Because You Are Strong

The world doesn't get to define what makes a strong woman.

For centuries now, culture has lied to its ladies.

Large portions of the past are filled with a "women are possessions" type mentality. Women were inferior, weren't allowed to vote, and had no say in the management of their own money or resources. (Legally, that is. There have always been a handful of forward-thinking, gospel-driven men who saw things differently.)

Then, as the legal pendulum swung, women were allowed to vote, to work, to fight for rights in a court of law.

All of these are good.

But when the legal shift began to happen, little to no attention was paid to the theology behind being a woman. The crusade for women's rights was led by some godless, perverted women. And while God used them to accomplish some amazing things, they mobilized their arguments and attacks with little to no thought of what an appropriate view of women should be.

The only thought was: be like men. Or (if you're a little caustic and cynical), be better than men.

And that became our standard. For everything. For the jobs we pursued, the clothes we wore, the demeanor we put on, the physical prowess we tried to achieve.

Don't get me wrong, I love my yoga pants. I'm not advocating for a return to dresses. I enjoy voting, I'm glad I own my own property, and I'm thankful that there's legal recourse if someone wrongs me.

But when we began to fight those battles, we lost an important war.

The war of woman.

We now allow the world to tell us what makes us strong. We let the world tell us what makes us successful. We allow the world to tell us our place, our role, our strengths, and our future.

I have seen the world's definition of "successful" women, and let me tell you, they're lying to you.

We stand, shoulder to shoulder, as daughters of Christ, and sisters through Him... so I can be honest, right? Strength does not mean being able to pull an 18 hour work day and then come home to make cupcakes for your daughter's birthday. Strength does not mean having every single job a man has and doing it better. Strength does not mean calling the shots on your families size and long-term planning. Strength is not being able to meet all the expectations of your beautifully color-coded calendar.

Strength is not in your job, your salary, your amazing Pinterest projects, your well-behaved children, your tireless serving, your ceaseless cleaning, or your ceaseless-refusing-to-clean...

Sister, put down your self-righteous busyness (or laziness!), and breathe.

The joy of the Lord will be your strength. Remember when these words were spoken? In the midst of repeated moral failure. To a crowd of tired, over-worked, and desperate-for-good-things people. Nehemiah and a handful of faithful Israelites were trying to do the right thing. They were trying to rebuild a city, a temple, and a way of life. All I have to build today are some piles of clean laundry and a block tower...

Joy is your strength, friend. And not just any joy... joy that is firmly rooted in your Lord. The One who is calling the shots. The One who designed you as a woman. The One who is guiding every aspect of your life for your good.

So, put down your "strength." I don't know what that is. But I know some of my past and present "strengths." I've thought I was strong in my academics, my career, my job, my graduate school successes, my intellect, my health... I've struggled with trying to grab strength from people ("Do you like me?! I don't care. I do! Please like me! Or not... whatever."). Or from a clean house and a cuddle from a toddler. I've looked for strength in good days, manicures, successes, and accolades. Friend, I've hunted just about everywhere for strength. Put it down.

And pick up your joy.

I've fought for joy for years now. It is my heart-beat, my passion, and my delight. Just as I shared last week signs that your joy tank is empty, I want to leave you with some ways to fill it back up... God doesn't hand us a command like "Rejoice in the Lord always" just to watch us fail. He hands us a gracious, happy command, and then gently guides our feet down paths of truth as we obey.

1. Open your Bible. No. Stop. Listen to me. Don't open a devotional book, an inspirational story, or a Christian non-fiction best-seller. OPEN YOUR BIBLE. Open it EVERY DAY. Don't know where to start? Start in the Psalms. They are peace and balm to a weary, striving, (possibly dried up?) soul. You wouldn't skip chemo treatments if your body was dying. Don't skip Bible reading. Your soul needs it to fight the cancer of sin and despair.

2. Be thankful. In the book of Philippians, Paul is repeatedly giving thanks and urging others to give thanks. Key themes of Philippians? Suffering and joy. Paul was in prison during this letter writing. And yet he was thankful. Make yourself practice thankfulness. Keep a list. Write thank you notes. Have an entire prayer time each day in which you don't ask for anything, you only give thanks. The options are endless.

3. Read Christian Biographies. Seriously. Just do this. It's amazing. God gives us examples throughout scripture, but he has also shown himself faithful throughout the generations. Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I forget that a life lived for Christ is beautiful and joy-filled (regardless of the circumstances). I've included a list of my favorites on the side-bar of this blog. I really, really, really want you to dig into the joy that God has never failed to give his children.

The world doesn't get to define a strong woman.

God does.

The joy of the Lord will be your strength.

This is a promise. Dig your heals in and grab it.

The Sputtering Joy Tank of Mommyhood

I just spent all day potty training an emotional two year old.

Potty training. Two year old. Emotions.

ALL DAY.

My child apparently couldn't decide if the potty was going to eat her, or if it was her best friend. We just never knew. The tears and squeals were dynamic and unpredictable.

Her brother decided that he would try and go to the potty "like a big boy." Which means he stood up, and sprayed down half of my dining room as he attempted to hit the little training potty. This is my kid who is already "potty trained."

I should have created a Lysol stock portfolio. I would have made some money today.

I'm pretty sure my current sweatpants (yes, I wore massive sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt all day. I look amazing.), I'm fairly confident they have large amount of urine on them.

On top of this, my children chose to grab, push, scream, poke, squeal, and push boundaries all day. All day.

They went to bed early.

I probably will, too.

But I love being a mom.

I enjoy it. It is amazing.

When I say that, I've started to worry about what people are thinking. Our mommy culture is not conducive to thankfulness and excitement. Mommy culture feeds off of discontent, comparison (hello, the thief of joy), and "hard days." It's almost like, if you're a mom with a pretty Instagram feed and an excitement about your mommy challenges... well, then you must be faking. Stop being perfectionistic. Be transparent. Be real. Show me your mess so I can feel better about mine. Compare. Complain. Criticize.

I'm sitting here in questionable sweatpants telling you... that is not okay.

Being a mom is a beautiful, amazing, gospel-fulfilling, joyous calling.

You realize that you did not choose to become a mom. God let you become a mom. Some become moms traditionally. Some, not so traditionally. I love the "untraditional mommies." They're some of my favorite people.

From the dawn of time, God's used childbirth and the continuation of Adam's race to promise hope and proclaim his love.

God could have stopped making humans a long time ago. Honestly, even the best of us don't turn out that great. But he still forms small bodies, creates tiny souls, and grows little families.

That is amazing love.

Your life, your kids, the fact that you are dubbed, "mom" is an amazingly joyous blessing. A gospel-furthering blessing.

So, maybe our mommy culture has it backwards?

Maybe the potty puddles, the tantrums, and the dirty kitchens shouldn't break us and make us "real." Maybe these germy, sticky hurdles exist to make us fight for joy. Maybe we've covered cheap, breakable happiness in the veneer of "joy." Maybe that's why our mommy times are filled with hopelessness, bitterness, and comparison. When you step in a questionable puddle, as your children whine for fruit snacks, does the veneer crack? Does the good feeling break? Do despair, anger, frustration, hopelessness... do they come crowding in? Do you hide in the kitchen, stuffing chocolate in your mouth, quietly sobbing to yourself?

No?

Just me?

Because if that happens, you've exchanged brilliant, diamond-hard joy, for a cheap trinket.

Motherhood is hard.

Um, hello. Obviously.

It's part of life.

Life is hard. Because of sin. And the curse. And the fact that Jesus hasn't come back.

But it's not joyless. It is enjoyable!

I get it. Griping is easier. More fun (in the moment). Everyone likes a good horror story.

But that's not what you're called to.

You are called to joy. I love Nehemiah 8:10. It says, "Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." This hope was not spoken into a day of successes and triumph. This was spoken to the children of Israel as they heard the law of the Lord read. As they heard countless laws they had broken, ways they had failed, weaknesses they had ignored. And they began to sob.

Sound like a rough day in mommyhood?

Are you there? Feeling weak, alone, like a failure?

The joy of the Lord is your strength.

I love joy. It's my heart-beat. My passion. My gasoline. What keeps me going. And I've learned, over years of battling for joy, triggers and sign-posts that I've slipped from my path of joy and started beating around in brambles of fake happiness. I've listed several below.

Signs of joyless living:

1. Your prayer life is like a cut-out sugar cookie. Same thing. Every day. Or perhaps something you only use on special occasions.

2. You don't enjoy singing with others on Sunday morning.

3. You criticize other people constantly. Because you know how to do things better. Obviously.

4. You have no sympathy for the pains of others. Or rather, your problems are bigger.

5. Small, earthly blessings, like puddles of sunshine, warm coffee, comfy clothes, a clean kitchen counter, no longer result in a prayer of thanksgiving. 

6. You don't read my Bible. Or you read it, close it, and walk away bored.

7. You make excuses for habitual sins. In fact, the old sins, your comfortable bad habits, usually grow a little stronger.

8. Scrolling through Facebook or Instagram or Pinterest doesn't elicit feelings of interest, but rather cattiness, comparison, hopelessness, derision, and scorn.

9. Your husband can't do anything right.

How's your joy tank, friend?

What I'm standing here saying after a brutal mommy day is, "It doesn't have to be like that!" Tough days don't have to crack you. You can sit down, in the midst of chaos and smile, laugh (not from insanity!), and redirect your family to truth. You can. And I'm not saying that because my life is perfect.

I'm saying it because my God made it that way.



(to be continued)

Hello, 2016, I shake you warmly by the hand

As the title suggests, I'm at probably Willy Wonka levels in my sugar/sweetness/candy intake (note the subtle salute to this great and creepy movie). The holidays got me, and they got me good. Even though everything is "technically" tummy healthy, you can't eat pints of coconut milk ice cream and almond meal chocolate chip cookies for days on end... they always find you.

So, as I stood in the line at the grocery store, debating between roasted nuts and blackberries, I was largely oblivious to the scraggly haired man staring me down.

"So... Pennsylvania Boilermaker, huh?" He was commenting on my sweatshirt, which I had stolen from my husband. It is blazoned, with gold letters: Pennsylvania Boilermaker. I love it. 

"Oh, yes, it's a salute to my alma mater, Purdue University."

"Eh, I'm a unionized contractor/plumber. I know all about boilermakers. But I'm not doing that work any more."

I tilt my head politely and fake smile. You know the one. The smile that says, "I'm so unbelievably gracious, but I have little to no interest in talking to you." Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.

"Yeah... I had a surgery. Can't be doin' that plumbin' no more. I have a scar..." And he begins to hoist his pant leg.

I back politely away, "Oh, that's too bad." But it's too late, he's hiked his pants up, way past his knees, and he's showing me an eight inch scar up his thigh. Way up his thigh.

He then proceeds to tell me about his 16 year old daughter, his contracting woes, his lawyer's advice (apparently, someone is being sued for the horrible surgery he had to go through).

As I meander slowly down the aisle, occasionally backing away politely, he follows me relentlessly.

I hear about how young he is (the guy looks 60+, but apparently he's in his 40s.), I hear about how finding work is hard, I hear about his views on free handouts (he thinks you should take them even if you don't need them), etc., etc., etc. We probably conversed for 10-15 minutes next to the chips. I don't eat chips. He didn't seem to need chips, but there we stood.

And I started grinning.

Because apparently, God wanted to give me a jump start on my new year's goals.

I love new years. Love them.

I love new notebooks, fresh goals, crisp spreadsheets, and planning. I love dreaming of possibilities, and picturing new successes. I know that most of my counterparts are a little jaded. A little tired. A little weary. New years don't always hold the appeal that they should.

And I'm here to say, "I'm sorry."

It doesn't have to be that way.

In 2015, I entered the year battling massive lies and worries. I made 3 goals. I didn't think I could handle any more. I was right.

My biggest goal was that I would steadfastly cling to the fact that I was "beloved" by God, and that I could peacefully abide in Him. I didn't know what abiding looked like. And I didn't feel very loved.

But I learned something. God likes it when our goals are in pursuit of Him. When it's not a waistline, better life, prosperity goal. He loves it when we picture a deficiency, cry out to Him, and run in truth. Day after day.

You need goals. You need to identify weaknesses. You need to plan to change. Because while the Holy Spirit does tremendous things with our weakness and blind willingness, he can also work so much more powerfully through intentional running, and crying, and clinging, and seeking.

Goals help you do this.

I can say, without the slightest reservation, that God changed my soul this year. My heart is filled with peace, and I am wrapped in the unconditional love of my Savior. I am more aware of what abiding, daily seeking, daily relying on my Savior looks like. I'm not flawless, obviously, but I've grown, and I'm so unbelievably thankful.

Enter 2016.

I started praying two weeks ago about my plan for 2016. And like a typhoon, a lightning bolt, and a tsunami, the truth came crashing in on me. That still small voice whispered in a decimating way, "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near."

I am not gentle. I desperately want to be. But I tend strongly towards sledgehammer, just-do-it, suck-it-up-chump, tendencies. But after a year of experiencing the unconditional grace and love of my Father, I realized that I desperately need to show the same love to others.

Which is probably why God chose to kick off my new year's celebration prep with a lonely, grizzled old(ish) man in a super-market. He needed some grace and gentleness. 

So your new year's party may be a bummer (I don't think I've been to one that wasn't...), but 2016 doesn't have to be. Praying that you find the grace and grit to dig into the new year. I'll be waiting here, ready to listen, because, after all, gentleness does a lot of listening. 

Happy 2016!

When The Most Wonderful Time of The Year... Isn't

I cry in the bathroom almost every Christmas.

Sob.

Quietly. Alone.

Christmas movies and songs with bells in them... they tell me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. And everyone loves that. It's bright, and sparkly, and gift-wrapped. But the truth is, life doesn't go on hold during the month of December.

I cried because I was single. I cried because I was dating. I cried because I was sick. I cried because I didn't feel healthy enough. I cried because I looked ugly in my Christmas outfit. I cried because my grandma wasn't there. I cried because someone else was there. I cried because I had no children. I cried because my child came and was terrifyingly tiny and sick. I cried because I was alone. I cried because there were so many people. I cried because of my sin, because of someone else's sin, because of some unknown longing and gnawing that just wouldn't quit.

Life doesn't pause in December.

And sometimes all the gaiety and merriment just makes your ache that much more profound.

It makes you wonder if this is it. Is this my happiness? Even in the wonderful moments, there's the knowledge, "this won't last forever... crap. I hate packing up ornaments..."

I'm telling you this because my life is idyllic. It's ideal. My family is amazing, my husband is phenomenal, my children are undeserved blessings.

And I still felt this gnawing emptiness.

Let's just be honest. If I have felt it, surrounded by all my earthly peace and blessings... surely I'm not alone.

My kids have several Little People books. The people are fat and chunky, the mountains in the background are flat and a weird color purple. All the buildings and surroundings are symmetrical and pastel colored. While it looks quite cheerful, in reality, it's all a poor, flat representation of life.

That's where we're living. We're chunky Little People. Our surroundings are flat and boring. We don't know any better. This is our world. But someday, we will see true beauty. Just as a person who has only seen purple mountain blobs, would fall down dead in shock at the power of the Rocky Mountains, so will you and I gasp in amazement at the power a beauty of heaven.

This is not the ultimate home coming. This is not the end. All the beautiful decorations, the amazing food, the gifts, the hugs, the family... it's just a cheap, bumbling representation of eternity.

The past several Christmases, I haven't sobbed in the bathroom. Because I know this is only a flat representation of true joy. It's wonderful. But it's not the most wonderful.

When my to do list is too long, when relationships are stressful, when the glitter keeps falling off my Pinterest ornaments and the tape keeps popping off my carefully wrapped presents... I take a deep breath.

"I have calmed and quieted my soul." I breath out David's peace. "I have calmed and quieted my soul." This is not all there is. This is not ultimate happiness. This is not my satisfaction. And I say with the psalmist, "Oh, Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forever more." God, may my hope be in you, in your steadfast love, in your faithfulness to save, in your unchanging goodness. My hope is not in my family, my presents, my traditions, my glitter... It's in my GOD.

So, withdraw to that bathroom. It's okay to feel this way. But take that deep longing, that dissatisfaction, that overwhelmed fatigue, and cry out to God. Ask for a quiet soul. Ask that God would be your hope.

The most wonderful time of the year... isn't actually that wonderful. It's just a sample. Better things are coming. This I can promise you.

Merry Christmas.

He Loved Them To The End

He spent nine months in a uterus.

He grew fingers, toes, a brain, and skin.

He was squeezed through a birth canal.

He sat in poopy diapers.

He learned the walk, talk, run, and play.

The God of the universe who knows chemistry and physics we haven't even discovered.

He had siblings antagonize him.

A faulty father, whose every sin was laid before his Son, was his teacher.

He went to Hebrew school to learn the very Word of God. The Word that He himself had spoken.

He went through puberty.

The God who was, is, and always will be unchanging... had pimples.

He recruited followers. They were blind, stupid, and arrogant. He lived every day with them for three years, and entrusted the spread of the gospel to them despite their ignorance.

He had aching feet.

He got dirty. His hair was greasy.

He experienced damp, uncomfortable clothing, money issues, and lack of food.

The God who perfectly created all food, humans, and animals, joined us in our sin-filled discomfort.

He cast out demons and was accused of being a demon.

He helped people and was driven from their town.

He was abused and hunted down for his willingness to heal.

He was rarely thanked.

He taught constantly. Nobody listened.

He lived perfectly. People still watched for him to fail, laid traps to trick him, and rooted for his down-fall.

He got tired. Bone-wearing, dead-dog, debilitatingly tired.

He was compassionate and gentle to the shy and timid.

He told his followers of the suffering, tragedy, and brutal trial that was coming. He told them again and again. They didn't listen. They just wanted to know which one of them was the most important.

He told them again. They fell asleep, with bellies full of food that he gave them, and he was left alone. With no friends. No prayer warriors. No one listening.

He was blameless. And he was arrested.

In a trial that fell apart because all the witnesses were lying, he alone told the truth. This truth caused the judges to rip their robes and wail and claim that the sham trial was over because he had accused himself. The lie of a trial was over because of the truth. And they claimed it was blasphemy.

He was quiet. People hurled angry, egotistical, jealous accusations.

He was beaten. He had made the muscles and sinews of each arm that beat him. He controlled the life breath of each man who mocked him. He did not stop them.

And then, after all this, he was skewered to beams of wood to die. He who caused trees to grow, who gave men minds to create good things, who designed the human body.

After all this... he was left alone.

The most precious, treasured, nurtured, constant love of his Father. The God he repeatedly withdrew to pray with, who sustained him, who nurtured him, who walked with him through the difficulty and humiliation of being a man and being God... He left.

He was alone. Pierced, throbbing, aching, despised, spit covered, misunderstood, lied about, ignored.

Alone.

"He loved them to the end." (John 13:1) This phrase sprang off the page at me. In the midst of pain, betrayal, discomfort, and sin... Jesus willfully chose to love us. Till the end. The power, the life-saturating force of this love is staggering. That in the moments when he was alone, when his body was ripped wide and throbbing, when his Best Friend and his Father did not look at him: he loved them to the end. When his mind could have filled with self-pity or anger, he chose to plant it firmly in love.

"For His steadfast love endures forever." (Ps. 106:1).

And then with a loud cry, he breathed his last.

"Truly this man was the Son of God!"(Mark 15:39)

Grant Alexander {Happy 3rd Birthday!}

Happy Birthday, Grant!

What a delightful whirlwind this past year has been. You took everyone's shudders and predictions about the "terrible twos" and you toppled them with 12 months of amazing growth, love, and joy. You're our precious gift, and we will never stop thanking God for bringing you into our family. 

Our wonderful first-born. Our precious son. We pray passionate prayers for your salvation, and we delight in seeing your tenderness and sensitivity towards the gospel. We are in awe of the little person that God has created, and we daily lift up the prayer that you will glorify God with the multitude of gifts we already see in your life. Grow strong, little son. Strong in body, strong in mind, but most importantly, strong in love and character. You are our gift. Our defender of the weak. Our Grant Alexander. Happy 3rd Birthday!

Character {at age 3}

Grant continues to amaze us with his willingness to learn and his consistent tenderheartedness. He is incredibly sensitive to the needs of his mother and he enjoys "helping" the kids around him. His playmates are mainly girls, so his awareness of being gentle with "princesses" is growing. He loves to hold doors, wash dishes, and lift heavy loads. He loves to meet needs and delights in fetching and carrying for his little playmates. He has a special place in his heart for weaker people and animals. He carries around the medical toys he got last Christmas and is forever checking people's (and stuffed animals') heart beats and reflexes. 

His strengths include an incredible attention to detail. He notices the tiniest change or alteration. We are very proud of the fact that he has begun to view change as an exciting thing. Fear no longer dominates his detailed observations, and we are incredibly proud of him for his increased flexibility and his new catch phrase/shoulder shrug, "It happens, Mommy."

Grant is consistently peaceful and joyful. His teachers in "school" (the Bible study we go to once a week!) repeatedly remark on his cheerfulness and forever-smiling. 

Milestones {at age 3}

Grant is my super-athlete. He loves running, jumping, climbing, throwing, and pummeling. This past year he's started learning to ride a bike (which he can barely reach the pedals on!), he went through a phase where everything was turned into a basketball hoop, and he loves to push/pull other children around in wagons, tractors, blankets, etc. This boy craves physical activity. We spend a large part of each day outside, and he is in heaven. 

Grant has learned to sing his ABCs and he can identify several letters. He knows his colors, animals, and a surprising number of tractor/construction equipment names. He loves "school," and likes to color, trace, and count (1-12 is solid, after that... the numbers get very creative sounding!). 

Grant is potty trained! Yay! (Sorry, son, if you're reading this as a teenager, but when you have a kid you'll understand.) I'm so thankful for the decrease in diaper spending. Hallelujah.

Favorites {at age 3}

Grant is a very good eater. Recently, he's developed an affinity for salad, and he even tries to filch lettuce from other people's plates when they're not looking. He loves french fries, "sauces" (i.e. salt, pepper, or anything his can sprinkle/dip), crushed ice, cheese sticks, grapes and strawberries. The one food that Grant still doesn't like are eggs. If I disguise them with potatoes, cheese, and veggies, he loves them. But a basic scrambled egg... ah, that he hates. 

Grant loves building things with Duplos, playing outside, and anything artistic. He loves painting, coloring, cutting, and scribbling. He loves playing basketball and football. He enjoys washing dishes, cleaning, and helping "Boo-Boo" (as he calls his little sister). 

His favorite things to watch are "Aristocats," "Mater's Tall Tales" (yes, this infatuation has lasted over a year... **sigh**), and "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood."

His favorite color is orange.

And he likes his bear pajamas. I think this is largely because the bear is brushing his teeth. Grant also really, really, really likes dental hygiene. 

We read for over 30 minutes a day, and we could probably read for several hours. He loves books and analyzing illustrations and "reading" along with Mommy. 

Grant loves his extended family. Videos, pictures, silly stories. He loves it all. We talk about his family often. And he thinks they're just the best people ever.

Grant has begun to learn about adoption. While we have always told him his amazing birth story and we pray almost every night for his birth parents, this past year, he began to understand what it means. He loves the fact that he has an adopted daddy just like Jesus had an adoptive daddy. He understands the concept that he didn't grow in Mommy's tummy, and he is very okay with that. He has even started asking pregnant ladies if they are growing another baby for his mommy! He enjoys the fact that God planned his story such a long time ago. And he loves hearing about how tiny he was, and how he looked like a little tiny raisin, but Mommy still thought he was the most beautiful baby in the world. 

Everyone is so quick to say that adoption exists because the world is broken. But adoption also exists because God brought hope. While walking through this with my son raises many questions for him (and Mommy battles insecurities and fear), I'm delighted in God working in my son's heart, even at this young age, to show him the beauty of his story and the power of true love. Not fluffy feelings-based love... but dying, life-giving, bleeding, forever love.

Dear son, you are our miracle, our blessing, and our joy. We could not be more thrilled at God's writing of your story, and your willingness to listen to it with joy and peace. We pray that you will follow the Savior who died to ransom you. And we pray that the many gifts, passions, strengths, and even weaknesses that God has designed in you would be used to highlight the glory of the God who wrote your story before the foundation of the world. You are our precious gift.

Happy Birthday, Grant! We love you!

Busy Mama, I'm Tired, Too

I'm picking fake pine needles out of my finger nails, and there's something that tried to be pumpkin spice granola congealing on the kitchen counter next to me. The house is decorated. I'm trying to make holiday gift bags, and I've stepped on the same cold lump of sweet potato three times.

This time of year is hard on mamas, ya'll.

Several days ago, after valiantly battling dirt (both figurative and literal) in my children's lives all day, I collapsed. My husband walked in the door, handed me the car keys and a Starbucks gift card, and don't you know, I pealed out of our driveway so fast they could probably hear the tires squealing two towns over.

I was wearing black yoga pants (the stay-at-home mom standard uniform) a brown cashmere sweater (because all my sweatshirts were dirty) and a black and white striped shirt. I was wearing socks with shoes that should never have socks with them. And as I huddled in the corner of Starbucks, I dumped a coconut milk latte down the front of myself as I fumbled for caffeine and my sanity.

Motherhood is hard.

And you know when it gets harder? When you really, really, really try. Anyone can be a mom for a day. Or a week. Or  a month. All it takes is a ready supply of "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood," animal crackers, and coffee. Honestly, some days of motherhood are a breeze. Plop kids down in front of a TV (or an "iPLad" as it is affectionately known in our house.), then enjoy your third cup of coffee, throw some mac'n'cheese their way at lunch time, and try to get everyone in bed and comatose by 7. No biggie.

But when you try... when you discipline, when you try to review Sunday school lessons and they don't listen. When you try story time, craft time, teaching time, meal time... and you enter each activity with a goal, with a purpose, with a direction (that your kids couldn't care less about). THAT'S when it gets tough.

We hear it over and over and over and over, "Disciple your kids. Teach your kids. Invest in your kids."

Guess what.

That's exhausting. It's hard. It's brutal. It's grueling. It's not a pretty Hallmark Card, it's a failed Jackson Pollock.

We think glowing white Instagram perfection.

We get cold sweet potatoes stuck to the bottoms of our feet.

When we expect kids to sit still, when we require immediate obedience, when we dish out consequences for both good and bad behavior, when we faithfully study our children and design environments and tasks to encourage strengths and bolster weaknesses... that's when it's hard. It's exhausting. It's minute by minute faithfulness. It's discipleship.

So, I'm here, as one tired mama to another, wanting to help. If I could, I would pour you a cup of coffee and we could sob and laugh and celebrate and moan over this tricky road of parenting.

I can't really do that... So, I'm offering this: The Busy Mom's Advent Calendar. Here's the deal: there are only 12 days. If you're like me you will forget some days, so this guarantees there's no irreparable falling behind. You could even (almost!) get through it twice before Christmas! It comes with a little teaching paragraph for each day.

Just go up to the top, right-hand corner of this blog and click "Subscribe," and I'll pop this little advent calendar in your mailbox today. Easy-peasy. (Please be aware, emails may not arrive until around 4 p.m. on the date you request this calendar.)

Just print it double sided, cut along the lines, and you're ready to go. No folding, no glueing, no elaborate set-up. Just a basic little tool to help you with your teaching and discipleship during this sticky-peppermint season with your littles.

I laminated mine (because I'm addicted to laminating. Hard core. In love. LAMINATE-ALL-THE-THINGS!), and we used little clothes pins for kicks and giggles (because hello, Target dollar section, you clearly have my number).

The separate daily pictures come together to make one big picture highlighting multiple aspects of Christ's advent. As a kid I always liked uncovering the whole picture. It's how my mom got me to eat oatmeal: she put it in a bowl with a picture at the bottom.

I still don't like oatmeal. But that bunny bowl was pretty amazing.

I love you, tired mama. And I'm with you. And next time you see a mismatched, bleary-eyed, mascara-crumbling, poorly dressed woman huddled in the corner of your Starbucks... just smile understandingly. And maybe buy her a peppermint latte.

Nope. Scratch that. Definitely buy her a peppermint latte.

Motherhood is hard, ya'll. Let's be faithful soldiers together. Happy Advent!