To the man who married me when I was different

To the man who married me when I was different,

When we first started dating, I was fun, carefree, flirty, and liked to stay out late.  We made out in the back seat, ate cereal for dinner, and held hands when we went somewhere.

I am not that person anymore.

Now, get tired at 8 o’clock.  I’ve been refilling sippy cups, breaking up wrestling fights, processing why a little went to time out with him, changing diapers, putting littles to bed, finding their blankets that they MUST have to sleep with that are in the back of the cozy coupe outside, and praying that bedtime comes sooner.  Thank you for going to bed early with me and moving the hair out of my eyes each night as I fall asleep.

My body is not the same.  It has brought two littles into the world and has stretched and curved in order to grow life.  I won’t ever be “those sizes” again and I will always worry about how my body has changed.  While I miss my old thin self, I will always be fighting to be proud of my body.  Thank you for telling me that you always find me attractive and that I look skinny.  You make me feel beautiful, and I believe you.

While I used to not have a fear in the world, I now have a million.  I worry about littles falling, busting open their head, having a fever, getting hurt in bizarre ways, because that Mama Bear just comes out even when I don’t want it to.  I panic and wake up in the middle of the night sweating to make sure they are breathing. Even when they are almost four.  I know they can’t walk around in a bubble, but I can’t function when I think about something happening to them.  Thank you for letting me freak out over nothing and telling me that you don’t understand why I’m scared but you’re there and won’t let anything happen. 

I only want to wear yoga pants and my favorite sweatshirt you gave me.  Everywhere.  All day.  The mall. The store.  Church.  Date night.  I no longer want to curl my hair, put on all the makeup, and wear a short dress.  I am normally cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, and making appointments.  A sweatshirt is perfect for that.  Thank you for never having those expectations and always noticing the days I do dress up. 

Sometimes I am quiet.  I have spent all day answering questions like, “What is God for?” and “Why does Granger have a pee-pee but can’t go in the potty?”  I’m just tired of talking and listening.  Sometimes I just want to sit by myself in my own thoughts.  It’s not that I don’t love you.  I just need the quiet space, because I never get it anymore.  I used to always love being out and doing stuff every minute of every day.  But now a quiet night at home with a bath, book, and snuggling sounds good.  Thank you for sitting in the silence with me and holding me while we don’t talk.

I snap faster and harder.  When we dated, I was more patient.  I didn’t have as many people pulling me in different directions.  I could control my own boundaries.  But now I have no control on what time the screaming starts, the napping ends, or the plate falls and breaks.  I try to be patient all day. When I come in and your muddy boots are in the doorway right after I mopped up all the dried macaroni and turkey pieces, sometimes I snap.  I am so sorry.  I don’t want to be that way.  Thank you for telling me when I hurt your feelings and for picking up your muddy boots without snapping back.

It’s amazing how we as humans change.  Thank you for loving me when I’m fun and crazy and happy. 

But thank you for loving me even more when I’m tired, larger, anxious, dressed down, quiet, and snippy. You are forever good to me, even though I’m not who you married.

Your ever-changing wife,

Liz

An excerpt from my secret journal...

If you know me well, you know I don't write unless I need to. It's my outlet. Tonight, I was going through my old journals and found this. If we were friends then, you walked through this with me. If we weren't friends, welcome to my story. I pray this is refreshing to someone and maybe a turning point in someone's story. Here it is...unedited.  And to my 22-year-old self, thanks for continuing to trust. The story got so so so much better...

9:15am Silent Retreat room March 28, 2009

My life is a story. If I were the author, then there would be different characters, conflicts, plots, and resolutions. When I awake in the morning, I know not what my day will hold; who I will meet, what I will see, what events I will encounter. I know not why certain things happen or if they will happen again. I am not the author. It’s not my story.

I don’t know why I have desires in me. I don’t know why I was born where I was. Don’t know why I have the parents I do. Don’t know why my body is the way it is. Don’t know why my voice sounds the way it does or why my sense perceive things they was they do. Don’t know why I desire to teach to inspire. Don’t know why I like certain things and why I hate others. Don’t know why I am sick sometimes and healthy other times. It’s not my story.

I don’t know how or why, but I know this story is about something greater. I realize that my story plays apart of a bigger story. I can only see the pieces of this story. I can only hear pieces. Taste pieces. Smell pieces. Touch pieces. Yet there is still a greater story.

For a long time, I believed this story I am apart of was my story. I made the choices, picked the characters, created the conflict, and designed the resolution. It was a coll evening in March when I realized this was not my story.

Why would I pick for my family to be ripped to shreds? Why would I choose pain?

It was not my story. The story I played a part in was now a story of devastation, loneliness, anger, resentment, betrayal, disappointment, fear, inadequacy, loss of color, despair, ruins, hurt, desperateness, darkness, confinement, baggage, hopelessness, ashes, confusion, nightmares, responsibility, constant headaches, apathy, imprisonment, and all the bad things.

It was then that I realized it wasn’t my story. When I reached a low I never knew existed, I began to ask, ”Who is writing this?” More and more painful questions began to rise to the surface with answers refusing to accompany them. Someone else must be in control here. While I’m struggling to breathe, can’t sleep at all, crying all day, and filled with painstaking anger, I realize life is not what I thought it was. But this is the story I find myself in. Rob Bell says, ”You don’t have to like your story, but you must claim it…for it’s yours.”

I had no choice but to walk through the fire. But I didn’t have to claim it. Didn’t have to hare it. Didn’t have to be proud of it. I just had to make it out alive. It was here that I died to myself. I would like to say it was a conscious choice; that I had this amazing time of humbling myself and trusting Him. But it wasn’t that way.
When I couldn’t get out of bed, when my face was swollen from crying myself to sleep, when my body was drenched in sweat from total exhaustion, when my clothes were filthy, when my grades were suffering, when my head was throbbing, when my entire face was tense, when my body kept experiencing panic attacks, when my hair was matted, when all I could do was hide under the covers, when I became another statistic, when I couldn’t’ escape the pain, when Satan rocked me in his arms and shouted at me, when I couldn’t keep food down, when time was at a standstill, when nothing made sense, when my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, JESUS HELD ME.

And when I had no other choice, I continued to die to myself. And he continued to write and write and write. And I began to realize there is so much more than myself. That it is not my story. And it is here that I continue to live. I am apart of something grater, and I will walk through the hours, days, months, and years expecting to be surprised. Because He is good. Always.

He is Living Water, Eternal, Faithful, Breath of God, Relational, Savior, Mighty to Save, High King, The Shepard, Magnificent, My Rescue, My Holy Mountain, Strong, Calm, Divine, My Answer, Refuge, Kindness, Love, Joy, Justice, Creator, Truth, Beauty, Almighty, Mercy, Omnipotent, Compassionate, Forgiving, Light, Wise, Color, Good News, Gospel, My Help, Glory, Gentle, On the Move, Worthy, Trinity, Dignified, Reckless, Dangerous, Comfort, Jealous, Exquisite, Loyal, Freedom, Symphonic, Powerful, Mother, Still, Giver, Strength, My Rock, Radiant, Zion-Dwelling, Brilliant, Safe-House, Perfect, and my Author.

He writes my story.