember a similar exchange with an older son many years ago.  I’d be on him to get finish his scouts, to look for scholarships.  Until he confided it was why he stayed away so much.  Which is precisely when I let it go.

So here I am again.  I’m done dealing with a list of chores.

Because here’s what I see happening.  They clean out their vehicles every weekend and go through the car wash regularly, they get their oil changed on their own, they pay for their gas and phones and entertainment and most of their own clothes. Their beds are made every morning, they do their laundry, their rooms are unusually tidy for people their age, their drawers are organized, clothes are hung and folded according to category.  They empty and load the dishwasher, clean up after dinner, mow, plow, and help with yard and house remodeling projects.  They’re never here mostly because they’re working their real jobs, at which they do dishes, bathrooms, floors, trashes, counters, etc.

It occurred to me that they are learning to work.  They’re not exactly slackers.  They’re learning the value of money since they’re earning it themselves and have to buy so much on their own.  They’re noticing what needs to be done partly because their employers have taught them. I know they like to do a good job and take pride in their work because we’ve talked about different work styles.

But I was getting hung up on them not doing their dusting and vacuuming, wiping down the cupboards and appliances, the stuff I actually love to do.  I spent a good chunk of yesterday doing that type of housework and was in my glory.  I actually hated giving those jobs to them because I love them so much, but I was intent on teaching them to work.

But here’s the bottom line. I feel like they’re getting it. And I feel like they’ll continue to learn.  Living with roommates will be a life lesson all of its own.  They’ll have to decide if the person they eventually date to marry will have the same ideas about keeping up a house and whether they’re willing to accept whatever that is.  They’ll have to use their eyes to see what needs to be done when they’re in charge of their own homes.  We’ve all been there; we’ve all adjusted and figured it out.  I’ve just noticed how much easier life is when our homes are orderly and tidy, how good it feels when items have a specific place, how centering and calm it feels when it’s clean, how a good work ethic is possibly one of the most important traits a person can have.  I guess I just want the kids to want that too and to know what to do to achieve it.  I want them to be valuable employees who put in an honest day’s work and who notice what needs to be done without being told.  I want them to appreciate what it takes to keep up a household.  I want them to be responsible and to be hard workers.  I think we all want this for our children.

So even though the chore chart is no more and the formality of a checklist is in the past, I feel ok about it.  Because even though we’re maybe giving up by tossing out a tradition that’s been in place for decades, I feel that it’s time. I feel like it’s been time for a while now actually.  I think in a round-about sort of way they’re learning what we hoped for all along.  Which has been a lesson for me as I think about other parts of life. The past few years I’ve felt more free to let go of prescribed practices that are simply A means to an end rather than the only way to get there.  Loving it.  This feels good.

My perspective on God

I’m having a hard time discerning when the transition happened. Was it a moment of clarity or more gradual like the wakening day? 

Thankfully, we weren’t a highly orthodox family growing up.  So that gave me plenty of room to figure things out for myself; I’ve never had to overcome familial teachings or culture.  More of that came from the church and my own limited understanding of doctrine. 

However, in high school, I clung to the church and its teachings—or what I assumed were its teachings—because I longed for the “ideal.”  I remember wanting so desperately what I considered the traditional, “happy” Mormon family and felt drawn to and fell in love with what I learned at church and even, I’d say its culture. I loved everything BYU and it was my focused goal to go there someday. I had quotes and posters all over my room with motivational thoughts and scriptures. I kept a journal, read my scriptures, and if there was a church gathering of any kind I wanted to be at it; I soaked it all up. I dreamed of having kids and wrote to and about them throughout my journals. I wanted to create the ideal within my life.

But I think growing up in the 80s shaped me in a way that led to self-righteousness and rigid thinking.  And looking back at old talks, books, and even seminary and leaders, I can totally see where I got those thoughts. I wanted to be “good.” There was a definitive right way and wrong way to live. Why I didn’t realize there could be a different way of thinking, I’m not sure. Except maybe that felt risky, unsafe, disrespectful? There were definitely all sorts of people I encountered who were doing life all kinds of ways.  Most of it looked pretty good, but I leaned heavily on wanting to be “righteous.” I think I just wanted a happy, peaceful life for my future family and somehow pieced it together that the church was my vehicle.  I cringe, though, looking back at how judgmental, pious, and self-righteous I have been throughout my life.  I feel now that it’s because I just didn’t have a strong foundation of who God was; I didn’t understand His nature and the basic doctrines of Christ’s gospel.  He was a far-off God that I couldn’t relate to; I just wanted maybe to please him, make him proud, prove myself? I was naive and young in my learning all through college and young motherhood.  I felt guilty for the choices I made that weren’t in alignment with gospel teachings because I felt I should know better.  But I didn’t have the wherewithal to recognize that I could ask for help and grace, that there was so much power available; I relied on my own willpower and grit, and I floundered.  Intellectually, I knew I didn’t have to actually be perfect, but I thought I should be striving for it.

I’ve listened to, read, and attended so many discussions of ideas that have been instrumental in shifting my thoughts.  So that’s going back years and years; my paradigm gradually began to relax through college.  And this is where it gets fuzzy.  I know as a young mom I berated myself for getting things “wrong.”  I think, looking back, this was new territory, and what I did affected not only me but my family.  I wanted to do all the things I dreamed of as a young person to create the family life I envisioned.  Many of the traditions and habits we started were good, and I’d do them all again.  But many times I’d overwhelm myself with expectations, certain that God was disappointed with me.  I had so many good ideas (ideals?) circulating in my head that I felt overloaded, wanting to do and be them all.  This kind of thinking made me tired and frustrated sometimes.  I know I had good intentions, I was just a little misguided.

I also used to fret over whether people came to church or not. Given the backdrop of my youth and the teachings I misconstrued, it weighed on me.  Although it’s taken many yeas to get to this point, I honestly can’t imagine stressing over it. I just trust that they’ll figure things out on their own and come to whatever conclusions they decide on.  I have absolutely no urgency for needing people to be anything—including myself.  The only urgency I feel is in feeling that I have so much to learn, so many people I want to help, so much good I want to do… I can’t WAIT to get up in the mornings and get so annoyed that I have to sleep.  I just love being up and doing God’s work, truly.  I have so much more energy now because I’ve taken everyone else’s life off my to-do list, including my husband’s and my kids’.  They all know what they need/want out of life; I’m free to do my own living and it feels glorious.

Like most of you, I’m way, way, way less judgmental since becoming a parent.  I can totally understand how a mom can want to strangle her child or how she can sink into depression and want to watch tv and eat all day.  I get that teens wear and say and watch and do whatever they want; nothing I say really changes any of that—if I care about agency at all, which I totally do.  I have strong thoughts about how and why we do things as a family, a couple, and individuals, but I’m trying to let people do their own lives and love them, parents, kids, all of them.  I want to align my parenting with the way God parents: full of love and allowance.

I absolutely don’t see this life as a test the way I did when I was growing up.  I see every experience in my day as a way to learn and as practice.  I feel like I’m just taking it one day at a time and learn a little bit each week or month.  I also feel like I’m in constant communication with Heavenly Father, and so it even feels a little forced to kneel down and pray, so formal and so extra when we’ve already been talking all day.  I don’t get down on myself as much anymore.  I just try to quickly acknowledge to myself and whoever it affects and to God: that wasn’t my best, got it.  I’ll try super hard to remember to not do that again, but I might still, oh well. That’s what I tell my kids, “Let’s try again.” And I feel like God is saying, “Perfect, let’s move on, we really have so much we need to do and that I want to show you.” And I agree; I hate wallowing and wasting time in regret. But that’s really the extent of my repentance process. It’s not stressful. I do it a million times a day.  But I don’t think of God being mad at or disappointed with me.  I feel like he’s my coach, and I just work side by side with him all day and try to remember all the things I’m learning so I can keep doing better moving forward.  Not so I can look better, but so that I can love and serve better.  I know now that I have his spirit with me all the time.  I don’t need to gear up for it when I have a question or need to ask for his help, I don’t worry that I haven’t read my scriptures long enough that day or even if it’s been a few days.  I just know he’s there, totally eager to help with anything.  And I mean this about God the Father, God the Christ, and God the Holy Spirit—interchangeably. 

But this has been my thinking for so long now that I can’t even remember when it changed. I’ve never been afraid of him or thought he was a harsh or judgmental God.  (When people make a big deal about the God of the Old Testament, I’m amused.  I can’t imagine a God like that; for people to debate about it feels like a complete waste of time.  Just ask Him who He is, it’ll take one second for you to know that’s not Him.) No, I just felt bad disappointing him because I love him so much.  But I don’t feel that way one bit anymore, not at all.  I just feel absolute love and confidence from him like he’s cheering me on and motivating me to keep going. I feel a deep love between us—me for him and him for me.  I see myself literally as a child, and when I mess up I see myself recognizing what didn’t work and maybe why I did it.   I give myself a ton of grace and just realize I’m human; I’m young, I’m still figuring things out, and I honestly feel like I’ll be doing this for a long, long time. :)  I feel a lot more peace about my shortcomings and misguiding thinking and the things I say or do that aren’t all that great.  I recognize that most of the time I’m acting out of ignorance or pain or fear (not from God, but from judgment of others maybe?) when I’m not my best self.  But I honestly move through things pretty quickly.  The times I feel anguish is when I’ve hurt someone’s feelings or said/done something without thinking.  There’s nothing about God in it, just that I feel so sad for not having been more sensitive or thoughtful.  Not to say this is always how I operate, just more now than in the past.  I still get stuck sometimes.

My mentors are humble people.  My favorites are the ones who do the ground-level work in the world, serving in small ways no one sees; I can’t dismiss the feelings of goodness I feel emanating from them.  I love it when people are honest and open, not glossy and fancy and perfect.  I always feel like we have most things in common.  I figure we all want to be noticed and loved.  I think we all want to contribute and belong.  I admire those who recognize this in others and who are trying to encourage and lift people.  I don’t care what they look like, watch, drink, wear, or do; I just love being around people who go about doing good and making the world better.

All I know is that the older I get, the less I care about most things that maybe I worried about as a teenager and even as a younger mom.  What I try to focus on now is knowing how to love better, like Christ does.  I want to understand people, I want to hear them, I want them to feel God’s love, I want them to know the God I know, I want them to access his grace and power and love and stop making life so hard for themselves.  I feel very little rigidity, and I feel like I’m only sure about maybe 4-5 things. I feel tons of peace even as I admittedly feel the heaviness of the world.  I just sense myself becoming a little softer, a little kinder, a little less judgmental over the years, and I really like the way it feels.  I feel a lot more confident because it feels like I have God’s power and love with me.  I’m not trying to earn it or prove myself to him or anyone, I’m just living with it all the time.

New mom

Like the first time around, I had a vague idea of what to expect because I was a reader. I’d never been around babies before and none of my friends had babies yet. I’d hear snippets of conversations from others more experienced, I’d see a bit here and there, but I honestly had no idea what it would feel like up close and personal until I actually had my own babies.  Fast-forward twenty-plus years and I feel like I’m doing it all over for the first time. Because as our sons gradually became more serious with their now-wives, it started to dawn on me that, as comfortable I’d become in my role as a mother, I was now venturing into unfamiliar territory. 

To be honest, I’m amazed at the ease in which I go right back into my mothering role when I babysit a young child, even this far removed from having toddlers of my own at home.  I know to cut up the food in small bits, and I use the little cups.  My board books take me back decades, reminding me of the comfort of small bodies next to mine as we read on the couch, and I relish the simple pleasure of young company as we water the flowers and watch the chickens together.  It comes back effortlessly, familiar and easy.

But this isn’t mothering in any way I’ve ever known.  Because I’m not their moms.  Not in the sense that I’m who they’ll want in a delivery room or who they’ll ask advice from as they raise kids.  They have their own mothers.  And yet there’s still mother in the title of who I am.

I think that’s because of the love that naturally comes as we see our sons choosing their life partners.  It’s inherent with the label. Out of nowhere, even as I was and am still getting to know each of them, I feel the same unconditional, overwhelming love I had for my own babies as I met and started to get to know them.  I didn’t know what to expect as we welcomed these women into our family; I just never realized I could love other children the way I love my own.  No one ever mentioned this to me, maybe it’s so obvious that no one needed to.

I pray for these new daughters just as I do my sons.  And when I do, I visualize little hearts exploding around them like the emojis we all know from our texts, hoping they can feel the love Todd and I have for them across the miles. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I like the visual; it makes me smile wishing that it could be for real, kind of like the glitter and confetti that spilled out of our jr. high locker notes. We love hearing them with our sons on the other end of the phone on late Sunday nights and having them come for long weekend visits.  We are constantly impressed with their accomplishments and learn so much from their perspectives: young and educated, fresh and forward-thinking. We love their blended personalities that are the perfect complements to their husbands; we couldn’t have arranged any better companions for them.

As far as what I’m to do with it all, it’s both complicated and straightforward: nothing much.  Just as I constantly asked more experienced moms for advice when I was a young mom, I’ve started asking some of my younger friends what they like about their in-laws.  Overall, the consensus is, “Don’t give advice and don’t talk about family members.” Fair enough.

I also ask my grandma friends what I’m supposed to be doing. Their responses make me laugh.  I’ve never seen my competent, wise, accomplished, able, resourceful, and experienced friends look so uncertain.  They shrug.  They regrettably have nothing for me; they still aren’t sure how to do it themselves.  Just like no one really talks about the realities of nursing, not many are forthcoming when it comes to parenting adult children.  Most of my friends just shake their heads and admit it’s the hardest part of all parenting.  But when pressed, they finally tell me to just love them.  There’s nothing more to do. Easy enough.  My only question then was how to love them so they know and feel it.

I heard a friend speak a few weeks back, and he answered this perfectly.  He mentioned how our young kids need our time while our adult children need our acceptance. Even as I sort of intuitively felt something of that idea in the back of my mind, I wasn’t sure how to articulate it.  Until he said it, I’d never heard it so succinctly, so clearly. It felt spot on.

I know I’ve always wanted my own in-laws to be proud of us and the family we’ve created.  I’ve wanted them to be happy with the wife their son chose all those years ago.  I’ve wanted them to be proud of the way we’ve raised their grandkids and lived our lives as a family.  That’s all I’ve ever wanted from them.  We can mostly work out things ourselves, we’ve figured out money, what jobs to do, where to move, how we want to parent, how to make our marriage work.  There are books, friends, and a million online resources to help us with all that.  But validation and acceptance, that’s something we long for from our parents as adults.  Luckily I’ve only ever felt love and warm acceptance from both sets of parents.

So now as a parent myself, I long for these beautiful new daughters of ours to know how thankful we are to have them in our family.  We know they have their families with their own parents, we get that.  But we welcome what they bring to ours, their traditions, their personalities, their perspectives, their ways of making a life for their new family unit.  We love hearing their opinions, how they see the world, what they hope for the future, and how they’ll do things in their own families.  They are miles ahead of where we started, so wise and polished at such a young age.  We marvel to ourselves all the time how lucky and grateful we are to have them in our family.

It’s only been a year or so that we’ve known these women.  But how can they possibly know how much we already love them and how much joy they’ve added to our lives?  It’s all the tiniest things.  Her cute little accent and how English is still a little confounding for her and how patient she is as our son tries to learn Spanish and as she tries to figure out all the games he wants her to play.  It’s the thoughtful way she knows exactly the right gifts to get us and how she makes her home so comfortable and warm and reflective of them.  It’s their intellect and their strengths, the ways they express themselves, their laughs, the way they instantly became big sisters to our other kids, their work ethic and drive, their adventurous natures and willingness to try new things, their love for the outdoors and exploring, how they look at our sons, the dreams they have for the future, their mothering spirits, the way we can just tell they will be fabulous moms.

I don’t mean to gush, but it’s so similar to the enthusiasm I felt as a first-time mom where I wanted everyone to see my babies. It just feels exciting to me, these additional children coming to us all these years later, the rest of our family filling in.  I’ve always been disappointed we couldn’t have more children, but I didn’t ever realize the fulfillment that daughters-in-law would bring.  I’m still so new at this, admittedly clumsy and awkward, with so much to learn, but I’m hoping to eventually get the hang of it.  Just love them. I guess I’m hoping they will someday realize how deeply we love them, how much they’ve added to our life just by being in it.  But I don’t know that they will until they’re mothers-in-law themselves.

If you judge people, you have no time to love them. Mother Teresa

I got a text from a girlfriend after three of us had spent the afternoon together, and it’s been on my mind ever since. 

We had been eating our ordered-in lunches at one of our kitchen tables; we’d laugh, then cry, then laugh all over again, just as we’ve done for years and years and years together.  We have watched each others’ kids grow up as we’ve shared the pains of parenthood, church, work, health, extended families and relationships over so many hours together.  I honestly can’t believe the hard things they have faced; we’ve felt such tenderness together.  But the hardest of all they share is when they’ve felt judged when people don’t know what’s really going on with them or their kids or when they feel misunderstood for their choices.

Her message just said she was grateful that she could tell us things and never feel any judgment, just love. It touched my heart that she would feel that.  I remember her telling me on one of our drives together who she could trust as friends.  She counted on one hand.

I have friends in other parts of the world who have also felt betrayed, misunderstood, and abandoned by the people in their lives.  I know these women and their hearts intimately; we’ve been friends for decades. We’ve spent hours together as they’ve shared their experiences and the pain of feeling misread, of other women shutting them out because of differences or circumstances they know nothing about.

What I’ve realized is that judging is mostly only a problem when we don’t know someone.  Because once we’ve gotten past the small talk and superficial chit chat, when we really take note of who she is, what she’s going through, and what her life experiences have been, when we understand her pain and fears and insecurities, it’s the most natural thing in the world to just love her, to feel her heartaches, to laugh at the absurdity of life with her, to want to be a true friend, to draw her close and be a soft place for her.  It seems to me that judgment stems from assuming we know more than we do about another person’s story.  Most of the time we’re simply not privy to much at all.  And all we’re left with is what we can see.  But how often does the outside convey what’s really happening inside another person’s home or family or head or heart?  How likely are we to show the truth ourselves?

I’d say every single girlfriend I have looks like they have everything going for them. I’m surrounded by amazing, strong, competent, beautiful, contributing women who are raising excellent families and making a difference in their spheres of influence. They’re dependable, easy, fun, and optimistic, just lovely and loving women.  For sure.  But every single one has heartache. Every single one. They all struggle, whether it’s the family they grew up in, loss, their kids, marriages, finances, feelings of self worth and belonging, faith questions, health issues, infertility, pornography, balancing work and family, questioning what their purpose is, feeling overwhelmed and discouraged, anxiety, loneliness, just everything that goes along with regular life.  Some I know better than others, and the ones I see only superficially still look like they have it all handled in my mind until we’re able to spend more time together and are able to really talk.

Fortunately, we likely have friends who know us up-close, who have made the effort to spend time with us, who genuinely care about our worries and concerns, who are not threatened by our differences but instead ask about our perspectives, friends who simply personify love. We know how reassuring and secure it feels to have this kind of support.  We’re allowed to just be where we are, uncensored, unfiltered, authentic, raw, the real us without needing to show up in an acceptable, put-together way.  What a relief and comfort to feel safe in their company and to trust that what we share will be guarded and accepted, not judged or spread.

It is a sacred responsibility to be this kind of friend.  And such a privilege to be invited into someone’s heart.  But until we are, we can offer grace and empathy by assuming the best in others and by acknowledging that, even though we don’t know the specifics, there is likely something painful or difficult we’re all hiding behind. 

I’ve found it most helpful to simply spend time with each other beyond the superficial. I wonder if we can make more of an effort to safeguard what’s shared with us, to assume the best in others, and to withhold judgment.   I wonder if we can be the kind of person others can feel confident about trusting.  Inviting, including, reaching out, uplifting, speaking kindly, and never giving the impression of judgment in the slightest.  All this boils down to is really just loving others.

I have spent a lot of time with one of my favorite friends talking and texting during a difficult transition.  As I asked what I could do to help, she replied with poignant words I’ll always remember and cherish, “There’s nothing to do.  Just love me.”

I can’t help but think that’s the key to relationships. We have nothing to lose by simply loving people, by giving them the benefit of the doubt, by being a safe person in their lives, by letting down our own guard and pretenses and allowing others to be vulnerable yet secure by accepting them where they are, regardless of what we perceive their lives to look like.  

 

The luxury of lingering

Not long ago I gathered with several women at a friend’s house to help clean as she moved.  What an enjoyable morning, easy chatter, comfortable laughter, just catching up as we worked alongside each other.  While I had been friends with her for several years, I felt sad and regretful that it took her moving, along with the intimacy of cleaning the walls of her bathroom alone together, to really share our hearts. I had missed out.  Why had I not engaged sooner?

I think of relatives who live just a few hours from us.  How often do we make plans for a weekend together?  Not for a holiday, not for a large family reunion, but just to hang out during regular life, just our little families.  Todd and I have mourned the years we’ve missed out on, nearly all our kids are gone and we regret that we didn’t make more of an effort to develop cousin relationships; we wonder if it’s too late but want to do better.

I’m thinking about the friends whose family members’ funerals I’ve attended this year and the inspiring lives we were celebrating.  I have loved and admired the women of these families for years, these mentors whose lives have intersected with mine on occasion but not consistently. While I care for these women so much, when it came to a serious loss, I wasn’t sure I had a right to be involved because I had only really ever been on the periphery of their lives. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort before it came to this? Why hadn’t I reached in to spend more time with them and to get to know them much better so that I could be someone they could count on and turn to?

I went to lunch with two friends after one of the funerals. We lingered in our darkened cocoon of a booth, nestled together in warmth until we honestly didn’t need another refill on our waters.  And stayed some more.  Afterward, we shopped unabashedly, shamelessly pulling dresses off the racks as if we were looking for a prom or homecoming gown and not a suitable, age-appropriate mother-of-the-groom dress.  Something called Spanx was new to two of us, our seasoned and wise friend-guide introducing us to the merits of a whole new world of undergarments.  Heels, so high, so classy, so timeless, so perfectly sculpted for the occasion, reminiscent of olden day hunts for just the right footwear to dance in.  Conversation wasn’t contrived or monitored or censored.  It was stream of consciousness at its most vulnerable: open, honest, questioning, wondering, revealing. We were raw and candid as never before, and it was splendid.  But I questioned if it was only because one was moving; would we have spent this time and been this open if it had been just a regular Tuesday?

One who moved came back to stay for a few days to tie up some loose ends.  Having her with me felt like a teenager sleepover and was precious.  We sat on the beds in her room all afternoon that first day and talked until the room grew dark and I needed to start dinner.  That night we stayed at the table with my family and talked without moving till bedtime.  The next day I had two of our good friends over for lunch, and we sat and talked at my table again until it was time to start dinner once more. 

As I thought about how much fun it had been to have her stay with me, to wake up and eat breakfasts, lunches, and dinners together, to spend hours together with nothing pressing, not even noticing the hours passing, I realized it felt just like having my sister around.  I thought about the women who had joined us those two days she’d been in town and how much I love and cherish them.  I felt like I was with my high school girlfriends all over again, and I felt a lightness and acceptance and joy that we don’t indulge in during a regular workweek. 

I asked her why we wait.  Why haven’t we, in all the nine years we’ve been friends, taken a girls’ overnight trip or gone shopping like that?  Why wasn’t it until she was leaving that the three of us really connected like this? Not that we haven’t spent time together, we’ve done dinners and lunches, of course. We’ve sat in each others’ lives, for sure. It’s just that we’ve always had to get back; we’ve always had families to take tend to, deadlines, projects, appointments.  We’ve always assumed probably we’d make time tomorrow or next week. 

A couple weeks back my sister and I flew out to surprise our sister who is dealing with her cancer again.  A trip that was admittedly too short, but I found myself reminiscing just last night about being together doing nothing but watching stand-up comedy and The Home Edit on the couch all curled up together eating pasta and chocolate chip cookies.  We got our nails done, we ate out.  We talked and shared for hours as we stood in the kitchen and as we drove for miles and miles.  But why did it take cancer to beckon us?  Why hadn’t we planned a girls’ weekend much, much sooner? And way more often?

I’ve had two friends in the hospital lately.  We love them so much, both feel like family.  But I haven’t been up close and in their lives like I know I could’ve been.  I seemed to put off visiting for some reason.  Why is a question I’ve asked myself a million times the past week.  Why, when it became serious, did I finally make the effort?  Why in the hospital and not in their homes?  I’ve been a perfunctory friend perhaps but haven’t always tarried, something I think I’d already recognized as well as regretted, just that this week drove it home.

I remember a glorious day with couple who had become our good friends near the end of vet school.  We each had our two oldest children, and near graduation we made plans to spend an entire day together, just eating out, going around town, and visiting together with our kids.  We’d known each other for nine months and this was the first time we’d spent long unscheduled hours together; it was heavenly and obviously remains etched in my heart twenty years later.

While there’s no way most of us can spend our days just shopping and eating out and sitting by the pool, these past few weeks have helped me appreciate the relationships and times when I’ve made an effort, when I didn’t postpone drawing them in close, when I—and they—made the time.

I relish my weeks with my mom attending Education Week, a gloriously simple week full of early-morning classes and treats and laughter together with our friends.  Of course it’s taken some juggling to leave my kids during the first week of school, to take the time off from my normal life, to make sure things will be fine back home.  But with Covid canceling last year and with my mom getting older, I don’t know how many more years we have.  And so I’m beyond grateful we’ve made the effort all these years.  The memories are so precious.

Earlier this week three of us were working in a friend’s kitchen helping her unpack.  This felt good.  Comfortable.  Familiar.  Here was a friend who has been with me on many, many occasions.  We’ve spent hours at the lake and at the park and on her couch and eating out.  I didn’t realize how these times of just being together added up, how easy and intimate our friendship had become; but all those days spent just being together created a familiarity, a comfort, that could now be drawn upon simply and without awkwardness.  I hadn’t realized how bolstering those days in the sun had been to our friendship.

Over spring break we rented a house with our dear friends.  We did nothing of consequence. Truly nothing. I found Todd napping on the couch at ten in the morning.  We spent the better part of another day honestly just basking in the early spring sunshine on the back patio doing nothing more than watching the kids and talking.  We lingered over dinner, we laughed over games with our kids.  There was no agenda, no purpose other than to be together and just relax. This was also good. A family who feels like our family.  I think because we’ve made the effort over the past ten years we’ve known each other to carve out time for this kind of thing, slow days of just being with each other, so many days camping, being together in each others’ houses, just small drops that coalesce and become a reservoir.

 

I guess I’ve just had these few scenes come to mind as I’ve asked myself why, when I know the joy of close, intimate relationships, I haven’t made more of an effort during regular life instead of waiting for a loss to reach in and engage.  Why did it take a move or a tragedy to shake me awake, to show me the beautiful people God has placed in my life?  I try.  We’re all trying.  I’m not saying we’re not.  But there is something strengthening and enlightening about real connectedness that stems from spending unstructured, lingering time together.  And maybe that’s a luxury we don’t feel we can indulge in. Life is full.  Busy. Totally get it.

But is it simply a luxury we don’t have time for?  I think of all the shows I’ve watched this past year.  I notice the hours of my screen usage pop up every Sunday.  I see the list of books I’ve read written in the back of my journal. I'm aware of the hundreds of podcast episodes I've listened to. I’m not saying any of it’s bad.  Just that we make time for what and who we value.  And I know it’s not because we don’t care or we’re not interested or we don’t want to invest in these relationships, not at all.  All I’m saying is we just don’t know when we won’t have tomorrow or next year.  We don’t know when some kind of change will take place and we’ll be left wondering why we didn’t make the time for just being with our people. Not the scheduled frenetic compulsory visits and events we show up for.  I’m talking about making time for doing nothing but carving out time to just sit with each other, to listen, to be silly, to share, to know each other in a deeper, closer way without diversion.  I know there are always reasons to put this off till next week or next month.  We hug and tell each other we need to get together soon.  But inevitably the weeks and months turn into years, and I’d just rather have memories than regrets.

Without judgment

I got a text from a girlfriend after three of us had spent the afternoon together, and it’s been on my mind ever since.

We were eating our ordered-in lunches at one of our kitchen tables; we’d laugh, then cry, then laugh all over again, just as we’ve done for years and years and years together.  We have watched each others’ kids grow up as we’ve shared the pains of parenthood, church, work, health, extended families and relationships with each other over so many hours in each others’ homes.  I honestly can’t believe the difficulties they have faced; we’ve felt such tenderness together.  But the hardest of all they share is when they’ve been misunderstood or judged when people don’t know what’s really going on or why they’ve made the decisions they have.

Her message just said she was grateful that she could tell us things and never feel any judgment, just love. It touched my heart that she would feel that.  I remember her telling me on one of our drives together who she could trust as friends.  She counted on one hand.

I have friends in other parts of the world who have felt so betrayed, discarded, and misunderstood by the women in their lives.  I know these women intimately; they’ve been some of my closest friends for decades, and I know their hearts as well as I know mine. I have spent so many hours listening to them share their experiences, crying with them, hearing the pain of feeling misread, of other women shutting them out because of differences or circumstances they know nothing about.

What I’ve realized is that judging is only a problem when we don’t know someone.  Because once we’ve gotten past the surface, once we’ve discovered who she is and what she’s going through and what her life experiences have been and are, it’s the most natural thing in the world to just love her, to understand her pain, to express empathy for her heartaches, to laugh at the absurdity of life with her, to want to be a true friend, to draw her close and just be a soft place for her.  It seems to me that judgment stems from assuming we know more than we do about another person’s story.  Most of the time we’re simply not privy to much at all.  And all we’re left with is what we can see.  But how often does the outside convey what’s really happening inside another person’s home or family or head or heart?  How likely are we to show the truth ourselves?

I’d say every single girlfriend I have looks like she has everything going for her. They are amazing, strong, competent, beautiful women who are raising stellar families, who contribute to their communities and organizations they believe in; they’re dependable, easy, fun, and optimistic, just lovely and loving women.  For sure.  But every single one has heartache. Every single one. They all struggle with something and more likely, lots of things, whether it’s the family they grew up in, their kids, marriages, finances, feelings of self worth and belonging, faith questions, health issues, infertility, pornography, death of those close to them, balancing work and family, questioning what their purpose is, feeling overwhelmed and discouraged, anxiety, loneliness, on and on, just everything that goes along with regular life.  Some I know better than others, and the ones I have known only superficially still look like they have it all handled in my mind until we’re able to spend more time together.  Nothing surprises me any more, these women have been through it all.

 Fortunately we likely have friends who know us up-close, who have made the effort to spend time with us, who genuinely care what we worry and are concerned about, who are trustworthy and not threatened by our differences but instead ask about our lives and perspectives, friends who simply personify love; we know how safe and reassuring and secure it feels to have this kind of support.  We’re allowed to just be where we are, uncensored, unfiltered, authentic, raw, just the real us without needing to show up in an acceptable, put-together way.  What a joy and comfort to know we’re safe in their company and that what we share will be guarded and accepted, not judged or thrown about.

It is a sacred responsibility to be this kind of friend.  And such a privilege to be invited into someone’s heart.  But until we are, we can offer grace and peace to those around us by assuming the best in others and by acknowledging that, even though we don’t know the specifics, there is likely something painful or difficult or embarrassing or overwhelming that they’re struggling with.  I’ve felt connection grow as I’ve been a little more vulnerable throughout the years, even though of course it sets me up to being judged.  But it’s worth it because it seems to somehow give permission to others to do the same.  It feels reassuring to know we’re not the only ones struggling through life.  And to be able to share our hearts without the threat of judgment feels amazing.

So going forward, I think we can all do just a little better.  We can make more of an effort to safeguard what’s shared with us, we can assume the best in others, and we can leave judgment out altogether (while of course being wise and instilling boundaries if needed).  But what seems to have been most helpful is to simply spend time with each other and get beyond the superficial.  Be the kind of person she can trust and then prove it to her over and over and over.  Invite, include, reach out, uplift, speak kindly of everyone and never give the impression of judgment in the slightest.  All this boils down to is just loving others.

I have spent a lot of time with one of my favorite friends talking and texting and I cherish this, “There’s nothing to do.  Just love me.”

I’ve thought about what profound advice that was.  And is as we apply it to this conversation.  We have nothing to lose by simply loving people, by giving them the benefit of the doubt, by being a safe person in their lives, by letting down our own guard and pretenses and allowing others to be vulnerable yet secure by accepting them where they are, regardless of what we perceive their lives to look like.