Kindred Mom Podcast - TopPodcast.com

Menu

Home
Top Charts
Top Networks
Top Apps
Top Independents
Top Podfluencers
Top Picks
Podcast News
About Us
Podcast Advertising
Contact

Not in our directory?
Add Show Here

Podcast Equipment
Center

Our TOPPODCAST Picks

Comedy
Crypto
Sports
News
Politics
True Crime
Business
Finance

Follow Us

Stay Connected

View Top 200 Chart

Back to Rankings Page

Kindred Mom Podcast — Kids & Family
Kindred Mom Podcast

Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds

Latest Episodes:

The Desk Oct 01, 2020
Show notes

A huge slab of wood took up space in my laundry room until two years after our first daughter was born, the reason it was initially purchased long forgotten. While I was on maternity leave with our second daughter, my husband carried the slab down to our unfinished basement. When it reemerged, it had been transformed.

The creative artist I married lovingly crafted me a desk, which he secured atop the radiator in our front room–the playroom. He bolted it down carefully, adorning it with chains to give the illusion of a floating desk and mounting Edison lights on both sides.

My new workspace—a push present, for which child I am still unsure—faces the street and our beautiful trees. Sunshine streams in as the day progresses. The desk itself reflects the outdoors, painted a metallic mirage of blues and purples with my favorite flower, a Stargazer Lily, hand painted on the left side.

I stared at that desk each day for six months, long after returning to my office from maternity leave, wondering when I would get the inspiration to sit and create, willing the space to draw me in. Instead, it stayed separate, removed from the hustle and bustle of the room around it. Our children played in the room daily, but never touched the desk either. It was like it didn’t exist. Instead, it became just a wish or a promise for later.

COVID-19 hit like a ton of bricks. Working in healthcare, in support of front line workers, my stress and anxiety was only lifted when I received orders I could work from home. I was relieved. I could keep my family safe. I could control my exposure more readily. My typical anxieties about working from home were overpowered by this new, unforeseen stressor.

I am a working mother for a reason. I needed to be around people. I needed to interact with adults. I needed to feel productive and valued in a different way. Both of my maternity leaves left me exhausted and overwhelmed. I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. My husband is a natural caretaker. So when we had our first daughter, the idea of him staying home and me providing for our family felt completely natural, but it didn’t quite feel right being away from them either. My work schedule evolved into 6:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. so I could spend the afternoons with my girls. I thought that was enough.

I thought.

On my first pandemic work-from-home day, I arranged the piles of work I had haphazardly thrown in a box on my beautiful desk. The items looked misplaced, away from the sterility and homogeneity of my office, but also filled the desk with purpose for the first time.

I stuck rigidly to my original work schedule, rising at 5:50 a.m. and–without the commute or obligatory shower–was sitting at my desk by 6 a.m. I did the same work, ate the same food, and scheduled call after call to stay connected to the outside world, to somehow make sense of the time we were living through. I hoped to maintain as much normalcy as possible.

It was the little things that slowly started to chip away at my armor.

After days at home, my husband pulled out our old laptop and set it on my 2-year-old’s art table. She dutifully sat next to me, typing away, calling out the letters as she pressed, occasionally shimmying the mouse this way and that.

It was a treat to snuggle my then-8-month-old against my chest at morning naptime, carrying her upstairs and smelling her neck as she cuddled into me, stroking my hair as I stroked her back.

Zoom calls were made that much nicer when my coffee was magically refilled and delivered by my thoughtful husband.

I traded in microwave overnight oats for making them fresh in the pot, my two-year-old by my side. I traded writing with co-worker interruptions to writing with toddler disruptions. I traded blocking out landline rings and colleague yelling for Daniel Tiger and snack demands.

It was different and new, but it felt right. I had spent so much time since having my first child trying to separate my life as a mom with my life as a professional, working twice as hard to prove nothing had changed when everything had. I was miserable trying to balance an impossible load, trying to tear myself into pieces and still be whole when I arrived.

I came home in more ways than one that first day. I came home to myself in a way I never would have imagined. It snuck up on me. Establishing a new routine took work and patience. I am a hard nut to crack so it makes sense it would take a global pandemic for me to realize I can be both things simultaneously. I can be a talented professional and an amazing mom. Both roles can not only coexist but thrive, together.

I used to view the desk the same way. “Why won’t you inspire me?” I thought to myself. It didn’t draw me in enough to do what I thought it was intended to do. I thought if I had the space and the materials, it would be easier. I expected to sit and write the next great American novel, to actually get paid to bear my soul about motherhood and friendship and hard times.

But I wouldn’t let it into the story. No one touched it, no one experienced it. Everyone walked around it like a decoration. It didn’t get to live and stack up memories. I treated it for a singular purpose, and it wasn’t living up to my expectations. Just like me. I was treating myself as a singular purpose and I wasn’t living up to others’ expectations.

That desk is where I handwrite thank you notes, participate in Zoom calls, create reports and emails. Where I conduct interviews and mentor professionals. It is also a climbing gym, a breastfeeding station, a home for wayward stuffed animals, and Superhero Girl dolls. It hugs my two daughters and me with care and safety.

The desk has a purpose now. It fits neatly into our lives, entrenched into the playroom and our children’s lives – as am I.

Krystina Wales spends her days in donor engagement and communication for a healthcare organization in Baltimore, which she considers the best job in fundraising, and she is also deeply committed to volunteering in Baltimore City. But her favorite roles are wife and mom. When she is not adventuring with her two daughters, she is in perpetual search of a really good cup (read: pot) of coffee or mastering her life goal of crafting the perfect charcuterie board. You can find her on Instagram.

The Desk Oct 01, 2020
Show notes

A huge slab of wood took up space in my laundry room until two years after our first daughter was born, the reason it was initially purchased long forgotten. While I was on maternity leave with our second daughter, my husband carried the slab down to our unfinished basement. When it reemerged, it had been transformed.

The creative artist I married lovingly crafted me a desk, which he secured atop the radiator in our front room–the playroom. He bolted it down carefully, adorning it with chains to give the illusion of a floating desk and mounting Edison lights on both sides.

My new workspace—a push present, for which child I am still unsure—faces the street and our beautiful trees. Sunshine streams in as the day progresses. The desk itself reflects the outdoors, painted a metallic mirage of blues and purples with my favorite flower, a Stargazer Lily, hand painted on the left side.

I stared at that desk each day for six months, long after returning to my office from maternity leave, wondering when I would get the inspiration to sit and create, willing the space to draw me in. Instead, it stayed separate, removed from the hustle and bustle of the room around it. Our children played in the room daily, but never touched the desk either. It was like it didn’t exist. Instead, it became just a wish or a promise for later.

COVID-19 hit like a ton of bricks. Working in healthcare, in support of front line workers, my stress and anxiety was only lifted when I received orders I could work from home. I was relieved. I could keep my family safe. I could control my exposure more readily. My typical anxieties about working from home were overpowered by this new, unforeseen stressor.

I am a working mother for a reason. I needed to be around people. I needed to interact with adults. I needed to feel productive and valued in a different way. Both of my maternity leaves left me exhausted and overwhelmed. I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. My husband is a natural caretaker. So when we had our first daughter, the idea of him staying home and me providing for our family felt completely natural, but it didn’t quite feel right being away from them either. My work schedule evolved into 6:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. so I could spend the afternoons with my girls. I thought that was enough.

I thought.

On my first pandemic work-from-home day, I arranged the piles of work I had haphazardly thrown in a box on my beautiful desk. The items looked misplaced, away from the sterility and homogeneity of my office, but also filled the desk with purpose for the first time.

I stuck rigidly to my original work schedule, rising at 5:50 a.m. and–without the commute or obligatory shower–was sitting at my desk by 6 a.m. I did the same work, ate the same food, and scheduled call after call to stay connected to the outside world, to somehow make sense of the time we were living through. I hoped to maintain as much normalcy as possible.

It was the little things that slowly started to chip away at my armor.

After days at home, my husband pulled out our old laptop and set it on my 2-year-old’s art table. She dutifully sat next to me, typing away, calling out the letters as she pressed, occasionally shimmying the mouse this way and that.

It was a treat to snuggle my then-8-month-old against my chest at morning naptime, carrying her upstairs and smelling her neck as she cuddled into me, stroking my hair as I stroked her back.

Zoom calls were made that much nicer when my coffee was magically refilled and delivered by my thoughtful husband.

I traded in microwave overnight oats for making them fresh in the pot, my two-year-old by my side. I traded writing with co-worker interruptions to writing with toddler disruptions. I traded blocking out landline rings and colleague yelling for Daniel Tiger and snack demands.

It was different and new, but it felt right. I had spent so much time since having my first child trying to separate my life as a mom with my life as a professional, working twice as hard to prove nothing had changed when everything had. I was miserable trying to balance an impossible load, trying to tear myself into pieces and still be whole when I arrived.

I came home in more ways than one that first day. I came home to myself in a way I never would have imagined. It snuck up on me. Establishing a new routine took work and patience. I am a hard nut to crack so it makes sense it would take a global pandemic for me to realize I can be both things simultaneously. I can be a talented professional and an amazing mom. Both roles can not only coexist but thrive, together.

I used to view the desk the same way. “Why won’t you inspire me?” I thought to myself. It didn’t draw me in enough to do what I thought it was intended to do. I thought if I had the space and the materials, it would be easier. I expected to sit and write the next great American novel, to actually get paid to bear my soul about motherhood and friendship and hard times.

But I wouldn’t let it into the story. No one touched it, no one experienced it. Everyone walked around it like a decoration. It didn’t get to live and stack up memories. I treated it for a singular purpose, and it wasn’t living up to my expectations. Just like me. I was treating myself as a singular purpose and I wasn’t living up to others’ expectations.

That desk is where I handwrite thank you notes, participate in Zoom calls, create reports and emails. Where I conduct interviews and mentor professionals. It is also a climbing gym, a breastfeeding station, a home for wayward stuffed animals, and Superhero Girl dolls. It hugs my two daughters and me with care and safety.

The desk has a purpose now. It fits neatly into our lives, entrenched into the playroom and our children’s lives – as am I.

Krystina Wales spends her days in donor engagement and communication for a healthcare organization in Baltimore, which she considers the best job in fundraising, and she is also deeply committed to volunteering in Baltimore City. But her favorite roles are wife and mom. When she is not adventuring with her two daughters, she is in perpetual search of a really good cup (read: pot) of coffee or mastering her life goal of crafting the perfect charcuterie board. You can find her on Instagram.

Too Much Happens Before Coffee Sep 29, 2020
Show notes

Faintly aware of the familiar ethereal tune of my cell phone alarm, I swipe the clock icon toward “dismiss” to silence the symphony of chimes that interrupt my late-morning dreams. I suppose I should get up, I half-heartedly muse while glancing at the time: 8:03 am. Stretched out alone in our queen-size bed, I ponder all the things on my schedule for the day. I have meetings this afternoon. I can’t forget to water the hanging baskets today. I need to schedule that delivery, call the insurance company, and pay the bills for next month. No reason to delay; I’d better get started. I saunter off toward the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair down from a top-knot, but in our one-bathroom home, more often than not, this space is occupied at this time of day.

I make my way to Brian’s office, which was a guest bedroom before COVID hit in March. He has already started his work for the day, but it’s a slow morning. “Make sure you get your coffee sooner rather than later,” I tease. It’s the running joke in our home: “Too much happens before coffee.” Work may be slow now, but any number of circumstances could pop up before noon. I take a seat on the bed while waiting for the bathroom to be free, and our 4-year-old daughter ambles in, joining the two of us. With wild blonde bed-head and sleepy smiles, she crawls up next to me for a morning snuggle, hugs, and kisses.

“Hey Eleora,” Brian starts, “what is the song you sang to your sisters before falling asleep the other night?” Our eyes meet, and I grin knowingly. Our older two daughters, Olivia and Amelia, informed us after Eleora had fallen asleep the night before, that she concocted a tune comprised of “booties” and “butts” and other words kids find hilarious. Eleora bashfully hides her face in my side in response to this question. By now, her older sisters have joined our guest room/office gathering and have caught on to the conversation we’d begun a moment ago.

“Why don’t you want to sing your song for mommy and daddy?” Brian pries. It’s written all over her face: she’s embarrassed. Amelia pipes up, “I’ll sing it!” and proceeds to recount a silly tune where every other word is “booty.” Giggles ensue, but Eleora’s embarrassment turns into tears. Brian scoops her up and reassures her all is okay. It’s too early in the day for diffusing hurt feelings—we haven’t even had coffee.

Still in our pajamas, piled on the guest bed, we take turns finding Eleora’s most ticklish spot: her armpits. Before long, her eyes are dry and the small room fills with peals of laughter from everyone. We catch our breath as Brian glances over at his work. Still slow. We all agree there are times and places for goofy songs about “booties,” and Eleora no longer feels embarrassed.

I finally make it to the bathroom to get ready for the day and choose an outfit appropriate for a Zoom meeting, but still comfortable enough to wear around the house. I head to the kitchen to finally prepare breakfast when I notice the time: it’s already after 10:00 am. How on Earth did two hours just fly by? Astonished by the passage of time, I recount the pace of our lives just a few months prior. Alarms while it was still dark, Brian gone before the kids woke up, business all day, and exhaustion in the evenings. When COVID hit, none of us knew what was going on, and even with Brian newly working from home full-time, our days were anything but relaxed. I’d jump out of bed in a frenzy, racing to make a grocery run just as our local stores opened, hoping I’d be able to snag a pound of ground beef or a whole chicken. Upon returning home, I’d wipe down everything out of an abundance of caution, lest I bring an unknown virus into our home.

For many of us, those early spring days could be accurately described as chaotic.

I shake off the memory of those days and pull a box of blueberry muffin mix out of the cabinet. Yes, this is perfect for today, I smile. The girls will love this.

Minutes tick by as I prepare the muffin batter, throw a pan of bacon in the oven, and scramble seven eggs in my trusty cast-iron skillet while the aroma of blueberry muffins fill the air. Two batches of muffins later, and everything is cooked. I dole out servings among five different plates. 11:22 am, I read on the clock as I shrug casually, whatever.

“Breakfast is ready!” I call while delivering plates to the table. “MUFFINS!” the girls squeal as they bound in from the living room where they had been playing with Barbies and Matchbox cars. Brian emerges from the guest room and takes notice of the time. “I guess this is technically more like brunch,” I suggest. “Yep, but it works because now we don’t have to worry about lunch,” he teases.

Before sitting down, I fill two mason jar style glasses with ice and reach into the fridge for the pitcher of cold-brew coffee. A lot has happened before coffee today. I pour coffee and cream over the ice, plop a stainless steel straw into each jar, and ponder how much our lives have shifted from a cycle of work-school-eat-sleep to one completely outside of any cycle. A type of work, life, and school integration that sometimes affords us slow mornings, blueberry muffin brunches, and cold-brew coffee at 11:30 am. Much like our coffee that brews for eight hours overnight, slow and mellow, we have adopted some routines that are slow and mellow too.

The five of us enjoy our accidental brunch together, a fine way to wrap up a slow morning. A lot has happened before coffee: a lot of laughter and a lot of memories. Work beckons Brian back to the guest room, and I prompt the kids to get dressed for the day. They can’t stay in pajamas all day, right? My to-do list for the day is waiting for me, but I’m ready for it because of all that had happened before coffee.

Mary Kate Brown is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She writes online about her healing journey from autoimmune disease and champions others to be their own best health advocates. A “crunchy” mom at heart, her interests include holistic wellness, real food cooking, and faithful stewardship of our bodies, spirits, families, and land. Mary Kate, her husband Brian, and their three daughters left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs to pursue their dream of homesteading on a rural property just south of Grand Rapids, MI. Most days you can find her in the garden talking to her plants, homeschooling her three daughters, or taking appointments with fellow writers as a member of the hope*writers enrollment team.

Too Much Happens Before Coffee Sep 29, 2020
Show notes

Faintly aware of the familiar ethereal tune of my cell phone alarm, I swipe the clock icon toward “dismiss” to silence the symphony of chimes that interrupt my late-morning dreams. I suppose I should get up, I half-heartedly muse while glancing at the time: 8:03 am. Stretched out alone in our queen-size bed, I ponder all the things on my schedule for the day. I have meetings this afternoon. I can’t forget to water the hanging baskets today. I need to schedule that delivery, call the insurance company, and pay the bills for next month. No reason to delay; I’d better get started. I saunter off toward the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair down from a top-knot, but in our one-bathroom home, more often than not, this space is occupied at this time of day.

I make my way to Brian’s office, which was a guest bedroom before COVID hit in March. He has already started his work for the day, but it’s a slow morning. “Make sure you get your coffee sooner rather than later,” I tease. It’s the running joke in our home: “Too much happens before coffee.” Work may be slow now, but any number of circumstances could pop up before noon. I take a seat on the bed while waiting for the bathroom to be free, and our 4-year-old daughter ambles in, joining the two of us. With wild blonde bed-head and sleepy smiles, she crawls up next to me for a morning snuggle, hugs, and kisses.

“Hey Eleora,” Brian starts, “what is the song you sang to your sisters before falling asleep the other night?” Our eyes meet, and I grin knowingly. Our older two daughters, Olivia and Amelia, informed us after Eleora had fallen asleep the night before, that she concocted a tune comprised of “booties” and “butts” and other words kids find hilarious. Eleora bashfully hides her face in my side in response to this question. By now, her older sisters have joined our guest room/office gathering and have caught on to the conversation we’d begun a moment ago.

“Why don’t you want to sing your song for mommy and daddy?” Brian pries. It’s written all over her face: she’s embarrassed. Amelia pipes up, “I’ll sing it!” and proceeds to recount a silly tune where every other word is “booty.” Giggles ensue, but Eleora’s embarrassment turns into tears. Brian scoops her up and reassures her all is okay. It’s too early in the day for diffusing hurt feelings—we haven’t even had coffee.

Still in our pajamas, piled on the guest bed, we take turns finding Eleora’s most ticklish spot: her armpits. Before long, her eyes are dry and the small room fills with peals of laughter from everyone. We catch our breath as Brian glances over at his work. Still slow. We all agree there are times and places for goofy songs about “booties,” and Eleora no longer feels embarrassed.

I finally make it to the bathroom to get ready for the day and choose an outfit appropriate for a Zoom meeting, but still comfortable enough to wear around the house. I head to the kitchen to finally prepare breakfast when I notice the time: it’s already after 10:00 am. How on Earth did two hours just fly by? Astonished by the passage of time, I recount the pace of our lives just a few months prior. Alarms while it was still dark, Brian gone before the kids woke up, business all day, and exhaustion in the evenings. When COVID hit, none of us knew what was going on, and even with Brian newly working from home full-time, our days were anything but relaxed. I’d jump out of bed in a frenzy, racing to make a grocery run just as our local stores opened, hoping I’d be able to snag a pound of ground beef or a whole chicken. Upon returning home, I’d wipe down everything out of an abundance of caution, lest I bring an unknown virus into our home.

For many of us, those early spring days could be accurately described as chaotic.

I shake off the memory of those days and pull a box of blueberry muffin mix out of the cabinet. Yes, this is perfect for today, I smile. The girls will love this.

Minutes tick by as I prepare the muffin batter, throw a pan of bacon in the oven, and scramble seven eggs in my trusty cast-iron skillet while the aroma of blueberry muffins fill the air. Two batches of muffins later, and everything is cooked. I dole out servings among five different plates. 11:22 am, I read on the clock as I shrug casually, whatever.

“Breakfast is ready!” I call while delivering plates to the table. “MUFFINS!” the girls squeal as they bound in from the living room where they had been playing with Barbies and Matchbox cars. Brian emerges from the guest room and takes notice of the time. “I guess this is technically more like brunch,” I suggest. “Yep, but it works because now we don’t have to worry about lunch,” he teases.

Before sitting down, I fill two mason jar style glasses with ice and reach into the fridge for the pitcher of cold-brew coffee. A lot has happened before coffee today. I pour coffee and cream over the ice, plop a stainless steel straw into each jar, and ponder how much our lives have shifted from a cycle of work-school-eat-sleep to one completely outside of any cycle. A type of work, life, and school integration that sometimes affords us slow mornings, blueberry muffin brunches, and cold-brew coffee at 11:30 am. Much like our coffee that brews for eight hours overnight, slow and mellow, we have adopted some routines that are slow and mellow too.

The five of us enjoy our accidental brunch together, a fine way to wrap up a slow morning. A lot has happened before coffee: a lot of laughter and a lot of memories. Work beckons Brian back to the guest room, and I prompt the kids to get dressed for the day. They can’t stay in pajamas all day, right? My to-do list for the day is waiting for me, but I’m ready for it because of all that had happened before coffee.

Mary Kate Brown is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She writes online about her healing journey from autoimmune disease and champions others to be their own best health advocates. A “crunchy” mom at heart, her interests include holistic wellness, real food cooking, and faithful stewardship of our bodies, spirits, families, and land. Mary Kate, her husband Brian, and their three daughters left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs to pursue their dream of homesteading on a rural property just south of Grand Rapids, MI. Most days you can find her in the garden talking to her plants, homeschooling her three daughters, or taking appointments with fellow writers as a member of the hope*writers enrollment team.

The Best Decision I Didn’t Want to Make Sep 24, 2020
Show notes

Do I really want to do this?

I was eight months pregnant. Four hours of tossing and turning now counted as “a good night’s sleep” so I could have one at least every now and then. Sitting in line at a coffee hut, waiting for something called a “White Zombie” which promised even more caffeine than a regular 20oz. latte, I discussed my plans for the evening with my BFF. (Yes, I was having an ungodly amount of caffeine while pregnant. Yes, it noticeably freaked out the bowling-ball-sized boy under my shirt. But I was low on options—I needed to parent my pair of toddler girls.)

My sister was in town for the first time since she’d moved to Europe a few years prior. We’d hung out some, but I felt a little panicked at our limited remaining time. Her plans that evening included a reunion of the book club she’d been in when she last lived here—and I was invited.

This morning, I’d dragged myself out of bed after an even-worse-than-normal night’s sleep. I was uncomfortable (see: eight months pregnant) and grumpy. The idea of dragging my enormous, introverted self, after dinner, to a stranger’s house full of women I didn’t know (but who all knew each other) sounded…less than appealing at 11 in the morning when I was already fried.

“I don’t know if I have it in me. I want to spend as much time with Kori as possible, but I just don’t know if I can,” I said into the phone. My friend reminded me I was free to go or to skip it, then let me talk myself in circles until I figured out what was most important to me today: I tentatively planned to go. Time with my sister was more valuable than avoiding the unpleasantness of peopling while pregnant.

As the day wore on, I continued to waffle. The regular business of toddler sass and making dinner drained what little energy I had left—the effects of my late-morning White Zombie had worn off long before—but changing a decision I’d already made seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I put on my cutest casual maternity top (making an effort, but not trying too hard) and a ton of concealer under my eyes and went.

When I arrived at the hostess’s home, I hefted myself out of my car, waddled past a row of unfamiliar vehicles (plus one I recognized as my sister’s), and nervously knocked on the door.

The women were warm and friendly. They asked all the usual pregnancy-related questions and we made the usual small talk. I felt the usual level of awkwardness and sounded the usual sort of derpy. Eventually, we all had our plates with veggies and fancy cheese and seltzer water and settled down to the serious business of the night. Since they hadn’t met in years, we weren’t discussing a common book; instead, everyone brought a book to recommend to the group. Now, I don’t people well under the best of circumstances (which pregnancy is not), but I can book like a total boss. We talked about the books we’d each brought (I brought Shauna Niequist’s Bread and Wine) and why we brought them (in my case, recipes). There was much laughter and much taking-photos-of-book-covers with our cell phones to add to our already-absurd TBR lists.

By the time we’d made it around the circle, it was late. I was exhausted (which, for me, is sometimes like drunk, but the happy kind) and more relaxed than I’d started. People started trickling out, but some of us stayed. The conversation worked its way from books to kids to childbirth. Before I knew it, the clock said 11 pm, my sister had gone home, and I was discussing rental property and postpartum sex with these women I’d only met four hours prior.

Kori went back to Czechia (well, Czech Republic as it was known then), but I kept meeting with those women. We discussed books quarterly, decided that was not frequent enough, so we added another. Now we meet six times a year with movies thrown in when the book happens to have one. We eat excellent food and have added wine to our beverage menu, but we still get to the serious book discussions and the gut-busting laughter. It’s been nearly six years now. Some of the members have cycled out and more have come in, but I still think of this group as the very best decision I really did not want to make.

I think of my beloved book club often when my introversion and exhaustion make the idea of peopling seem like far too much effort. The tired introvert still calls the shots frequently (I prefer to think of it as letting self-compassion win). But when I decide to move toward a crowd despite my hesitance, it’s always because of this group of strangers-turned-immediate-friends, the laughter they nearly didn’t bring into my life because I was too pregnant to meet new people, and the joy they are still bringing.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing, and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

The Best Decision I Didn’t Want to Make Sep 24, 2020
Show notes

Do I really want to do this?

I was eight months pregnant. Four hours of tossing and turning now counted as “a good night’s sleep” so I could have one at least every now and then. Sitting in line at a coffee hut, waiting for something called a “White Zombie” which promised even more caffeine than a regular 20oz. latte, I discussed my plans for the evening with my BFF. (Yes, I was having an ungodly amount of caffeine while pregnant. Yes, it noticeably freaked out the bowling-ball-sized boy under my shirt. But I was low on options—I needed to parent my pair of toddler girls.)

My sister was in town for the first time since she’d moved to Europe a few years prior. We’d hung out some, but I felt a little panicked at our limited remaining time. Her plans that evening included a reunion of the book club she’d been in when she last lived here—and I was invited.

This morning, I’d dragged myself out of bed after an even-worse-than-normal night’s sleep. I was uncomfortable (see: eight months pregnant) and grumpy. The idea of dragging my enormous, introverted self, after dinner, to a stranger’s house full of women I didn’t know (but who all knew each other) sounded…less than appealing at 11 in the morning when I was already fried.

“I don’t know if I have it in me. I want to spend as much time with Kori as possible, but I just don’t know if I can,” I said into the phone. My friend reminded me I was free to go or to skip it, then let me talk myself in circles until I figured out what was most important to me today: I tentatively planned to go. Time with my sister was more valuable than avoiding the unpleasantness of peopling while pregnant.

As the day wore on, I continued to waffle. The regular business of toddler sass and making dinner drained what little energy I had left—the effects of my late-morning White Zombie had worn off long before—but changing a decision I’d already made seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I put on my cutest casual maternity top (making an effort, but not trying too hard) and a ton of concealer under my eyes and went.

When I arrived at the hostess’s home, I hefted myself out of my car, waddled past a row of unfamiliar vehicles (plus one I recognized as my sister’s), and nervously knocked on the door.

The women were warm and friendly. They asked all the usual pregnancy-related questions and we made the usual small talk. I felt the usual level of awkwardness and sounded the usual sort of derpy. Eventually, we all had our plates with veggies and fancy cheese and seltzer water and settled down to the serious business of the night. Since they hadn’t met in years, we weren’t discussing a common book; instead, everyone brought a book to recommend to the group. Now, I don’t people well under the best of circumstances (which pregnancy is not), but I can book like a total boss. We talked about the books we’d each brought (I brought Shauna Niequist’s Bread and Wine) and why we brought them (in my case, recipes). There was much laughter and much taking-photos-of-book-covers with our cell phones to add to our already-absurd TBR lists.

By the time we’d made it around the circle, it was late. I was exhausted (which, for me, is sometimes like drunk, but the happy kind) and more relaxed than I’d started. People started trickling out, but some of us stayed. The conversation worked its way from books to kids to childbirth. Before I knew it, the clock said 11 pm, my sister had gone home, and I was discussing rental property and postpartum sex with these women I’d only met four hours prior.

Kori went back to Czechia (well, Czech Republic as it was known then), but I kept meeting with those women. We discussed books quarterly, decided that was not frequent enough, so we added another. Now we meet six times a year with movies thrown in when the book happens to have one. We eat excellent food and have added wine to our beverage menu, but we still get to the serious book discussions and the gut-busting laughter. It’s been nearly six years now. Some of the members have cycled out and more have come in, but I still think of this group as the very best decision I really did not want to make.

I think of my beloved book club often when my introversion and exhaustion make the idea of peopling seem like far too much effort. The tired introvert still calls the shots frequently (I prefer to think of it as letting self-compassion win). But when I decide to move toward a crowd despite my hesitance, it’s always because of this group of strangers-turned-immediate-friends, the laughter they nearly didn’t bring into my life because I was too pregnant to meet new people, and the joy they are still bringing.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing, and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

The One Who Walked Away Sep 22, 2020
Show notes

On the third day of unpacking and still surrounded by boxes and packing paper up to our ears, I decided it was time for a breather. We had just moved to Northern Virginia, an area I had never heard of or visited before we arrived. My husband and our 3-year-old son were out running errands, so I put a jacket and shoes on our 2-year-old daughter, bundled up our 6-month-old son in the umbrella stroller, and we went for a walk around the neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to explore our new surroundings.

I knew there was a little park directly behind our house, but I decided to take the long way around. Part of me hoped I’d run into some people and be able to introduce myself as the new neighbor. Another part of me hoped to make the walk without being approached. My daughter wanted to push my son in the stroller so we made slow progress. About 15 minutes later, we rounded a corner and meandered up a small hill. I told my daughter that the playground was near. Her eyes lit up and her little blonde head strained to look over the top of the stroller so she could see what was ahead. As the playground came into view, she took off running, leaving me and her brother behind. I caught the rolling stroller and followed her to the playground, parking it near one of the benches.

When I looked up from unbuckling my son, I noticed another mom across the playground with her three children. She waved, and I waved back. My heart leapt at the thought of meeting someone new and yet my feet were stuck to the ground. As I contemplated whether or not I should make my way over to her, she stood up and started gathering her things and corralling her kids. For a split second, I thought she was coming over to introduce herself and I felt a surge of excitement laced with panic. I fumbled inwardly to put together a proper greeting where I introduce myself as Catherine, instead of Mommy. Just when I had my words ready, she started walking away from us, toward a well-trod pathway between the trees.

As she disappeared, my heart sank down to my glued feet. I berated myself for not gathering up my courage and approaching her. I even thought about quickly hauling my own kids that way, as if to go home and “accidently” meet her, but fear again kept my feet firmly planted in the grass.

As I sat there, I pondered our many park days in our old neighborhood. How many times had I been the one to walk away?

I remember plenty of instances at our old home when my children and I had the park to ourselves, then another mom and her kids would make their way toward the playground. In a quick moment, I would decide that we had been out long enough (but truth be told, I just didn’t want to make small talk)—I’d gather my things and my kids and head home. Now, as the newcomer on the other side of the park, I realize that those were missed opportunities to make a new friend or even minister to people. Maybe the moms I never met were new to the area, like I am now. Maybe they just needed a listening ear. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As a mom, I find myself trying to balance two worlds: one where I desperately crave authentic adult connection and one where I desperately need alone time. These two worlds collide often as my small children loudly interrupt my scant time alone, clamoring for their own emotional connection needs. I feel drained, never full, always on the brink of running dry. I am not sure what will fill me up—spending quality time with my family when deep inside a part of me longs for a break, or finally being away, either out with friends or alone, and secretly missing the beautiful chaos of family life. These constant dissonances leave me feeling war-torn and battered.

I often feel like I can barely manage the basics of clothing and feeding my children or making it to the end of the day with my sanity still intact. I wonder how I can cultivate connections—with my family or with other women—when I am struggling to meet the physical demands of motherhood. The only answer I have identified is that when I am feeling this dry, I must run back to the Source. I must cultivate the connection with my Heavenly Father by spending daily time in His Word. Doing so will align my perspective with His and shape my mindset for the day. As I lean into Jesus more, I am reminded that He is the One who never walks away, that He desires and pursues relationship and connection with us.

It is He, after all, who made and designed us for relationships. He is the Well of Life that never runs dry. When I tap into the strength He provides, I find that it spurs me on to go the extra mile in pursuing connections with my husband, my children, and my friends. I am more in tune to the promptings of the Holy Spirit for ministry opportunities, taking a meal to someone or doing a grocery store run, listening to someone who just needs to vent, loving people where they are with no expectations.

When I move out of my sphere of comfort into the realm of discomfort, growth happens in ways I never expected. Taking a step in faith by being intentional in my relationships instead of being rooted in fear has led to some of the most meaningful and rewarding friendships I could have ever imagined.

So, the next time I walk to the park and encounter someone I do not know, I will gather my courage by the bootstraps, walk over and introduce myself. I never know whose kindred spirit is waiting for me on the other side of the playground.

Catherine Love and her husband live in Northern Virginia with their four young and very active children. When not making meals, tending to boo-boos, or giving hugs and kisses, Catherine can be found running, swimming, or reading. She is a sinner saved by grace and is deeply thankful for the work of Jesus in her life. She can be found on Instagram at or on her personal blog.

The One Who Walked Away Sep 22, 2020
Show notes

On the third day of unpacking and still surrounded by boxes and packing paper up to our ears, I decided it was time for a breather. We had just moved to Northern Virginia, an area I had never heard of or visited before we arrived. My husband and our 3-year-old son were out running errands, so I put a jacket and shoes on our 2-year-old daughter, bundled up our 6-month-old son in the umbrella stroller, and we went for a walk around the neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to explore our new surroundings.

I knew there was a little park directly behind our house, but I decided to take the long way around. Part of me hoped I’d run into some people and be able to introduce myself as the new neighbor. Another part of me hoped to make the walk without being approached. My daughter wanted to push my son in the stroller so we made slow progress. About 15 minutes later, we rounded a corner and meandered up a small hill. I told my daughter that the playground was near. Her eyes lit up and her little blonde head strained to look over the top of the stroller so she could see what was ahead. As the playground came into view, she took off running, leaving me and her brother behind. I caught the rolling stroller and followed her to the playground, parking it near one of the benches.

When I looked up from unbuckling my son, I noticed another mom across the playground with her three children. She waved, and I waved back. My heart leapt at the thought of meeting someone new and yet my feet were stuck to the ground. As I contemplated whether or not I should make my way over to her, she stood up and started gathering her things and corralling her kids. For a split second, I thought she was coming over to introduce herself and I felt a surge of excitement laced with panic. I fumbled inwardly to put together a proper greeting where I introduce myself as Catherine, instead of Mommy. Just when I had my words ready, she started walking away from us, toward a well-trod pathway between the trees.

As she disappeared, my heart sank down to my glued feet. I berated myself for not gathering up my courage and approaching her. I even thought about quickly hauling my own kids that way, as if to go home and “accidently” meet her, but fear again kept my feet firmly planted in the grass.

As I sat there, I pondered our many park days in our old neighborhood. How many times had I been the one to walk away?

I remember plenty of instances at our old home when my children and I had the park to ourselves, then another mom and her kids would make their way toward the playground. In a quick moment, I would decide that we had been out long enough (but truth be told, I just didn’t want to make small talk)—I’d gather my things and my kids and head home. Now, as the newcomer on the other side of the park, I realize that those were missed opportunities to make a new friend or even minister to people. Maybe the moms I never met were new to the area, like I am now. Maybe they just needed a listening ear. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As a mom, I find myself trying to balance two worlds: one where I desperately crave authentic adult connection and one where I desperately need alone time. These two worlds collide often as my small children loudly interrupt my scant time alone, clamoring for their own emotional connection needs. I feel drained, never full, always on the brink of running dry. I am not sure what will fill me up—spending quality time with my family when deep inside a part of me longs for a break, or finally being away, either out with friends or alone, and secretly missing the beautiful chaos of family life. These constant dissonances leave me feeling war-torn and battered.

I often feel like I can barely manage the basics of clothing and feeding my children or making it to the end of the day with my sanity still intact. I wonder how I can cultivate connections—with my family or with other women—when I am struggling to meet the physical demands of motherhood. The only answer I have identified is that when I am feeling this dry, I must run back to the Source. I must cultivate the connection with my Heavenly Father by spending daily time in His Word. Doing so will align my perspective with His and shape my mindset for the day. As I lean into Jesus more, I am reminded that He is the One who never walks away, that He desires and pursues relationship and connection with us.

It is He, after all, who made and designed us for relationships. He is the Well of Life that never runs dry. When I tap into the strength He provides, I find that it spurs me on to go the extra mile in pursuing connections with my husband, my children, and my friends. I am more in tune to the promptings of the Holy Spirit for ministry opportunities, taking a meal to someone or doing a grocery store run, listening to someone who just needs to vent, loving people where they are with no expectations.

When I move out of my sphere of comfort into the realm of discomfort, growth happens in ways I never expected. Taking a step in faith by being intentional in my relationships instead of being rooted in fear has led to some of the most meaningful and rewarding friendships I could have ever imagined.

So, the next time I walk to the park and encounter someone I do not know, I will gather my courage by the bootstraps, walk over and introduce myself. I never know whose kindred spirit is waiting for me on the other side of the playground.

Catherine Love and her husband live in Northern Virginia with their four young and very active children. When not making meals, tending to boo-boos, or giving hugs and kisses, Catherine can be found running, swimming, or reading. She is a sinner saved by grace and is deeply thankful for the work of Jesus in her life. She can be found on Instagram at or on her personal blog.

No Bandwidth for Family Sep 17, 2020
Show notes

We moved from the old house—the only house our big kids had ever known—to have a basement like the one we have now. There was more to it, obviously: The old neighborhood was transitioning from Family-Friendly Oasis to Fast-Paced Urban Hub. All the affordable and sensible improvements we could make to the structure of our old place would not touch its need for serious renovations, and no matter what we tried, we shared our old basement with millions of spiders. For all the charm of that 1948 building and the half-acre of land upon which it sat, we outgrew it.

In this new house, God gave us all the things my secret heart desired, and for which I was too afraid to ask Him. Our son still longs for the narrow wood slats instead of these hand-scraped, wide plank floors, saying they were better for racing his cars. Everything else is the definition of more than we could have asked or imagined: composite decking, granite, laundry upstairs (read: not in the basement with the spiders). What’s more, now Hubby has his basement! It’s spacious and full of sunlight.

We have made it into a space for our family to play, another thing that could never have happened in our old home. Deep pile carpeting spreads out over epoxy for bare feet. Couches, a recliner, air hockey, arcade-style basketball, foosball, and ping-pong are all stationed along the cement walls promising family fun.

One night, as two-thirds of the big kids were gaming, the baby was running into the hammock swing then Whoa-ing back, and Hubby and I were breathing hard with the table tennis paddles in our hands when the realization hit us: we can only stand to talk to each other with phones in our hands, listen to each other if we’re also ping-ponging, and be happy if the kids are allowed to game from the time they wake up till the time their heads hit the pillow at night. Our brains have a deficit of attention. We have to be distracted to stand each other, to stand ourselves. I’ve learned this is part of what happens with too much blue light and too much distraction, like tv (the true opiate of the masses).

Too busy.

Too preoccupied.

Systems and devices deprived us of human connection. The devil sought to keep us relationally disconnected. Things like gaming systems and phones were ready distractions from the people in front of us, but we had choices. As we integrated our emotions with our thoughts, we finally accepted and said out loud, “We are giving our family away to distraction.”

In contrast to the night of gaming and table tennis, a tornado blowing eighty-four miles per hour, uprooting mature trees and dropping them on cars and fences, and shaking our A-frame swing set chased us into our basement for shelter. As the electricity went out, our entire family—Mama, Daddy, thirteen-year-old, eleven-year-old, nine-year-old, and two-year-old—huddled into one car so we could pick up Chick-fil-A for dinner. And into one room, because we had one candle and one flashlight as well as an assortment of battery-powered “lights” gathered by kids that made me smile—a lighted makeup mirror, a hover ball toy, and a Bluetooth speaker turned on its head because of the light ring around the circumference of its bottom. Robbed of our devices, which had run out of juice… In the dark, we finally engaged in a way we don’t often do, except when we vacation to new places that are more compelling than our electronic temptations—no wifi connection.

We are in the coliseum of technology—Hubby, Wifey, and family, and we’re cheering at all the distractions as our family time and connection is being devoured. We’re playing a part in the demise of our own relationships, while apps devour us, and devices offer us greater and greater spectacles.

We don’t have enough bandwidth for family these days.

***

Counselor Adam Young says, in his podcast, he believes we sin most against our children. Though my thinking can certainly change, I agree. Pride and complacency are most tempted by wet clay. As I work the clay of my children’s hearts, trying to mold rapidly drying earth into godly bricks—by teaching them everything from how to potty to how to cook, it becomes easier and easier to think I know it all.

Recently, we went on a vacation with friends who are walking ahead of us, already doing the hard work of parenting in longhand, rather than defaulting to our habit—a rapid method of connecting by substituting time for extravagant gifts, meals together for fast food—short parenting. We watched them and absorbed without ever hearing a word of judgment or correction or advice: Helping their children brush their teeth, encouraging them to get outside and away from big and small screens, getting up and taking walks and hikes and dragging them on a giant unicorn float named “Madame Majesty Sparkle.” They were completely present, instead of sitting back in pop up chairs of convenience and letting important bonds float away on invisible waves of time and apathy.

We came home committed to spending more of our time engaging life according to the example of connection our friends lived out so simply. We want to do the work it takes to get real meals made for the family, show we care by the effort we put into putting our things down to look each other in the eye and help with homeschool work, read a comic book drawn by our child, and get down on the floor to play with the baby. My oldest was the first person to say to me, “Good enough isn’t good enough,” and it’s true.

Before, our temporary satisfaction brought on by screens was followed by wicked withdrawal symptoms— ingratitude, sour stomachs, insomnia and melatonin issues, anxiety, depression, developmental regression and failures to launch, chaos, manipulation from the kids, and infighting between my husband and me. I have accepted good enough as our life for too long.

I have ignored the dead soil, broken connections, misfiring brains, dysfunctional systems, and developed a deep fear of the awful plants growing in our toxic field. I see the fruits of nonorganic play and genetically modified interactions resulting in a total inability to thrive. No one talks. No one listens. No one cares. We’ve been missing each other. Our failure to lead, whether it’s due to fear or weakness, is sin. For too long, it has enslaved our whole family.

***

We’ve become keenly aware there will be consequences for every idle thought, word, action, and system. Every apathetic or frustrated omission bears fruit at every intersection with ourselves and this world. Someone once said to me: “We’re either causing or complicit in the culture of our home.” When I consider the Kingdom of Heaven, I hear “culture.” It’s a climb to create culture, so we’ve begun to scale the mountain.

We’ve started leaving the tv to its master, the devil, along with all of the other devices under his employ (kidding, not kidding.) We started playing Trivial Pursuit together and eating at the dinner table again. Weekday video game meetings have been cancelled. Fuse-ball and air hockey and Pop-A-Shot together are fine.

We haven’t figured it all out—no one has—but we’ve said the scary things out loud to each other. We’ve opened our hearts to God so He can teach us to lead our family out of the ditch and help us amend the soil and weed the garden that is our family.

Jay is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their four children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog and Instagram.

No Bandwidth for Family Sep 17, 2020
Show notes

We moved from the old house—the only house our big kids had ever known—to have a basement like the one we have now. There was more to it, obviously: The old neighborhood was transitioning from Family-Friendly Oasis to Fast-Paced Urban Hub. All the affordable and sensible improvements we could make to the structure of our old place would not touch its need for serious renovations, and no matter what we tried, we shared our old basement with millions of spiders. For all the charm of that 1948 building and the half-acre of land upon which it sat, we outgrew it.

In this new house, God gave us all the things my secret heart desired, and for which I was too afraid to ask Him. Our son still longs for the narrow wood slats instead of these hand-scraped, wide plank floors, saying they were better for racing his cars. Everything else is the definition of more than we could have asked or imagined: composite decking, granite, laundry upstairs (read: not in the basement with the spiders). What’s more, now Hubby has his basement! It’s spacious and full of sunlight.

We have made it into a space for our family to play, another thing that could never have happened in our old home. Deep pile carpeting spreads out over epoxy for bare feet. Couches, a recliner, air hockey, arcade-style basketball, foosball, and ping-pong are all stationed along the cement walls promising family fun.

One night, as two-thirds of the big kids were gaming, the baby was running into the hammock swing then Whoa-ing back, and Hubby and I were breathing hard with the table tennis paddles in our hands when the realization hit us: we can only stand to talk to each other with phones in our hands, listen to each other if we’re also ping-ponging, and be happy if the kids are allowed to game from the time they wake up till the time their heads hit the pillow at night. Our brains have a deficit of attention. We have to be distracted to stand each other, to stand ourselves. I’ve learned this is part of what happens with too much blue light and too much distraction, like tv (the true opiate of the masses).

Too busy.

Too preoccupied.

Systems and devices deprived us of human connection. The devil sought to keep us relationally disconnected. Things like gaming systems and phones were ready distractions from the people in front of us, but we had choices. As we integrated our emotions with our thoughts, we finally accepted and said out loud, “We are giving our family away to distraction.”

In contrast to the night of gaming and table tennis, a tornado blowing eighty-four miles per hour, uprooting mature trees and dropping them on cars and fences, and shaking our A-frame swing set chased us into our basement for shelter. As the electricity went out, our entire family—Mama, Daddy, thirteen-year-old, eleven-year-old, nine-year-old, and two-year-old—huddled into one car so we could pick up Chick-fil-A for dinner. And into one room, because we had one candle and one flashlight as well as an assortment of battery-powered “lights” gathered by kids that made me smile—a lighted makeup mirror, a hover ball toy, and a Bluetooth speaker turned on its head because of the light ring around the circumference of its bottom. Robbed of our devices, which had run out of juice… In the dark, we finally engaged in a way we don’t often do, except when we vacation to new places that are more compelling than our electronic temptations—no wifi connection.

We are in the coliseum of technology—Hubby, Wifey, and family, and we’re cheering at all the distractions as our family time and connection is being devoured. We’re playing a part in the demise of our own relationships, while apps devour us, and devices offer us greater and greater spectacles.

We don’t have enough bandwidth for family these days.

***

Counselor Adam Young says, in his podcast, he believes we sin most against our children. Though my thinking can certainly change, I agree. Pride and complacency are most tempted by wet clay. As I work the clay of my children’s hearts, trying to mold rapidly drying earth into godly bricks—by teaching them everything from how to potty to how to cook, it becomes easier and easier to think I know it all.

Recently, we went on a vacation with friends who are walking ahead of us, already doing the hard work of parenting in longhand, rather than defaulting to our habit—a rapid method of connecting by substituting time for extravagant gifts, meals together for fast food—short parenting. We watched them and absorbed without ever hearing a word of judgment or correction or advice: Helping their children brush their teeth, encouraging them to get outside and away from big and small screens, getting up and taking walks and hikes and dragging them on a giant unicorn float named “Madame Majesty Sparkle.” They were completely present, instead of sitting back in pop up chairs of convenience and letting important bonds float away on invisible waves of time and apathy.

We came home committed to spending more of our time engaging life according to the example of connection our friends lived out so simply. We want to do the work it takes to get real meals made for the family, show we care by the effort we put into putting our things down to look each other in the eye and help with homeschool work, read a comic book drawn by our child, and get down on the floor to play with the baby. My oldest was the first person to say to me, “Good enough isn’t good enough,” and it’s true.

Before, our temporary satisfaction brought on by screens was followed by wicked withdrawal symptoms— ingratitude, sour stomachs, insomnia and melatonin issues, anxiety, depression, developmental regression and failures to launch, chaos, manipulation from the kids, and infighting between my husband and me. I have accepted good enough as our life for too long.

I have ignored the dead soil, broken connections, misfiring brains, dysfunctional systems, and developed a deep fear of the awful plants growing in our toxic field. I see the fruits of nonorganic play and genetically modified interactions resulting in a total inability to thrive. No one talks. No one listens. No one cares. We’ve been missing each other. Our failure to lead, whether it’s due to fear or weakness, is sin. For too long, it has enslaved our whole family.

***

We’ve become keenly aware there will be consequences for every idle thought, word, action, and system. Every apathetic or frustrated omission bears fruit at every intersection with ourselves and this world. Someone once said to me: “We’re either causing or complicit in the culture of our home.” When I consider the Kingdom of Heaven, I hear “culture.” It’s a climb to create culture, so we’ve begun to scale the mountain.

We’ve started leaving the tv to its master, the devil, along with all of the other devices under his employ (kidding, not kidding.) We started playing Trivial Pursuit together and eating at the dinner table again. Weekday video game meetings have been cancelled. Fuse-ball and air hockey and Pop-A-Shot together are fine.

We haven’t figured it all out—no one has—but we’ve said the scary things out loud to each other. We’ve opened our hearts to God so He can teach us to lead our family out of the ditch and help us amend the soil and weed the garden that is our family.

Jay is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their four children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog and Instagram.

Thank You Very Much Sep 15, 2020
Show notes

“I am going to need to speak with you in my office,” the doctor said, and I thought nothing of it. I was so thrilled to see my baby kicking around during the ultrasound that I didn’t foresee that something might be the matter.

“Your baby’s brain and all major organs are fine,” he leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat, and that was when I realized that he was about to say the word “but. . .”

“But, it is clear to me that your baby does not have a left hand.”

I will never forget laying eyes on my firstborn son, three months after that ultrasound. I had pushed for over two hours and was afraid that I wouldn’t have the strength to hold him. When the midwife held him up to me, my first thought was that he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. His head was covered in a mass of dark hair. I held him and comforted his newborn cries. He settled on my chest and looked up with a piercing stare. There was an air about him that exuded confidence even as a newborn. He didn’t know that the average baby had two hands. He was just fine, thank you very much.

A seasoned nurse in her fifties cared for us that night. She bathed my baby, and her voice was sweet and calm like a mother when she reassured me:

“Just wait and see all of the things you will do now with one hand as a new mom. This boy is going to be fine.”

My heart warmed as worry fled. “Thank you very much.”

As he grew up, he continually surprised us by conquering anything he set out to do. A natural athlete, musician, and exceptional student with a charismatic personality that draws people to him, my son thrived with many strong friendships. Having only one hand didn’t seem to hold him back at all…until he was 14 and our family moved to England.

A new high school in a new country was a different story. He worked hard to figure out how things worked in this new place. We continually asked him if everything was all right, and he assured us it was. It was February of his first school year in England when he confessed something was wrong. He was being bullied at school because of his missing hand. He didn’t want to tell us he was struggling, but it was devastating for him to continue holding it inside.

“Mom, I don’t think that I can go on the geography field trip next week,” he approached me one day after school.

This wasn’t like him at all. “Why not?” I asked.

“The kids in that class are really awful to me. The teacher had us pick groups for the trip today, and no one wanted me in their group. Can I please stay home that day?” he begged.

The taunting was so emotionally difficult, my son ate his lunch in the bathroom. Depression was lurking at the door of his heart and mind. My husband and I wanted to talk to the school administration and implore them to help.

“Talking with the school won’t do any good, Mom,” my son told me, looking hopeless.

“Do you know the names of the kids who are giving you a hard time?” I asked.

“There are so many, Mom. I don’t know most of them. They are younger than me and older than me. It is like the whole school is out to make me feel horrible about myself,” he confided.

As we talked with him, I sensed a plug had been pulled from his heart and the lifetime of love and confidence that we had poured into him was draining out before our eyes. I have never felt so desperate as a mother.

Prior to this, I had heard of kids being bullied but never contemplated the soul-wrenching tension a young person wades through when they face that kind of degradation. Victims fear that if they report the misconduct and the bullies are given consequences, then the bullies could make life miserable when no one is looking because that is what bullies do. This particular school had a culture of bullying, and we felt helpless.

Eventually, my husband and I arranged to meet with the teacher leading our son’s year group to tell her we were considering finding a new school due to the bullying problem our son was facing. My desire was to help the school work through their problem so my son would be the last one who experienced this. I was hoping for the chance to explain to them how their methods had fostered this atmosphere to exist.

When we sat down, the teacher immediately began singing our son’s praises. His academic accomplishments and musical contributions were impressive. She had comments from other teachers to share with us about what a great kid he is. Despite all her praise, we tried to open up about the way his peers were treating him, and she immediately went cold.

“I don’t believe that is really happening,” she had the gall to say.

“What reason would we have to make this up?” my husband asked.

“You said he was eating lunch in the bathroom. I don’t believe it. We lock doors so students can’t do that,” was her response. (“When you are desperate, you find out which doors are open,” my son later informed us.)

That meeting quickly came to an end and we informed her we would be removing our son from the school. As we drove away, my blood boiled and my heart broke. The lack of empathy our son was being shown was shocking. Later that week, I wrote a long letter to the headteacher explaining how certain systems within the school were making it possible for kids to get away with bullying. I received no response. Not only had we not been heard, but bullying could persist and affect other students because the school wasn’t interested in taking an introspective look into or correcting their widespread problem.

I started making phone calls trying to find another school. Changing schools in England is not easy. Most of my inquiries were simply met with, “We do not have space in his year group.” However, there was one woman who brought tears to my eyes with her warm response.

“We do not have space in his year group, but I am so sad to hear what he has experienced. That should never have been allowed to happen. I can’t promise you anything, but please send in an application to my attention, and I will personally present your case to the headteacher.” Those kind words filled me with hope. She gave the gift of empathy by allowing her heart to connect to our plight even though she might not be able to offer a solution.

“Thank you very much,” was all I could say in a shaky voice and I hung up.

Fortunately, this school was willing to make a spot, and my son is now thriving there. The new school prioritizes the needs of every student and it is evident across the board. Their approach to everything shows their desire to care for their students as individuals. It is a safe place.

Empathy is not my strong suit. My wiring lends itself more to problem solving and perseverance than feeling. When I encounter a person with a problem I cannot personally relate to, or I do not see a solution for, I shut down emotionally and can be dismissive and distant. Standing against bullying with my son has taught me an important lesson about the value of empathy. Galatians 6:2 urges us to “Bear one another’s burdens,” it doesn’t say we are to solve everyone’s problems. Some problems are complicated and feel unsolvable, but as I come alongside and help bear the weight when life gets heavy, I lighten another’s load by letting them know they are seen and not alone. I have learned to put myself in someone else’s shoes and imagine what they are feeling as they walk their road, and in so doing, I have seen life-giving connections form. The solidarity we form through empathy is a source of hope we all need.

Amy Mullens and her husband are church planters in England as well as parents to four children (17, 14, 12, and 5). She is addicted to seeing Jesus change lives and loves to walk people through God’s Word in small groups, through her writing or over a cup of coffee. Exploring the English countryside, getting lost in a book, or catching up with an old friend are among her favorite things.

Thank You Very Much Sep 15, 2020
Show notes

“I am going to need to speak with you in my office,” the doctor said, and I thought nothing of it. I was so thrilled to see my baby kicking around during the ultrasound that I didn’t foresee that something might be the matter.

“Your baby’s brain and all major organs are fine,” he leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat, and that was when I realized that he was about to say the word “but. . .”

“But, it is clear to me that your baby does not have a left hand.”

I will never forget laying eyes on my firstborn son, three months after that ultrasound. I had pushed for over two hours and was afraid that I wouldn’t have the strength to hold him. When the midwife held him up to me, my first thought was that he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. His head was covered in a mass of dark hair. I held him and comforted his newborn cries. He settled on my chest and looked up with a piercing stare. There was an air about him that exuded confidence even as a newborn. He didn’t know that the average baby had two hands. He was just fine, thank you very much.

A seasoned nurse in her fifties cared for us that night. She bathed my baby, and her voice was sweet and calm like a mother when she reassured me:

“Just wait and see all of the things you will do now with one hand as a new mom. This boy is going to be fine.”

My heart warmed as worry fled. “Thank you very much.”

As he grew up, he continually surprised us by conquering anything he set out to do. A natural athlete, musician, and exceptional student with a charismatic personality that draws people to him, my son thrived with many strong friendships. Having only one hand didn’t seem to hold him back at all…until he was 14 and our family moved to England.

A new high school in a new country was a different story. He worked hard to figure out how things worked in this new place. We continually asked him if everything was all right, and he assured us it was. It was February of his first school year in England when he confessed something was wrong. He was being bullied at school because of his missing hand. He didn’t want to tell us he was struggling, but it was devastating for him to continue holding it inside.

“Mom, I don’t think that I can go on the geography field trip next week,” he approached me one day after school.

This wasn’t like him at all. “Why not?” I asked.

“The kids in that class are really awful to me. The teacher had us pick groups for the trip today, and no one wanted me in their group. Can I please stay home that day?” he begged.

The taunting was so emotionally difficult, my son ate his lunch in the bathroom. Depression was lurking at the door of his heart and mind. My husband and I wanted to talk to the school administration and implore them to help.

“Talking with the school won’t do any good, Mom,” my son told me, looking hopeless.

“Do you know the names of the kids who are giving you a hard time?” I asked.

“There are so many, Mom. I don’t know most of them. They are younger than me and older than me. It is like the whole school is out to make me feel horrible about myself,” he confided.

As we talked with him, I sensed a plug had been pulled from his heart and the lifetime of love and confidence that we had poured into him was draining out before our eyes. I have never felt so desperate as a mother.

Prior to this, I had heard of kids being bullied but never contemplated the soul-wrenching tension a young person wades through when they face that kind of degradation. Victims fear that if they report the misconduct and the bullies are given consequences, then the bullies could make life miserable when no one is looking because that is what bullies do. This particular school had a culture of bullying, and we felt helpless.

Eventually, my husband and I arranged to meet with the teacher leading our son’s year group to tell her we were considering finding a new school due to the bullying problem our son was facing. My desire was to help the school work through their problem so my son would be the last one who experienced this. I was hoping for the chance to explain to them how their methods had fostered this atmosphere to exist.

When we sat down, the teacher immediately began singing our son’s praises. His academic accomplishments and musical contributions were impressive. She had comments from other teachers to share with us about what a great kid he is. Despite all her praise, we tried to open up about the way his peers were treating him, and she immediately went cold.

“I don’t believe that is really happening,” she had the gall to say.

“What reason would we have to make this up?” my husband asked.

“You said he was eating lunch in the bathroom. I don’t believe it. We lock doors so students can’t do that,” was her response. (“When you are desperate, you find out which doors are open,” my son later informed us.)

That meeting quickly came to an end and we informed her we would be removing our son from the school. As we drove away, my blood boiled and my heart broke. The lack of empathy our son was being shown was shocking. Later that week, I wrote a long letter to the headteacher explaining how certain systems within the school were making it possible for kids to get away with bullying. I received no response. Not only had we not been heard, but bullying could persist and affect other students because the school wasn’t interested in taking an introspective look into or correcting their widespread problem.

I started making phone calls trying to find another school. Changing schools in England is not easy. Most of my inquiries were simply met with, “We do not have space in his year group.” However, there was one woman who brought tears to my eyes with her warm response.

“We do not have space in his year group, but I am so sad to hear what he has experienced. That should never have been allowed to happen. I can’t promise you anything, but please send in an application to my attention, and I will personally present your case to the headteacher.” Those kind words filled me with hope. She gave the gift of empathy by allowing her heart to connect to our plight even though she might not be able to offer a solution.

“Thank you very much,” was all I could say in a shaky voice and I hung up.

Fortunately, this school was willing to make a spot, and my son is now thriving there. The new school prioritizes the needs of every student and it is evident across the board. Their approach to everything shows their desire to care for their students as individuals. It is a safe place.

Empathy is not my strong suit. My wiring lends itself more to problem solving and perseverance than feeling. When I encounter a person with a problem I cannot personally relate to, or I do not see a solution for, I shut down emotionally and can be dismissive and distant. Standing against bullying with my son has taught me an important lesson about the value of empathy. Galatians 6:2 urges us to “Bear one another’s burdens,” it doesn’t say we are to solve everyone’s problems. Some problems are complicated and feel unsolvable, but as I come alongside and help bear the weight when life gets heavy, I lighten another’s load by letting them know they are seen and not alone. I have learned to put myself in someone else’s shoes and imagine what they are feeling as they walk their road, and in so doing, I have seen life-giving connections form. The solidarity we form through empathy is a source of hope we all need.

Amy Mullens and her husband are church planters in England as well as parents to four children (17, 14, 12, and 5). She is addicted to seeing Jesus change lives and loves to walk people through God’s Word in small groups, through her writing or over a cup of coffee. Exploring the English countryside, getting lost in a book, or catching up with an old friend are among her favorite things.

Growing Back Together Sep 10, 2020
Show notes

I pull into a parking space facing the doors of the coffee shop, put the car in park, and freeze. Butterflies flit through my stomach and up into my throat. I run my sweaty palms up and down my thighs and take a deep breath. I see her pull into one of the front parking spots, gather something from her passenger seat, and walk in.

Meeting one of my oldest friends shouldn’t feel this way, but—other than her email invitation for coffee—we haven’t spoken in years.

When I saw her email, I thought it might be a scam or she’d been hacked. We hadn’t communicated in what seemed like forever, so why would she reach out now? But something nudged me to open the message anyway. It started simply enough: “Hey, it’s been a really long time, but I’ve been thinking about you.” My eyebrows shot up and my jaw dropped a little. I will do almost anything to avoid conflict, so opening back up a line of communication which had been conspicuously silent felt risky. “Maybe we could grab a coffee and catch up?”

My mind flashed back to our last conversation at her going away party, the awkward way I felt and the blunt way she’d tried to hold me to a higher standard. “It feels like I don’t know you anymore,” she’d muttered sadly.

“Well, maybe you don’t,” I retorted.

For months, I’d held back, slowly building a protective casing around a new job and relationships, thinking the old wouldn’t mix with the new life I was creating. I rarely shared the details of my life and the choices I was making. Maybe it was to avoid any conflict or maybe to prove—to whom, I’m not sure—I could do life completely on my own. I devoured every experience in front of me—those that were good for me and those that weren’t. She didn’t know a battle raged inside me—no one did. Independence pulled me one way and expectations from everyone else pulled the other way. I was trying to figure out who I wanted to be and didn’t think I needed any additional input. I wondered if it was safe to be myself around her anymore. Would she accept me if I was different than I was before? Maybe she would, but I didn’t know if I could handle it if she didn’t. So I just didn’t tell her—or anyone.

We didn’t exchange insults or raise our voices. It wasn’t dramatic or heated. The relationship just ended. Our many years of friendship, now fully cocooned in the past.

Before this, she’d known me deeply. We weren’t the kind of friends who merely made millions of trips to the mall and had slumber parties. Instead, we were sisters of the heart. We lamented teenage crushes and heartbreak, spent countless hours serving and worshipping with our church youth group, and helped each other achieve the appropriate height in our early 90s bangs. She cheered me on through college and finding my first job.

Conversation after conversation, we tried to figure out the best way to get her brother’s best friend to fall in love with her. And he did. I was a part of their meeting, many of their dates, and their wedding. Even after she married, I felt completely at home as the third wheel. Until I didn’t.

As my life began to change, we grew apart, and finally walked away from a decade of friendship.

But, now, at her invitation for coffee, I felt a clear nudge… this time it prompted a “yes” to her simple invitation.

***

I take another deep breath and reach for the door latch. I plaster on a smile, cross the parking lot, and open the coffee shop door. She sits just to the right of the door waiting for me. We greet each other awkwardly and quickly decide to order. She hands me a gift. I kick myself for not thinking to do the same.

I grip my coffee with both hands to keep them from shaking. For a couple of hours we sit, meandering through old memories and carefully cracking open outer shells to reveal the lives we’d grown since we’d parted. We avoid a minefield of difficult conversations but slowly begin to reestablish a connection. Her timid, “How are your parents?” soon turns into an “I remember…” while we laugh over fun memories. Little by little, the desire to reawaken our friendship begins to be exposed.

At first, her invitation to reconnect felt hard. After years of allowing my conflict-aversion to have the loudest voice, it felt daring and brave to say yes to coffee one afternoon—to say yes to a second chance at friendship. The choice required both of us to step into the possibility of rejection. I’m thankful she was courageous enough to send the first email and for the nudge I felt to say yes.

***

I whip into a parking space, and my phone lights up with a text, “I’m here and have a booth,” signed with a pink heart and a smiley face. As I hop out quickly with a skip in my step, I make a mental list of all the things we need to catch up on. The vibrant colors of the restaurant mirror our light-hearted greeting—a ready smile, a quick hug, and we jump deep into conversation. “Tell me about…” we both start, then laugh, “No, you start!” I slide in across from her. She’s already ordered chips and queso, and for the next two hours we do our best to fill in all the gaps of what’s been happening in our lives over the last few months. Conversation is easy and continues out into the parking lot. Another quick hug, and we say good-bye with a promise to schedule another time together soon.

Now, our conversations feel almost shorthand—we don’t need explanations of family background or how a story began. We laugh over old memories. We mourn the loss of grandparents. We’ve invited other old friends to join us occasionally, but mostly it’s just the two of us, usually over a long lunch and always with lots of new stories to tell. We understand how important this reconciliation was for both of us and we recognize the beauty in the longevity of our friendship.

It turns out, all those years ago, she did want to know all that made me who I was—the fun-loving teenager and the woman who struggles through hard things. She wanted to see and understand all my thoughts and choices. In the last 30 years, we’ve both grown into something new and beautiful.

Bethany McMillon is a coffee, football, and ice cream lover from McKinney, TX. She adores her number-loving accountant husband and her growing too fast boy. Bethany works full-time as a teacher and school librarian, which aligns perfectly with the joy she finds in reading and writing. She is passionate about building deeper relationships with both Jesus and those that she loves. Her spirit is most settled after she has connected with a friend about God’s mercy and grace over coffee, sweet tea on the patio, or even a side-by-side walk through a local neighborhood. She hopes to encourage women to find and hold onto those connections within busy and quick-paced lives. Bethany is a member of the Hope*Writers community and writes almost weekly on her website, www.BethanyMcMillon.com. She can be found on Instagram @BethanyMcMillon and on Facebook at Bethany McMillon, Writer.

Growing Back Together Sep 10, 2020
Show notes

I pull into a parking space facing the doors of the coffee shop, put the car in park, and freeze. Butterflies flit through my stomach and up into my throat. I run my sweaty palms up and down my thighs and take a deep breath. I see her pull into one of the front parking spots, gather something from her passenger seat, and walk in.

Meeting one of my oldest friends shouldn’t feel this way, but—other than her email invitation for coffee—we haven’t spoken in years.

When I saw her email, I thought it might be a scam or she’d been hacked. We hadn’t communicated in what seemed like forever, so why would she reach out now? But something nudged me to open the message anyway. It started simply enough: “Hey, it’s been a really long time, but I’ve been thinking about you.” My eyebrows shot up and my jaw dropped a little. I will do almost anything to avoid conflict, so opening back up a line of communication which had been conspicuously silent felt risky. “Maybe we could grab a coffee and catch up?”

My mind flashed back to our last conversation at her going away party, the awkward way I felt and the blunt way she’d tried to hold me to a higher standard. “It feels like I don’t know you anymore,” she’d muttered sadly.

“Well, maybe you don’t,” I retorted.

For months, I’d held back, slowly building a protective casing around a new job and relationships, thinking the old wouldn’t mix with the new life I was creating. I rarely shared the details of my life and the choices I was making. Maybe it was to avoid any conflict or maybe to prove—to whom, I’m not sure—I could do life completely on my own. I devoured every experience in front of me—those that were good for me and those that weren’t. She didn’t know a battle raged inside me—no one did. Independence pulled me one way and expectations from everyone else pulled the other way. I was trying to figure out who I wanted to be and didn’t think I needed any additional input. I wondered if it was safe to be myself around her anymore. Would she accept me if I was different than I was before? Maybe she would, but I didn’t know if I could handle it if she didn’t. So I just didn’t tell her—or anyone.

We didn’t exchange insults or raise our voices. It wasn’t dramatic or heated. The relationship just ended. Our many years of friendship, now fully cocooned in the past.

Before this, she’d known me deeply. We weren’t the kind of friends who merely made millions of trips to the mall and had slumber parties. Instead, we were sisters of the heart. We lamented teenage crushes and heartbreak, spent countless hours serving and worshipping with our church youth group, and helped each other achieve the appropriate height in our early 90s bangs. She cheered me on through college and finding my first job.

Conversation after conversation, we tried to figure out the best way to get her brother’s best friend to fall in love with her. And he did. I was a part of their meeting, many of their dates, and their wedding. Even after she married, I felt completely at home as the third wheel. Until I didn’t.

As my life began to change, we grew apart, and finally walked away from a decade of friendship.

But, now, at her invitation for coffee, I felt a clear nudge… this time it prompted a “yes” to her simple invitation.

***

I take another deep breath and reach for the door latch. I plaster on a smile, cross the parking lot, and open the coffee shop door. She sits just to the right of the door waiting for me. We greet each other awkwardly and quickly decide to order. She hands me a gift. I kick myself for not thinking to do the same.

I grip my coffee with both hands to keep them from shaking. For a couple of hours we sit, meandering through old memories and carefully cracking open outer shells to reveal the lives we’d grown since we’d parted. We avoid a minefield of difficult conversations but slowly begin to reestablish a connection. Her timid, “How are your parents?” soon turns into an “I remember…” while we laugh over fun memories. Little by little, the desire to reawaken our friendship begins to be exposed.

At first, her invitation to reconnect felt hard. After years of allowing my conflict-aversion to have the loudest voice, it felt daring and brave to say yes to coffee one afternoon—to say yes to a second chance at friendship. The choice required both of us to step into the possibility of rejection. I’m thankful she was courageous enough to send the first email and for the nudge I felt to say yes.

***

I whip into a parking space, and my phone lights up with a text, “I’m here and have a booth,” signed with a pink heart and a smiley face. As I hop out quickly with a skip in my step, I make a mental list of all the things we need to catch up on. The vibrant colors of the restaurant mirror our light-hearted greeting—a ready smile, a quick hug, and we jump deep into conversation. “Tell me about…” we both start, then laugh, “No, you start!” I slide in across from her. She’s already ordered chips and queso, and for the next two hours we do our best to fill in all the gaps of what’s been happening in our lives over the last few months. Conversation is easy and continues out into the parking lot. Another quick hug, and we say good-bye with a promise to schedule another time together soon.

Now, our conversations feel almost shorthand—we don’t need explanations of family background or how a story began. We laugh over old memories. We mourn the loss of grandparents. We’ve invited other old friends to join us occasionally, but mostly it’s just the two of us, usually over a long lunch and always with lots of new stories to tell. We understand how important this reconciliation was for both of us and we recognize the beauty in the longevity of our friendship.

It turns out, all those years ago, she did want to know all that made me who I was—the fun-loving teenager and the woman who struggles through hard things. She wanted to see and understand all my thoughts and choices. In the last 30 years, we’ve both grown into something new and beautiful.

Bethany McMillon is a coffee, football, and ice cream lover from McKinney, TX. She adores her number-loving accountant husband and her growing too fast boy. Bethany works full-time as a teacher and school librarian, which aligns perfectly with the joy she finds in reading and writing. She is passionate about building deeper relationships with both Jesus and those that she loves. Her spirit is most settled after she has connected with a friend about God’s mercy and grace over coffee, sweet tea on the patio, or even a side-by-side walk through a local neighborhood. She hopes to encourage women to find and hold onto those connections within busy and quick-paced lives. Bethany is a member of the Hope*Writers community and writes almost weekly on her website, www.BethanyMcMillon.com. She can be found on Instagram @BethanyMcMillon and on Facebook at Bethany McMillon, Writer.

Navigating Disconnection Sep 08, 2020
Show notes

In the summertime, Wednesdays are reserved for a standing lunch date with some special ladies. I’ve grown with and known these moms for nearly a decade, so as we sit around a table enjoying a few rare hours of grown-up conversation, our discussion inevitably spring-boards back to the topic of our children and to the blessed struggles we encounter with our lovable progeny.

These moms and I have long since graduated from the endless exhaustion of 3am feedings, torturous toddler debates, potty training and frazzled temper tantrums. Thankfully, those early childhood battles have been successfully won at this point, or at least survived.

We’re now war-torn veterans stepping into a new role with grown-up kids. Some of us are newly initiated empty nesters. A few of us have one or two out the door with some stragglers at home, hanging on in high school. As promised, these babies grew up, and, yes, they will always be just that—our “babies,” no matter what the numbers on their driver’s licenses say. So plunging into this new chapter of necessary separation is a frightening transition, and the ever-present question we ladies keep circling back to again and again is essentially this:

How do we begin to disconnect?

It is counterintuitive to talk about disconnecting with your child. I’ve spent more than two decades fighting tooth and nail to make solid connections with these kids, to help them know they can fully trust their dad and me to instruct them in everything from tooth-brushing to long division to forgiving and loving one another. We’ve made so many connections at so great a cost, why ever consider a disconnect?

We do it because it’s right and good for these new adults (or almost-adults) to begin to stand solo, to trudge their own paths. It sure doesn’t feel that way to my mom heart, though. I’m not sure how to responsibly turn off the spigot of 24/7 support, care, and full-on instruction that they still seem to need. Never mind that these young adult-ish humans in my house are making it quite clear they are ready for that well to run dry.

This is perfectly normal, of course. Kids are always desirous of their own complete and total independence far sooner than they are capable of sustaining it. Parents know that, which may be why we struggle so fiercely to know how and when to properly step back.

“They could fail!” my friends and I catastrophize.

No, they will definitely fail at times. And meet with pain. And consequences. Still, the healthy human progression toward becoming a competent adult requires a disconnection begin to inch into the picture.

That’s one of the reasons we keep our Wednesday lunch dates.

“I worry that I didn’t teach him enough Scripture while he was young.”

“Do you think she is remembering not to go out alone after dark?”

“He does NOT need a credit card!”

“Oh, hey, have I told you what my precious, bonehead adult child did last week?”

Our roundtable of moms is a merry mix of laughter, worry, and unwelcome ignorance. It’s an infectious kind of ignorance that sticks to your bones and might make you twitch a little, because the reality is that there are so many things happening in our big kids’ lives right now that we are not privy to. They have stepped into this big, free, dangerous world, and mom can’t be there to swoop in with a safety net, instruction manual, and Spider-man band-aids.

Disconnection is a scary thing for me. It’s a faith-building thing. Thankfully, God knows what’s up even when I don’t, and they are His children, too. Primarily so, in fact. Why do I always forget that?

And so we grown-up girls continue to weekly pass around the chocolate-chip cookies and remind each other of our own Father’s instruction to “train ‘em up in the Word and they won’t depart.” Sometimes, though, it looks very much like they might. So we put down the cookies and we pray and pray some more. And we commit them to His hands, all the while knowing God may have to pry our sticky little mommy fingers away.

Disconnecting in a holistic and enriching way requires a kind of grace and peace only God can supply. We are digging hard into that truth. This circle of veteran moms encourages one another, but we also affirm that we don’t have the answers. We settle for cheering on the mom who decided to not take the bait for another fight with her grown kid. We commiserate with the mama whose baby is met with some hard consequences for a foolish adult decision. We remind each other again and again that, though we miss them, the goal has always been for them to go. And they are still in process. We remember out loud that the women we are now didn’t exist when we were twenty, so our babies probably still have some space to grow. And so, it seems, do we.

Thankfully, God is at work on us all.

In days past, we felt ourselves to be a physical life-line for our children, literally keeping them alive with food and boundaries and love. But we are not designed to stay in that life-line role. And I have to believe that when a healthy disconnection takes place, a new and different kind of connection will be established with these adult children, something that’s richer.

Less of a lifeline and more of a love-line.

Less about requirements and desperation; more about respect and willing affection.

If the Wednesday mamas had a mission statement, I think we would say our goal is to become the most highly valued advice-givers our grown kids could ask for. Advice, mind you, not necessarily instruction. Man, that’s tough, because advice-givers often must wait to be asked for their advice.

So we mama bears struggle to wait in the fringes until our grown cubs decide to come to us. We pray God will give us peace in the waiting, no matter how long. And we pray also He will keep them from drowning in the torrent of good advice that will surely burst forth when they do finally ask. We breathe our Father’s grace and trust He will make this weird, difficult, adult-sized new connection into something beautiful that points right back to Him.

Jennifer Hildebrand loves piecing together words to explore the intersections of faith and daily life. Her poems and personal writings have been featured in print and online in publications such as The Rabbit Room, Fathom Magazine and Christian Woman Magazine. Jennifer lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband and three kids and periodically shares poems and other musings at brandedmelody.blogspot.com.

Navigating Disconnection Sep 08, 2020
Show notes

In the summertime, Wednesdays are reserved for a standing lunch date with some special ladies. I’ve grown with and known these moms for nearly a decade, so as we sit around a table enjoying a few rare hours of grown-up conversation, our discussion inevitably spring-boards back to the topic of our children and to the blessed struggles we encounter with our lovable progeny.

These moms and I have long since graduated from the endless exhaustion of 3am feedings, torturous toddler debates, potty training and frazzled temper tantrums. Thankfully, those early childhood battles have been successfully won at this point, or at least survived.

We’re now war-torn veterans stepping into a new role with grown-up kids. Some of us are newly initiated empty nesters. A few of us have one or two out the door with some stragglers at home, hanging on in high school. As promised, these babies grew up, and, yes, they will always be just that—our “babies,” no matter what the numbers on their driver’s licenses say. So plunging into this new chapter of necessary separation is a frightening transition, and the ever-present question we ladies keep circling back to again and again is essentially this:

How do we begin to disconnect?

It is counterintuitive to talk about disconnecting with your child. I’ve spent more than two decades fighting tooth and nail to make solid connections with these kids, to help them know they can fully trust their dad and me to instruct them in everything from tooth-brushing to long division to forgiving and loving one another. We’ve made so many connections at so great a cost, why ever consider a disconnect?

We do it because it’s right and good for these new adults (or almost-adults) to begin to stand solo, to trudge their own paths. It sure doesn’t feel that way to my mom heart, though. I’m not sure how to responsibly turn off the spigot of 24/7 support, care, and full-on instruction that they still seem to need. Never mind that these young adult-ish humans in my house are making it quite clear they are ready for that well to run dry.

This is perfectly normal, of course. Kids are always desirous of their own complete and total independence far sooner than they are capable of sustaining it. Parents know that, which may be why we struggle so fiercely to know how and when to properly step back.

“They could fail!” my friends and I catastrophize.

No, they will definitely fail at times. And meet with pain. And consequences. Still, the healthy human progression toward becoming a competent adult requires a disconnection begin to inch into the picture.

That’s one of the reasons we keep our Wednesday lunch dates.

“I worry that I didn’t teach him enough Scripture while he was young.”

“Do you think she is remembering not to go out alone after dark?”

“He does NOT need a credit card!”

“Oh, hey, have I told you what my precious, bonehead adult child did last week?”

Our roundtable of moms is a merry mix of laughter, worry, and unwelcome ignorance. It’s an infectious kind of ignorance that sticks to your bones and might make you twitch a little, because the reality is that there are so many things happening in our big kids’ lives right now that we are not privy to. They have stepped into this big, free, dangerous world, and mom can’t be there to swoop in with a safety net, instruction manual, and Spider-man band-aids.

Disconnection is a scary thing for me. It’s a faith-building thing. Thankfully, God knows what’s up even when I don’t, and they are His children, too. Primarily so, in fact. Why do I always forget that?

And so we grown-up girls continue to weekly pass around the chocolate-chip cookies and remind each other of our own Father’s instruction to “train ‘em up in the Word and they won’t depart.” Sometimes, though, it looks very much like they might. So we put down the cookies and we pray and pray some more. And we commit them to His hands, all the while knowing God may have to pry our sticky little mommy fingers away.

Disconnecting in a holistic and enriching way requires a kind of grace and peace only God can supply. We are digging hard into that truth. This circle of veteran moms encourages one another, but we also affirm that we don’t have the answers. We settle for cheering on the mom who decided to not take the bait for another fight with her grown kid. We commiserate with the mama whose baby is met with some hard consequences for a foolish adult decision. We remind each other again and again that, though we miss them, the goal has always been for them to go. And they are still in process. We remember out loud that the women we are now didn’t exist when we were twenty, so our babies probably still have some space to grow. And so, it seems, do we.

Thankfully, God is at work on us all.

In days past, we felt ourselves to be a physical life-line for our children, literally keeping them alive with food and boundaries and love. But we are not designed to stay in that life-line role. And I have to believe that when a healthy disconnection takes place, a new and different kind of connection will be established with these adult children, something that’s richer.

Less of a lifeline and more of a love-line.

Less about requirements and desperation; more about respect and willing affection.

If the Wednesday mamas had a mission statement, I think we would say our goal is to become the most highly valued advice-givers our grown kids could ask for. Advice, mind you, not necessarily instruction. Man, that’s tough, because advice-givers often must wait to be asked for their advice.

So we mama bears struggle to wait in the fringes until our grown cubs decide to come to us. We pray God will give us peace in the waiting, no matter how long. And we pray also He will keep them from drowning in the torrent of good advice that will surely burst forth when they do finally ask. We breathe our Father’s grace and trust He will make this weird, difficult, adult-sized new connection into something beautiful that points right back to Him.

Jennifer Hildebrand loves piecing together words to explore the intersections of faith and daily life. Her poems and personal writings have been featured in print and online in publications such as The Rabbit Room, Fathom Magazine and Christian Woman Magazine. Jennifer lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband and three kids and periodically shares poems and other musings at brandedmelody.blogspot.com.

Press Forward Sep 03, 2020
Show notes

The day after he played Super Mario Odyssey for the first time, I felt some serious buyer’s remorse.

I sat in the toile wing-back chair in our front room with a novel tented across my legs. My 7-year-old son revolved around me like a spinning top, throwing out sheer nonsense as fast as his mouth could move. Cappy can turn into animals, and Pokios climb with their noses, and the Luncheon Kingdom is full of pink lava.

This was obviously not the Mario I remember from my childhood.

Not that I ever actually played Mario. I consider myself allergic to video games. Why did I agree to let him play this?

“Wait, what?” I asked aloud, utterly mystified. “Is Cappy Mario’s new sidekick? What happened to Luigi?”

“No, Mom, Cappy is Mario’s hat! I captured Cappy, and now I can throw it at other stuff.”

“What?” I asked again. My head was starting to hurt. I tried to stay engaged because he was obviously excited…but at the same time, I didn’t give two tiny figs about Mario. I let my son chatter on for another minute before waving my hands in surrender. “Buddy! Buddy!” I called, trying to get his attention. “I think I’ve had enough of Mario for now.”

“Can I just tell you one more thing?” he asked eagerly. I slouched down in my chair and hung my head.

“Okay. One more.” I’m sure he could hear the dread in my voice.

***

“Mom! Will you come watch me play Mario today?” my son asked a few weeks later, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His face sparkled with light and hope.

I could think of literally nothing I wanted to do less. Watching someone else play video games sounded about as enjoyable as shaving my legs.

But those eyes. They were so earnest.

He wanted to share something with me, something he loved. On his scale of least to most favorite activities, Mario was off-the-charts amazing.

“Please, Mom? You can bring your computer and do work at the same time!” he wheedled. “Daddy usually works while I play!”

My heart broke a little for this boy who just wanted the undivided attention of a parent, someone who would see his spectacular accomplishments and his near misses. Someone who would build a common vocabulary with him and get to know his passion.

“Sure, bud,” I agreed, ruffling his hair. I settled on the couch and watched him play for 20 minutes, forcing my eyes to focus on the screen (and trying not to giggle at a far more entertaining sight: my son leaping around the room, mirroring Mario as he mashed the controller buttons). To my surprise, the bizarre puzzle pieces I’d been gathering for days began to fit into place. Now I knew what he meant when he said he could throw Cappy to become a Goomba. Now I had a visual of his ship, decorated with stickers, and the Crazy Cap Store that sells vegetables and costume hats.

I still genuinely believed video games were mind-numbing and useless. But my son did not agree. To him, this was a magical wonderland.

***

I drew the line at talking about Mario with every waking breath. Doesn’t this kid care about anything else? I wondered on the car ride home from school. I had asked how his day was, and he spent the next five minutes telling me about a conversation with one of his classmates…about Mario.

I just wanted to know about school. I wanted to know whether he was respectful to his teacher and whether he got to play on the jungle gym during recess. But here he was again, chattering about where he thought Princess Peach was hiding.

In a stroke of genius, I thought of a solution that would kill two birds with one stone. A Mario journal! I crowed to myself. I could trick him into practicing writing (don’t judge me) and also give him a place to share all the mundane details he observed and things he wanted to try without having to listen to it anymore!

Back at home, I pulled out a bright red composition notebook and presented it to him. “This is your Mario notebook!” I told him magnanimously. “You can write anything you want in it—all the things you have been telling me about! The kingdoms you have visited, the stuff you are collecting, where you found a moon…whatever you want! And we can spend ten minutes every day talking about what you wrote.”

He took the notebook reverently and got to work. He wrote “Mario Notebook” on the front cover and immediately proceeded to make lists. Lists of creatures. Lists of hats. Lists of moves Mario can do. Yes! I thought. This is going to work.

But when he ran out of ideas a few days later, there he was, asking for my help.

I was exasperated. This journal was supposed to set me free from Mario. But now, he continuously updated me on how many pages he had used and how many words he had written, the number of moons that had special names—and could I guess which kingdom they came from?

Mario was starting to feel like an imaginary best/worst friend. This was the exact thing I dreaded, the exact reason I never wanted to open the door to video games in the first place: my son’s whole life revolved around Mario.

And, by extension, so did mine.

***

It turns out, my son is not the only one who can talk endlessly about his passions. Months later, I started reading a book about nutrition, and I found myself enthusiastically sharing kernels of wisdom with my husband. At dinner, he gave me a sidelong glance as he loaded extra greens onto his plate. My heart began to glow. He had listened to me! He cared about something I cared about!

But then a pit grew in my stomach as I suddenly saw parallels between my passion and my son’s. Just as I don’t intrinsically appreciate video games, my husband harbors no enduring love for discussing broccoli. He chose to invest in something solely on the basis of my interest.

I had not bothered to pay this kindness forward. I could recall exactly zero of my son’s Mario chronicles. His exuberant speeches went in one ear and out the other.

How would I feel if my husband responded to me that way? I wondered. Invisible. Unloved.

Is that how my 7-year-old feels?

I might not care about Mario very much, but I certainly care about my kid.

I would do anything for him—and actively listening should be on the list, even when he’s talking about Mario.

Maybe Mario is more than a meaningless game: it’s a path to genuine connection with my son’s heart. I want him to know he can share with me the things that matter to him, and I will not make him feel small. I want him to trust me with his big questions and ideas. Someday I want him to call me on the phone (or whatever the kids are doing), not just when he needs something, but because he misses me.

I’m pretty sure that starts now.

***

“Mommy! Daddy printed me a list of all the blocks and stuff in Minecraft!” I frown accusingly at my husband while my son talks a mile a minute. “Look! I bet I can make these with Legos. How old do I have to be to play Minecraft?” I sigh. Great. Here we go again, with a whole new game.

But I catch myself before I begin to sprint in the opposite direction.

Maybe God is allowing a new opportunity for me to embrace my son.

It’s harder than I expected to change my own mind. I don’t love video games. I don’t want to know them intimately. But I want to know my kid.

If that means I have to sit and play with him, then I hope I can do so with a whole heart. I hope I can find the courage to grab his hand and press forward into his wonderland.

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith, and occasionally updates her Instagram.

Family You Choose Sep 01, 2020
Show notes

In all of my failings as a mother, perhaps “framily” is the least of my sins.

As an active-duty military spouse, I have spent my life building community and then leaving that community in the span of about three years. My husband’s orders rotated us to new duty stations back and forth across the country. For a few of the 11 years on active duty, we lived in my hometown, near my family and the people I grew up with, but most of those years landed us in places I never imagined living. Military life has afforded us many adventures, the best of which involve the people who were strangers one day and chosen family the next.

Recently, a mentor asked me to reflect on how I intentionally created a community culture within my family. How have I built our family’s life to sustain moves, to bolster each other, to be each other’s soft place to land?

I was surprised. “I didn’t,” I admitted.

In my years of intentionally creating community outside our four walls, it never once occurred to me to be so intentional inside my home. I guess I assumed that the ways I did things would be picked up along the way without much planning on my part.

In a lot of ways that is true. My boys are both proficient in speaking Southern (“yes ma’am” and “yes sir”) as well as sailor (four-letter words that I’ll leave to your imagination)—things they gleaned without me teaching them.

As I pondered my mentor’s question, I was pretty hard on myself. How could I have been so good at building community for myself at each new duty station and miss the fact that I was not being intentional at home? You don’t know what you don’t know—and I didn’t know.

Thankfully, the people I crossed paths with over the last few years have filled in the gaps in my family’s life in ways that I could not have planned if I tried.

Almost a year into being stationed in New York City, I was offered a short-term job at the USO of Metropolitan New York. For me, it was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to work in an office in Times Square, and plan a two-week-long event. I was living my college self’s dream…except I wasn’t in college: I was the mother of two preschoolers. Manhattan work hours and preschool hours don’t mix well. Enter Miss Ash-a-wee (Ashley), my husband’s cousin, a recent college graduate with nothing to do for the summer. We offered her a weekly paycheck, access to one of the greatest cities in the U.S., and two cute little boys who needed her time and attention three days a week.

From the moment Ashley entered our home, the climate changed. She was everything I am not: soft-spoken, patient, easy-going, adventure-seeking. The boys were drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I was grateful for her presence. We were in one of the busiest seasons of our lives, and I know we would not have survived it without her. My boys loved spending time with her, and I was amazed at the difference her presence made in our home. When my oldest son learned to read in the months following her departure, the first thing he did when he finished reading Hop On Pop was tell me he wanted to read to her.

In New York, we also leaned on Miss Fiona, a married adult we met at church, who had no children of her own. She often watched the boys in the evening so my husband and I could go out to work events or on dates. She was also nothing like me. She was loud and laughed easily and danced Irish jigs. She was always up for park dates, ice cream parties, and trips to Nanny Candy’s. She doted on my boys simply for being themselves. Miss Fiona taught them all the important things about living in a commuter town: how to get a good look out the train window (cupping your hands around your face then sticking it all the way up to the glass), how to “mind the gap” (jumping over the gap between the train and the platform as if you were Mary Poppins hopping into a sidewalk painting), and most importantly, there’s always a treat waiting for you at Grand Central Station if you are a good commuter!

It was easy in New York to welcome neighbors into our lives, to celebrate holidays together and treat each other’s homes like our own. These people—Ashley, Fiona, our neighbors, and others—were more than friends to us. They were like family, or “framily” if you will.

When we moved west to California, I was worried about the large hole in our lives as we said goodbye to people I knew we could never replace. I wondered how we could be lucky enough again to find another “framily” of people who would love us deeply, people who were all the things I was not.

But it had become second nature to look outside my four walls. Upon arrival in Southern California, though I was grieving the loss of my people and my home, I did my thing again, that outward search to fill the hole in my soul.

I joined a Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) group and became part of the leadership team. Through my MOPS group, my family met and made friends. Those families became our people, the people we most needed that season. They didn’t replace our New York framily, but they added to it and made our lives richer.

Somehow my closest friends were the camping, hiking, outdoorsy types. Again nothing like me—my great adventures are found in the pages of a book on my cozy couch, and walking round-trip to school is a gracious plenty “hiking” for one day, thank you very much.

Once again, my boys were gifted bonus moms who are nothing like me. They take my boys hiking and let them pick up bugs, filling spaces that this indoorsy girl was never going to fill.

But it was more than that. Most of our new west coast framily had children younger than my own. So, in addition to bonus moms, my boys inherited bonus siblings too. I got to witness my boys speak a little softer, wait a little longer, and share a little better because of the time they spent with our people in San Diego.

As I sipped coffee and pondered the questions my mentor posed, I was tempted to think only of my failures. “I guess I actually spent more time with friends than I did teaching my kids about community,” I told her with a sinking feeling. I felt ashamed—maybe I had done this all wrong. I wasn’t intentional about creating a family culture that could sustain anything Navy life throws at us. I missed the mark as a mom.

But when I look at my boys and see the things they love—outside, bugs, dirt—when I see their affinity for commuter treats and the tenderness they possess, I am reminded that I did the best I could. I didn’t always provide the softest place to land, but by living in community I provided the people who did. From my own shortcomings came some of the greatest community members—framily—any family could ask for.

Jenny Lynne Stroup is a military spouse, writer, teacher, mental health advocate, and an active member in both military and civilian communities. She loves coffee, quiet time, and community. Her work has been featured on Her View from Home, Task and Purpose, SpouseBuzz on Military.com, Legacy Kids Magazine, and her personal blog.

Family You Choose Sep 01, 2020
Show notes

In all of my failings as a mother, perhaps “framily” is the least of my sins.

As an active-duty military spouse, I have spent my life building community and then leaving that community in the span of about three years. My husband’s orders rotated us to new duty stations back and forth across the country. For a few of the 11 years on active duty, we lived in my hometown, near my family and the people I grew up with, but most of those years landed us in places I never imagined living. Military life has afforded us many adventures, the best of which involve the people who were strangers one day and chosen family the next.

Recently, a mentor asked me to reflect on how I intentionally created a community culture within my family. How have I built our family’s life to sustain moves, to bolster each other, to be each other’s soft place to land?

I was surprised. “I didn’t,” I admitted.

In my years of intentionally creating community outside our four walls, it never once occurred to me to be so intentional inside my home. I guess I assumed that the ways I did things would be picked up along the way without much planning on my part.

In a lot of ways that is true. My boys are both proficient in speaking Southern (“yes ma’am” and “yes sir”) as well as sailor (four-letter words that I’ll leave to your imagination)—things they gleaned without me teaching them.

As I pondered my mentor’s question, I was pretty hard on myself. How could I have been so good at building community for myself at each new duty station and miss the fact that I was not being intentional at home? You don’t know what you don’t know—and I didn’t know.

Thankfully, the people I crossed paths with over the last few years have filled in the gaps in my family’s life in ways that I could not have planned if I tried.

Almost a year into being stationed in New York City, I was offered a short-term job at the USO of Metropolitan New York. For me, it was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to work in an office in Times Square, and plan a two-week-long event. I was living my college self’s dream…except I wasn’t in college: I was the mother of two preschoolers. Manhattan work hours and preschool hours don’t mix well. Enter Miss Ash-a-wee (Ashley), my husband’s cousin, a recent college graduate with nothing to do for the summer. We offered her a weekly paycheck, access to one of the greatest cities in the U.S., and two cute little boys who needed her time and attention three days a week.

From the moment Ashley entered our home, the climate changed. She was everything I am not: soft-spoken, patient, easy-going, adventure-seeking. The boys were drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I was grateful for her presence. We were in one of the busiest seasons of our lives, and I know we would not have survived it without her. My boys loved spending time with her, and I was amazed at the difference her presence made in our home. When my oldest son learned to read in the months following her departure, the first thing he did when he finished reading Hop On Pop was tell me he wanted to read to her.

In New York, we also leaned on Miss Fiona, a married adult we met at church, who had no children of her own. She often watched the boys in the evening so my husband and I could go out to work events or on dates. She was also nothing like me. She was loud and laughed easily and danced Irish jigs. She was always up for park dates, ice cream parties, and trips to Nanny Candy’s. She doted on my boys simply for being themselves. Miss Fiona taught them all the important things about living in a commuter town: how to get a good look out the train window (cupping your hands around your face then sticking it all the way up to the glass), how to “mind the gap” (jumping over the gap between the train and the platform as if you were Mary Poppins hopping into a sidewalk painting), and most importantly, there’s always a treat waiting for you at Grand Central Station if you are a good commuter!

It was easy in New York to welcome neighbors into our lives, to celebrate holidays together and treat each other’s homes like our own. These people—Ashley, Fiona, our neighbors, and others—were more than friends to us. They were like family, or “framily” if you will.

When we moved west to California, I was worried about the large hole in our lives as we said goodbye to people I knew we could never replace. I wondered how we could be lucky enough again to find another “framily” of people who would love us deeply, people who were all the things I was not.

But it had become second nature to look outside my four walls. Upon arrival in Southern California, though I was grieving the loss of my people and my home, I did my thing again, that outward search to fill the hole in my soul.

I joined a Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) group and became part of the leadership team. Through my MOPS group, my family met and made friends. Those families became our people, the people we most needed that season. They didn’t replace our New York framily, but they added to it and made our lives richer.

Somehow my closest friends were the camping, hiking, outdoorsy types. Again nothing like me—my great adventures are found in the pages of a book on my cozy couch, and walking round-trip to school is a gracious plenty “hiking” for one day, thank you very much.

Once again, my boys were gifted bonus moms who are nothing like me. They take my boys hiking and let them pick up bugs, filling spaces that this indoorsy girl was never going to fill.

But it was more than that. Most of our new west coast framily had children younger than my own. So, in addition to bonus moms, my boys inherited bonus siblings too. I got to witness my boys speak a little softer, wait a little longer, and share a little better because of the time they spent with our people in San Diego.

As I sipped coffee and pondered the questions my mentor posed, I was tempted to think only of my failures. “I guess I actually spent more time with friends than I did teaching my kids about community,” I told her with a sinking feeling. I felt ashamed—maybe I had done this all wrong. I wasn’t intentional about creating a family culture that could sustain anything Navy life throws at us. I missed the mark as a mom.

But when I look at my boys and see the things they love—outside, bugs, dirt—when I see their affinity for commuter treats and the tenderness they possess, I am reminded that I did the best I could. I didn’t always provide the softest place to land, but by living in community I provided the people who did. From my own shortcomings came some of the greatest community members—framily—any family could ask for.

Jenny Lynne Stroup is a military spouse, writer, teacher, mental health advocate, and an active member in both military and civilian communities. She loves coffee, quiet time, and community. Her work has been featured on Her View from Home, Task and Purpose, SpouseBuzz on Military.com, Legacy Kids Magazine, and her personal blog.

Previous 1 3 4 5 6 7 19 Next

Related Podcasts

Tumble Science Podcast for Kids — 1
Tumble Science Podcast for Kids Education for Kids

The Longest Shortest Time: A Women’s Health Show for Everyone — 2
The Longest Shortest Time: A Women’s Health Show for Everyone Government & Organizations

Dream Big Podcast for Kids — 3
Dream Big Podcast for Kids Education for Kids

Brains On! Science podcast for kids — 4
Brains On! Science podcast for kids Education for Kids

The Purrrcast — 5
The Purrrcast Kids & Family

The Dog Trainer’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Teaching and Caring for Your Pet — 6
The Dog Trainer’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Teaching and Caring for Your Pet Education

Contact Us

Toll Free: 844-670-7747

Links

Home
Top Charts
Networks
Apps
Independents Podcasts

Podcast Advertising
Podcast News
Contact Us
About Us
Analytics & Insights

Stay Connected

Privacy, Terms of Use & Our Code of Ethics Protecting Content Creators Copyrights