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.

Build-a-bear mom hearts

I only blog when I'm sad. Or contemplative. Or I need to sort through something. I haven't blogged in awhile. Because life's been good. I've been busy having bonfires, playing cars, and teaching "little one" how to walk, and making things for kids at school that may work for a day or a year, and I've just been blessed and content. Then, came the week before Thanksgiving.

For those of you that don't know, we were broken into while we were both working. I came home from work and found it first. I left right away out of fear, and Will came in and double checked. After all was said and done, we were left with missing our computers and our safe, which had our passports, house keys, car keys, birth certificates, social security cards, check books, marriage license, etc. We were also left with our living room a mess, things pulled out from under our bed and night stands, and a feeling that someone was in our house that wished harm upon us. It's a sickening feeling. We lost many things that day, including losing a sense of safety and security in our own home. So, we've been sad. We've cried, and we've tried to rationalize in our head that everything is ok. I know things can be replaced, and I know that no one's going to steal our "identity." But what I can't replace are my photos and videos of my boys, which were stored on that computer. On that computer were also our vows, wedding video, all my documents from college that shaped me, my electronic journals from the past 7 years, and other documents that mean nothing to anyone, but they mean everything to me. But the photos and videos of my babies are gone, and that is truly painful. I called Apple in tears asking if they could pull anything, and I've begged people to send me anything they have. The night after "that day," I just couldn't sleep. I was devastated. I got up and stayed up until late into the night crying and crying. When this happens, I grab my journal.

You see, I process with words. Alone. I can't call and talk it out. I can't go for a run. I have to write. So, this is something I wrote. There may be more blogging over the next couple of weeks, because unfortunately that was only the beginning of a pattern of bad, horrible things that happened in our lives and the lives of those we love and call family. So, there's lots to process. Lots of words that will need to be written and lots of sadness to be sorted out.

I haven't been able to post this, because I had no computer to do so. So, here's a post from my journal. And maybe, it'll help me sort it out. The sadness is still overwhelming and hits me at the quiet times. So, I know that this will be a process, and I know it doesn't compare at all to other's loss. But this is my way of working through it.

"Life is full of moments. Life happens fast, and moments fly by. Moments can elicit all kids of emotion; anger, jealousy, anxiety, and so on. This week, I experienced something new. Someone came into our home, where we eat, where we play trains, and where we are a family. They were uninvited, un-welcomed, yet took whatever they wanted. To them, it was money. For us, they took our security. Things that were ours.

I think God made moms with extra hearts. As a child, I went to build-a-bear and after you stuff your animal of choice, you kiss a little heart and slip it in the bear or elephant that you are "creating." I imagine God does the same thing with moms, except they get 8-10 hears depending on how many little ones they get to love and care for. So because we have these 8-10 build-a-bear hearts, we can't help ourselves. We cry when they're born. We cry when they roll-over. We call everyone when they start walking. We laugh and laugh when they giggle at a funny face. These are the moments in time you want to freeze. They won't happen again. They just won't. So, I've done what all moms have done. I documented every moment. I never wanted to forget the little things; any sneeze, tickle, laugh, tantrum, "I love you," first steps, the first time they say "mama," because these are the sacred moments that make all those build-a-bear heart aches. I mean aching. I can just look at my boys, and I am already crying. You see, the love and adoration for my boys runs so deep and rich in these everyday moments, that I physically hurt. And then, in these little moments, I'm reminded how blessed I am.

So my husband gives me a hard time for having too many photos and videos on my phone. It makes it slow. Blah, blah, blah. But I would watch these little moments over and over. We set up a way on my computer to organize them. I could find any moment by month and year. And I could relive any moment anytime I wanted. And all those build-a-bear hearts hurt all over again as I watch short videos of all the silliness of life when you're two and the sweetest moment of that two year old meeting his new little brother.

I figure there will be a day when my teenage sons tell me I don't know anything and I'm the worst mom ever. Then I'll sit down in the quietness and pull up a video and watch them tell my how much they loved me while eating mac-and-cheese with that sweet two year old smile. I'll watch the songs they made up and danced to. I'll watch the day we brought each of them home and the proud look on my face as I looked down and kissed all over their newborn cheeks. These are the moments that you always have.

But then there's the moment when someone is in your house who doesn't belong. And he rips the computer off the wall and runs out. With all my moments. He takes all my moments. I write when I'm sad. Friends, my build-a-bear mama hearts ache, cry, and beg for these moments back. These videos and photos are apart of me. They are the story of my life. I will remember what I can, but the memory will fade. I won't be able to hear Fin's little voice yelling when he went potty for the first time. I won't be able to show our boys the day mommy and daddy said "I do" to one another forever. I won't be able to show Granger how many people committed to praying over his life when he was dedicated. I won't be able to watch the tender, special moment that we brought Granger home and Fin got to meet his best friend and playmate, who he thought was baby Jesus at the time. I won't be able to watch Fin balancing on Will's hand in a hot-dog costume, or watch the first time we gave Granger a bath. So tonight, I weep. I cry for what's lost. The moments. My build-a-bear mom hearts are heavy tonight. Life will continue to happen, and it's full of moments. I'll just have to pray that I never forget the old ones. And I pray that the visitor who came uninvited to our home will never hurt someone else as much as our family has been."

We are still blessed. God is still good. I pray he experiences deep forgiveness. But the sadness is still there.

Inferencing, Sequencing, and the Balding Middle-aged Man at Jiffy Lube

I took Fin with me to get the oil changed. He brought along a "Little People" board book. It's a book with short, stocky kids that always have smiles on their faces. AKA "Little People." They're normally riding a bus, going on a field trip, or attending school. You know, the books where everyone is happy, and you can open flaps to find where the little Asian girl is hiding. For Fin, reading is hands-on, silly, entertaining, a vehicle to learn words, a way to pass the time, and something he can tell us about.

I brought a book along with me in case the oil change took awhile. I'm reading a new Rob Bell book, which is challenging my "Bible School" faith and stretching my every day beliefs. This book is opening my eyes and making me stop and think. Reading is a treat for me, and I read books to learn and sometimes to take me to another world altogether. For me, reading is challenging, comforting, cozy, enjoyable, and very much apart of who I am.

The balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube opened my car door with an umbrella in pouring rain inviting me to wait inside until the car was ready. He noticed Fin reading and said, "Oh, he's reading already? That's great!" I told him that I was a teacher, and I've always made him "read."




He then told me that he has never liked to read and still didn't know how to read to this day.

I hope my face didn't show what happened to me in that moment. Because in that second, in that moment, my heart sank.



There are many things wrong with education. Perhaps the biggest problem is that there is a little boy who turned into a teen-ager who turned into the balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube who still doesn't know how to read. Maybe the most painful part of his statement was that he never liked to read. He never found success. He never fell in love with Boo Radley or a story of a boy with a giant peach and mysterious friends. He was never opened to the world of story, friendship, castles, aliens, knowledge, and of people different than him. Perhaps he was never given a book about cars. And how they're made and how to fix them. No one took the time to give him a book about how to be a mechanic, how to run a business, or which cars go the fastest.
You see, for the balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube, reading is boring, hard, frustrating, painful, and embarrassing.




I'm sure this balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube had teachers. He had homework and tests. He was probably given books from the school library. He might've had a favorite teacher. They probably taught him to infer based on details from the text. He might've practiced sequencing and putting steps in order in fiction and non-fiction texts. But, the education system has failed him. It happens all the time. He was passed on from grade to grade, teacher to teacher, skill to skill, with continuing to fail. However, to me, he isn't the failure. His teachers failed, because that child never learned to read. He never learned to enjoy reading. Sure, they taught him. They read to him. But getting a child to learn is a different story.

Maybe the greatest disservice they did was take the wonder out of reading. They made it a chore, a worksheet, a "read to your partner," homework, and a painful reminder of how much he didn't know and couldn't do. He was probably surrounded by successful kids who were reading chapter books with no pictures. He probably felt like a failure and in turn decided he was a failure of a reader and would never be a good reader. And, he probably gave up.

So now, there's a balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube who beams when he sees a 2-year-old "reading," because maybe that kid would be successful.





I teach lots of kids who can't read, won't read, and hate to read. It's because they've lost confidence, and they think they aren't smart. And, it's boring. 70% of my kids read below grade level, and everyone knows it. I can teach them to infer, sequence, and all the other skills they need to be "successful" readers. Or maybe, my time would be better spent helping a child find a book on cars. And how they're made and how to fix them. And how to be a mechanic. Or a dancer. Or a firefighter. Or a mom. Or a writer. Or a basketball player. Or about divorce. Or violence. Or gangs. Or music. Or puberty. Or single parents. Or Dads in jail. Because that's what interests my kids. That's their world. Not the story of a girl who meets a friend at the park. Not a story that they have to answer a, b, c, or D to at the end.

I firmly choose to teach at a school with kids that are below grade level. I want to keep my kids from being the balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube. Instead, I want them to be the balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube that knows how to research the best parts for the newest car, knows how to manage and own a business, knows how to honestly persuade someone to make the best choice for the safety of their family in the vehicle, knows how to read for pleasure on vacation when they need to "get away," knows how to get information on anything in the world, and knows how to take their grandson to a far off kingdom as he reads to him before bed.

There's a lot wrong with education. The best thing we can do as teachers, parents, babysitters, aunts, cousins, business people, and citizens is to instill in ourselves and our loved ones a love for reading. Because if you're a reader, the world is limitless. For Fin, his world is little people hiding in the classroom and you have to open the flap to find the little Asian girl. For me, my world is wrestling my faith and what I've always believed and seeing if it holds true. My hope is that this balding middle-aged man at Jiffy Lube will find a world that he enjoys; one where he is safe, successful, and smart.

Dear Granger...

Hey Granger.

It’s your mom, Liz, but you can just call me “mom.” I will also respond to Mommy or really loud sudden screaming. We’re so glad you’re here. I’m a believer in honesty and full discloser. So, as you enter your new residence, I thought I’d give you a heads up on how to survive around here.

-You will probably always be called a “Christmas baby.” I’m sorry about this. We tried to plan it out better, but we’re just so fertile. Don’t worry about what that means. Even though you’re born around Christmas, you’re still your own person with your own birthday.

-You will appreciate good music. We probably won’t play many lullabies, and I’m sorry if your baby friends listen to music you don’t know. The plus side is you’ll have killer dance moves and grow up appreciating the finer tunes in life.

-We live on a busy corner. We like this, because we get to walk to the park and watch cars from the window on rainy and snowy mornings. However, we don’t play in the front yard. Please don’t sneak out the front door.

-We have hardwood floors. So, when you’re spinning, running, and dancing, be careful. The next thing you know, you’ll be on your butt. We suggest a barefoot way of life to help with this.

-We will never have a dog. Period. However, you can probably pull your dad’s leg into getting a cat. I know, it’s weird.

-We believe in community, and this is an intricate part of who we are. The door is always open for people. Our home is a safe place for people, and we won’t allow anyone in it that disrupts that safety and trust. We love people where they are and we take this seriously. Your friends will receive the same hospitality, and we hope to instill the richness of community in you as well.

-We are Jesus followers. We are constantly trying to figure out what that means. You will grow up knowing Jesus is love. We don't have all the answers and don't know if there were dinosaurs in Bethlehem. However, we will spend our lives seeking and searching for God's will for us. We will teach you and your brother to do the same.

-Your brother is a hambone. He is loud, silly, and likes attention from anyone. There will be times when he will injure you, both intentionally and unintentionally. He will also make you wear hats, eat things that shouldn’t be eaten, and get in trouble with him. I’m already sorry about this. He loves you very much, and he will be your best friend.

-I’m a teacher. I want you to learn, explore, and value your education. I will teach you letters in the bathtub and read Goodnight Moon as many times as it takes until you have each page memorized. I believe you are smart and can do anything you want. I will expect you to work hard at school, and I will be involved in your education at the highest level.

-Your dad is an artist. He builds, creates, and works hard for our family. He can do anything, except put his hands in creams and lotions. You will learn to adore him, like your brother and I already do. Sometimes he sleeps hard and doesn’t hear you crying, but don’t hold it against him. He will throw you, tickle you, balance you, and teach you how to do all the things that he can. You will go to preschool knowing these things and how they’re used: a drill, compressor, lens, cabinet, saw, and screwdriver. Embrace this knowledge. Not only will you have a “toolbox” of skills, but you’ll use these skills to woo your woman.

-We are a family who loves and accepts you as you are. You didn’t choose us, but we choose you every single day. There’s nothing you can do that will change this. There will be times when we mess up, aren’t there, or have to learn something the hard way. However, we are still a family and the grace of God will cover us in these times.

So, Granger, take your shoes off and stay awhile. This is your family and this is your home.

2007

I wrote this in 2007. I'm so glad I changed my mind.

Saturday, April 07, 2007
marriage. I think I've come to believe that it isn't worth the risk.

Dear Future Students

It's the beginning of the school year soon, and there are several mixed emotions. My team is changing quite a bit, and there was some real disappointment with that. Fear, anxiety, and selfishness began to settle in when I heard of the big changes. At the same time, there was hope that things could become something greater than they had been in the past.

My classroom was not a safe, happy, or enjoyable place for me last year. I worked hard to make it these things for my kids, but I left more days than not defeated, exhausted, and in tears. There were many contributing factors, and God brought me through the storm. But at the end of the storm, I was ready to throw in the towel. This is painful to say, because I believe I am a fabulous teacher that believes that children can succeed no matter the ability level, income, race, or language barrier. I believe I was made to do what I do every day. But Satan was at work last year.

As the summer ends, there's this growing knot in my stomach as I await this year. What kind of year will it be. The past few weeks have given me an unbelievable peace about what is to come.

I feel like God has carefully moved each piece into place, and I'm in awe of how his plan is always far greater than what I thought would be best. I came across this online, and I can't seem to move past the power of these words. This is my prayer for this year.

Lord,
Let me be just what they need.

If they need someone to trust, let me be trustworthy. If they need sympathy, let me sympathize. If they need love, and they do need love, let me love, in full measure.

Let me not anger easily, Lord, but let me be just. Permit my justice to be tempered in your mercy.

When I stand before them, Lord, let me look strong and good and honest and loving. And let me be as strong and good and honest and loving as I look to them.

Help me to counsel the anxious, crack the covering of the shy, temper the rambunctious with a gentle attitude.

Permit me to teach only the truth. Help me to inspire them so that learning will not cease at the classroom door.

Let the lessons they learn make their lives fruitful and happy. And, Lord, let me bring them to you. Teach them through me to love you.

Finally, permit me to learn the lessons they teach.

Amen.



Dear future nine and ten-year-olds that are assigned to Mrs. Knowles in room 206,

When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
Ephesians 3:14-19

You are loved,
Mrs. Knowles