my people

I made a new friend this week.
That sounds so funny. Like third grade all over again. She’s going to laugh when she reads this. *digs out friendship bracelet string*

But it’s a beautiful thing to type those words on the page and even more, to mean them.
I’m an introvert. I can pretend to be something else for a little while (I am truly envious of all of you social-birds out there) but pretending to extrovert for any length of time saps me of energy in a big way and takes me a day or two to recover. For that reason, blogging is easy, and making friends is hard. I’m not particularly good at being vulnerable. Although I’m working on that.

I am discovering that vulnerability is courageous, and it is the desire of my heart to live in the sort of bravery that welcomes people close and invites them in, rather than walling them off in the name of self-protection.

So in that vein, I made a new friend this week. And she’s delightful.I have a handful of them. Like-minded and like-hearted people who come to one another’s rescue with pizza and wine, warm words, and helpful hands. Never judgmental but always honest. They love courageously, selves aside. These women parent and wife, and friend, (yes those are verbs) with vulnerability, fearing mistakes but leaning in to the hard things and loving anyway. These are my people. Some of them I see on a weekly basis. Some I only get to see once a year—soaking in sunshine and coffee on my kitchen floor. Regardless, it’s our heart-condition that keeps us close, not proximity.

Do you have People? Friends who stand in the gap when your heart is heavy, who are quick to offer dinner or watch your kids for an hour? Friends who ignore your dirty bathroom and sink-full of dishes? Introvert or extrovert, we need them. These like-hearted people. They hold us up when life is hard and we desperately need people to share the road on the long walk Home.

Friendship is weird. It takes two people saying “Yah, sure! Let’s try this,” with the kind of bravery that uses vulunarbility as a welcome sign. It’s not easy. But it’s imperative.
In this brand new week, take a moment to gather your people. It’s as simple as a text message. Tell them they are loved. And if you feel your people are far too few in number, or perhaps nonexistent, be brave. Go off script and let someone see your messes. Be vulnerable. Adulting isn’t really that much different than third grade. We just get to have wine instead of juice boxes. 😉

 

This isn’t a parenting  or personal blog, it’s a blog about food, mostly. And some writing. And doing right by both. But I’m also more than what I cook. My kitchen is messy and my heart is messy, so I’m going to take one post a week—a weekend post—and blog about what it means, for me, to live bravely in all of the messes. As a mom, a wife, a friend, and a home cook. And maybe you’ll find a word or two that encourages you. We’re in this together, after all. This thing called life. Around and around and around the sun we go.

toward courage

“I wish I could go back,” he said. “And undo all of my mistakes.”

We were cuddling before bed. Story time was over, he was getting sleepy, and then he throws down this one and I’m suddenly caught between nostalgia for my soon-to-be-ten-year-old and the worst case of parenting guilt I’ve felt for a while.

What on earth?! Dude is nine years old. What mistakes has he made that there is anything to regret? And what have I done as his mother to ensure this kind of pressure for perfection? I gulped.

“Mistakes? What do you mean Bud? What mistakes do you wish you could go back and undo?”
“That time I hit you.” He said. “And that time I didn’t catch my sister when she fell down the stairs. Those kinds of things.”

We were silent for a little while, each of us contemplating. I was desperately trying not to get swallowed up by my own conviction that once again I was failing this kid. And I knew he was mentally listing all the other things he wanted to undo.
I took a deep breath.

“Know what?”
“What?”
“I have a list of things I wish I could go back and undo too.”
“Really?”
“Oh yah. REALLY. None of us are perfect. Only God is perfect.”
My sweet red-head nodded.
“It must be nice not to make mistakes.”
“Someday we will be done making them. But until then, we get to learn from them.”
“Learn?”
“Yes,” I said. “Every mistake we make is an opportunity to learn and do something different next time. And you, Kiddo, are one of the best learners I’ve ever met.”
“Really?
“Really. And I’m so proud of you.”

I kissed him goodnight and he was sleeping in seconds, but I couldn’t stop revisiting his words and wondering—wondering—wondering what I was doing wrong that this thought would be anchored in the heart of my nine year old.

I wish I could go back and undo all my mistakes.

I told a girlfriend about it over drinks one night and tearfully confessed to feeling terribly inadequate to parent this kid—I felt like I was failing him. That perhaps somehow I had created an expectation for perfection. Something I had vowed never to do to to my kids.

She smiled and squeezed my hand.
“You’re taking too much credit,” she said. “And I mean that in the kindest way possible. You don’t get to be responsible for all his winnings or successes any more than you get to be responsible for all of his failings or shortcomings. We could be the best moms in the whole world and never make a mistake with our kids only to have them make their own horrible choices and ruin their lives. Also, we could be the worst moms ever and have our kids turn out absolutely amazing!”

I thought about that and then nodded, tearfully. She was right.
“I see you doing the best you can,” she continued. “And that is all any of us can do.”

All week I’ve been thinking about this. About doing my best. Not taking too much credit (for either the good or the bad) and loving my people well. —Not toward perfection, but toward something else. Toward courage, I guess. Courage to be honest and vulnerable and able to make the sort of mistakes that allow us to learn, and then forgive ourselves.

This isn’t a parenting blog, it’s a blog about food, mostly. And some writing. And doing right by both. But I’m also a mom. My kitchen is messy and my heart is messy, so I’m going to take one post a week—a weekend post—and blog about what it means, for me, to live bravely in all of the messes. As a mom, a wife, and a home cook. And maybe you’ll find a word or two that encourages you. We’re in this together, after all. This thing called life. Around and around and around the sun we go . . .

So here’s to messy kitchens and messy hearts. This is the stuff courage is made of. Take this brand new week to live in that direction. Mistakes and all, because they’re simply opportunities to learn and live bravely.

Be well!

—Beth