This morning was a heartbreaking scene at our home.

“Guess what day it is?” I excitedly exclaimed as I made my coffee.

“HUUUMP day?” Ally grinned.

Immediately my heart sank. How could this child of mine even joke about such a thing? Today is my day. This is my favorite. And she was joking…or was she? I looked at her – half angry, half broken-hearted – and said, “Seriously, do you know what day it is?” Looking at the half eaten King Cake on the counter, she responded, “It’s really bad planning for Ash Wednesday to be scheduled the same week as TAGS.” (definition: my swim meet should always hold priority to your spiritual weirdness.)

I collected my coffee, keys, and pride and prepared for carpool. As we pulled out of the driveway, she continued with her litany of instructions about things that I needed to schedule into the next two days of preparation. She expressed disgust that we may be “late” (aka she might have to wait an extra 10 min at practice) so that the rest of the family can attend the service tonight. My mind was numbly listening to her to-do’s but I had yet to move past the irritation. Just as my blood pressure began to slow, I asked her if she would like me bring home some ashes from worship for her. Are you ready for the response? No, you are not…

“Mom, I don’t think I have actually had ashes on my head in years. I don’t want zits.” All the while, she was smirking like 13 year-olds do when they know they are holding their parent’s hearts captive.

Here’s the big win: I didn’t yell. I didn’t throw anything. I did not even run in the house to get my anointing oil and smear it all over her hormonal, acne prone forehead. I just died a little inside.

I know that not everyone loves Lent. I have enough church-y experience to know that plenty of people think that this season is dark and depressing and weird. But for me, there is a unique and precious moment that happens when someone literally reminds me of my mortality. And to be on the imposing end of the Ash Wednesday experience is a treasured gift. On more than one occasion I have made the sign of the cross on the forehead of one whose mortality was waning. To mark a child with ashes literally takes my breath away, yet it is necessary and holy to remember the starting and returning point for all of creation.

Today we are reminded that we are God’s. We are but dust and ashes, formed from the breath of a life-giving, powerful source. And from that strength, we are invited into holy co-creation with the Divine. Whatever the hard work of the Lenten season may bring you, know that you are joined by countless fellow travelers on the road of maturity in the Spirit. May the inward journey of Lent push you closer and closer to the revelation of your wholeness in Christ.

Happy Lent!

In my early thirties, I made a commitment to keep learning. When I looked around at the “grown ups” that I wanted to model my life after, everyone that I longed to emulate was a life learner. They did not graduate from trying new things when they turned 18. They found joy in new adventures in their 50s and 80s. In the same season of life, I had a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old. I saw them learning to read and walk. I saw them adapting to new schools and pushing their own bodies to overcome setbacks. I made a decision that I had to force myself, even when it was uncomfortable, to do new things.

At first, I pierced my nose and added tattoos. These seemed to be valuable new lessons. Then I moved on to things like preaching more, smoking cigars and learning to play the bass. These were badass moves in my mind. I was a hip, Jesus loving misfit that could utilize all mediums to add to my diverse reputation of intrigue and mystery. I scored big points with myself.

As I became more comfortable in becoming, I often dreamed about the next level of learning. My teaching duties had diversified and I was speaking to groups in and out of the church world. This pushed me to tell my story with an authenticity and rawness that required a more significant, dedicated time of preparation. I found myself writing 10-15 pages per talk and I began to find writing rhythms. I found a love of writing. I even found more freedom when I was alone than the times I was in front of people. This was new. This was growth. Two years ago, I took on a Lenten practice of daily writing. It was a challenge and a gift. I shared my writing with my village and they were gracious with encouragement. It was in that season that I began to dream.

I was never a great student. I was never excellent in English or stellar in the use of words. The best sign of my linguistic prowess was my ability to BS an essay test or pull off a research paper in a 10 hour all night cram session. Applying myself to reading and writing was a lost art – until I found the ability to be unapologetically myself. I write in incomplete sentences. I use slang. I regularly start my sentences with prepositions and I don’t let my “editors” change them. This is what makes my writing mine.

Over the last year and a half, my life has taken some big ups and downs. My hardest moments have happened in doctor’s offices and hospital rooms. I have learned to think outside the box in areas that were never questioned. This has been true in my health, my faith and my family. The one place that I have found wholeness, no matter the season, is The View From The Bathroom Floor. In my writing, I process and dream and pray. I am able to cry and laugh and sit in discomfort. There are times when I cannot people, but on those days I can write.

I tried for a long time to say that I am not a “real” writer. I recently, however, have been reminded, time and again, that my words matter. There are friends and strangers that have read my writings about depression and parenting and addiction and faith. Through my writing, a small ounce of light entered into the darkness they were carrying. I’m fully enbracing this gig.

In November, we took our oldest daughter on a 2,000 mile adventure to dream about college. For a week, my husband and I talked and drove and listened to my brilliant and creative 16-year-old dream about learning. On day 6 of that trip, I was reminded of an ad I saw on Facebook. It was an open call from Houston Moms Blog for contributing writers. I had 1,000,000 reasons why I should not apply – and the #1 excuse was because I was not a “real” writer. The day that we went on her 3rd college tour, I told my doubting brain to shove it, and I filled out the application. From our VRBO in New Orleans, and with a huge lump in my throat, I hit submit. What was I thinking? 

I told exactly 6 people. The next week I told 2 more. That was it. I was terrified. I just knew this was a bad idea. Until it wasn’t. Today, I am thrilled to share that I am a new CONTRIBUTING WRITER with HMB. I am beside myself with JOY as I get to know a new group of amazing, talented and incredibly diverse women. If you don’t already follow this blog, YOU MUST! The content is strong and vulnerable and ever so handy. Sure, it is especially appealing to those in the Houston area, but as you will see, it is so much more than just a local events blog. I will be attending my first team event this weekend. My posts on both my personal and TVFTBF social media sites will have pictures and more. I’m just a little excited, and I am thrilled to announce it here first. You, my faithful readers and dear friends, have given me an incredible lesson in life learning.

I believe that choosing to grow and continually evolve as a human is one of the best parenting decisions I ever made. My girls need to see their mom model the nerves and excitement of risking failure. They have seen it as I waited for this announcement. They were two of the original 8 and they were my biggest cheerleaders when the invitation email arrived. We are never too old to reach for a new goal. May 2019 be a year of new adventures for us all.

Today is Father’s Day. I absolutely adore my Daddy. He is literally the King of our crazy family. I am married to a man who brings more joy to my life than I knew was possible. He is all things to me and my girls and anyone we love. I have also been given the gift of a bonus dad named Goat. What I’m trying to say is that I am overflowing with reasons to smile on a day like today.

As I scroll through Facebook and Instagram today, I see all the “I have the best…” posts. I also feel acutely aware of those that are not posting. Those for which this day is especially hard. Those for whom the mention of a great father is salt on a gaping wound. Perhaps the pain of loss is too fresh to celebrate or even smile. I sit with you today. Because behind the smile, the joy, is a big lump in my daddy’s girl throat.

2018 has been a hard year for my Dad. There are all kinds of diagnostic codes and medical terms for what is happening. He has lost 60 pounds in less than 6 months. He has spent more time in a medical care facilities than with friends. He has endured me following him around prodding into his CBC counts and becoming fluent in all things healthcare. Just last Thursday, I convinced his doctor that I could give him shots at home – I mean, why not?

Speaking of last Thursday, we began our 10th annual Cousin Camp that same day. For the last decade, my mom has planned a weekend of over the top fun for the 3 kids, their spouses and the 6 grandkids. We move into my parent’s upstairs, invade their space and camp. We have games and competitions and laugh and we always have a family photo session one evening in the backyard. We have a little bit of competitive sibling fire. We may enjoy trash talking a bit too much. We may have also taught our children some wonderful life skills – no fun, fair, positive, everyone gets a trophy kinda nonsense.

Leading into Cousin Camp this year, Dad and Mom made the decision to sell their house. We knew that this would be a unique and probably different weekend. With the house already on the market, my mom’s usual family pictures were off the walls and much of the house had been staged for simplicity. Mom had a list of things she wanted us to go through as a group, as well. From Thursday night on, we packed storytelling and laughter and perhaps a few tears (I mean allergy eyes) into the non-stop crazy action. We would tell stories and remind each other of our ‘favorite’ status – BTW, it’s me. In the midst of playing and eating and talking, I found myself worried about my dad’s food or energy or medicine. I knew that he was accustomed to rest after dialysis and instead, pool drenched grandchildren were running though the living room.

At one point in the weekend, I took him to get an injection in Katy and we had a few minutes alone. I asked how he was handling the chaos and if he felt ok. His response was classic. “I’m good. This is just about as good as I look these days.” That’s my dad. He would rather fuss about yard care or a future home project – that is completely unnecessary to 98% of homeowners – than complain about his muscle weakness or extreme fatigue. More than anything, he just wants to sit and watch with love and pride, the beauty and uniqueness of his kids and grandkids.

The highlight of the weekend came last night when I was SURE that we were beyond his ability to tolerate our nonsense. We were an hour into pictures and he had already taken a mid-shoot break, because we had taken too long to stage a silly yet hilarious shot. Let’s stop for a shout out to Nicole Pawlowski for always putting up with our crazy ideas. You are the best. Seriously.

As we tried to take a special kids/grandkids picture in the entry of Mom and Dad’s house, we had to work out the lighting, so posing was a little longer than usual. Mom and Dad were not in the shot, and Dad (in a seemingly annoyed voice) said, “Ok, everyone look here…” Being the obedient children that we are, we looked. And he DROPPED HIS PANTS. In the front yard. Before God, the neighbors and his grandchildren, my father stood in his boxers with his Docker’s around his ankles – cracking himself up.

That’s Frank.

Just when you think that he is too tired, too weak, too frail. Just when you think he is too formal or too business. Just when you least expect it, Papa King shows the side that we all adore. He has this smile. Even in his most vibrant days, you did not see it daily. He saves it. And when your guard is down and you are on your very best behavior, he takes a sharp left turn down Cut Up Blvd. He gets you every time with the twinkle of mischief in his eye.

This is not new. By all accounts it very present in his younger days. But as a kid, to see your dad belly laugh with friends and stir up nonsense with his grandkids is the best. These are moments of over the top laughter and priceless love. Today, I will cling to those memories of my Dad. And on the days that seem more serious and require fewer giggles, please remind me of the smile on the front porch the last time we were all together at 13603 Lakeshore Way Ct. It was a classic.

Well played, Franko, well played.

Last week, after the tragedy in Santa Fe, I found myself incredibly weary. Unlike my friend Coby, I was not planning to spend Monday on a kayak. That is not sabbath or rest for me. I instead devoted Monday to writing and reconnecting with God.  At 10:45am, I was at my computer typing and these were the words on my screen:

We live 16 miles from Santa Fe High School. Our communities cross many lines of connection. I have written letters and advocated and marched about gun violence after many of the horrific school shootings of the past 19 years. I was teaching during Columbine, and I will never forget the fear. But somehow, this one, was like a punch in my momma gut like no other. 

At 11:03, Mail alerted me of an email from my 7th grader’s school and I clicked on it:

This morning a student reported to an Assistant Principalthat another student had brought a weapon to school. The student was found in possession of an unloaded handgun and was immediately arrested by the Galveston County Sheriff Liaison Officer stationed at the campus. I realize this news is unsettling in light of recent events. School is continuing as scheduled today.

In that moment, I knew very little. But, I knew that nothing was continuing as scheduled. Nothing. My “schedule” became a 48-hour lament and confession and time of self-reflection. There were tears and prayers and lots of questions. 

The answers were clear to questions like:

Was I resentful? Selfish? Afraid? YES. All of the above.

The harder questions, like “Did I promptly admit when I was wrong today?” and “Was I kind and loving towards all?” – these took days to face. It took time for me to tune my Spirit back to a place where I could answer truthfully about my thoughts and actions.  I even spent about 24 hours this week wanting to teach from the place of hurt and lament rather than the pattern and rhythm of discipline. 

Because I have things to say. 
Important things. 
Things that matter. 

But let me tell you about the miracle. The miracle of discipline is that self-reflection is an established foundational cornerstone of my everyday life. And sure, there are days when I need to lament and hurt and feel and not have it all worked out. But what in years past would have taken me down a path of resentment and retribution and a fear rollercoaster of emotional numbing proportion, instead became a week of prayer and confession to my partin this reality. And a call to action.

Let me share a word from the prophet Jeremiah, Chapter 15:

Why is my pain unending and my wound grievous and incurable?

You are to me like a deceptive brook, like a spring that fails.

Therefore this is what the Lord says:

“If you repent, I will restore you that you may serve me;

if you utter worthy, not worthless, words, you will be my spokesman."

Do you see it?

This was my week.

Monday and Tuesday:
Why? Where are you? We are literally dying, God?
“Why is my pain unending and my wound grievous and incurable?”

 Wednesday: After some quality self-reflection and an opportunity to be still and ask hard questions
“If you repent, I will restore you”

Thursday and Friday: as I committed to living a changed life
“if you utter worthy, not worthless, words, you will be my spokesman.”

There is not one thing in my humanity that naturally moves me from fear and anger to peace and hope. Not one thing. Only when I do the hard work of training my heart and mind and soul to hear from and trust God, can I find myself in a place to utter worthy words.

The process of admitting my shortcomings, my failure, my desperate hard heart is the path to reconciliation and hope. And in my experience, that cannot happen without the intentional step of choosing. CHOOSING to look at the ways that we separate ourselves from God’s best for creation. 

Do I have an immediate fix for school shootings and senseless violence? NO

Can I make the immediate changes that are necessary to help my kids feel safe? Not always

But can I show them how to better handle their anxiety and loneliness and hurt? You bet I can. 

I can sit still and listen for something other than the pop culture response.
I can choose to ask for wisdom in my life.
I can modela changed life – what it looks like to seek guidance and confess my mistakes.

And, I can act justly and love mercy and walk humbly with all that I am so that when I have weeks like this, my pattern of practice is so ingrained that my mind does not have to ‘say what’s next?’ Instead, my soul has the well-worn discipline to continually long to journey towards the heart and the will of God. That’s why I believe in spiritual practices and disciples. Because left on my own, I’m a hopeless case. And when I practice the disciplines, I know that God will meet me there. 

Let me show you a little evidence of that. Friday night, I was tired. Again on Friday morning, I dropped my daughter at school and prayed and breathed. About 9:20am my phone alerted me to a shooting at a middle school in Indiana. Thankfully, I had already planned to pick Ally up at 10:30am after her exam. Even with my chickens in my care, we had a long day ahead. 

Some great things. Some super challenging things. At 5:30 that night, I was driving back from Houston. As we drove the bypass from the tollway to I-45, a bright, clear rainbow was covering the Bay Area. 

As we drove closer, this came into view. 

I know that you cannot tell from the picture, but from my view, one rainbow looked to be touching League City and the other was touching the area around Santa Fe. 

God met me there. 
In the Dick’s Sporting Goods parking lot. 
Through a Biblical image of promise. 
And God longs to meet you, too. 
Wherever you may be today. 

For many modern-day/American/protestant believers, Pentecost is forgotten Sunday. Often overshadowed by Mother’s Day or Senior Sunday in the formal worship service, the celebration of Pentecost is lost. I am more and more convinced that this special day needs an invigorating dose of attention and celebration.

Pentecost is the day in which followers of Jesus commemorate the coming of the Holy Spirit on the early disciples. Before the events of the first Pentecost, there were followers of Jesus, but no movement that could be meaningfully called “the Church.” From a historical point of view, Pentecost is often depicted as the day the Church started.

Pentecost is celebrated on the Sunday that falls on the 50th day of Easter. The feast remembers the coming of the Holy Spirit following the Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Jesus Christ. The second chapter of the book of Acts is the story of the first Pentecost and marks the beginning of the Church’s mission to the world. The traditional liturgical color is red, and I must say that the depiction of fire has always drawn me to this day.

This feast day was previously celebrated by the Jewish community as the Feast of Weeks. During this feast, the streets of Jerusalem were clogged with thousands of pilgrims who had come from everywhere to celebrate the goodness of God and the bringing in of the wheat harvest. Even in our modern context, this feast day is celebrated by some churches worldwide with an emphasis that it is second only to Easter. The celebration is one of limitless joy in the midst of what often becomes a post-resurrection return to the mundane rhythms of life. But Pentecost reminds us of the gift of God’s indwelling. It is a day of promise that no matter how dark the darkness may get, there is a light of hope and of connection. Pentecost has been a day for baptisms. Often churches celebrate their Confirmation classes joining the church and lift high the focus of the birth of the Church as a way to remind all in their community of the blessings of being connected together in the Holy Spirit’s work.

So how do you have a PENTECOST moment? When I set out to pray over my story and the detailed meanings behind each of the liturgical seasons depicted in my own journey, this was the most thought-provoking. I kept asking myself, “At what point did the uncontainable energy of God’s Spirit alive in my life fill my community with unexplainable joy?” These are the kinds of things that I think about often. (I know. I know.)

But we all have these moments. Ones that are filled with so much celebration. I often see them as a great time – a joy filled party – but rarely do I give the movement of God credit for the fiesta. I appreciate the decor, the host, the meal and even the wardrobe choices. I see the cake or the event as the focus rather than the Spirit of the day. My Pentecost moment, like much of my story, is unique. It is life-giving. It is soul filling. There were spirits and celebrations and dances and even some excellent apparel. Just like the early disciples, I had no idea how one moment of sheer celebration would shape my life.

It means the world to me that so many of you have taken the time to read, comment, send encouragement and reflect with me as I have shared my writing daily during the Lenten Season. I have another decade of life to complete, but publishing will slow down over the next few weeks. New posts will be added every Tuesday and Friday.

If you have missed any of the last two sections of the story, I have compiled all of Lent and Holy Week together on the Liturgical Faith headers of my blog. I am honored to share my life with you.