christmas letters and blogs

"There are two things that make me laugh: blogs and Christmas letters," he smugly began. He proceeded to pontificate about why lonely people choose to spend so much self-absorbed time and resource on these two laughable pastimes.

Christmas letters and blogs. CHRISTMAS LETTERS AND BLOGS... I know what you are thinking if you a know A THING about me. Could any two things scream Abi T more than Christmas letters and blogs?

Perhaps I am deeply and utterly alone. Perhaps I am so self-righteous and so self-absorbed that I must devote an entire web log to myself, another to my family, another to my business and then, as if that wasn't enough of me, then, I find it necessary to tell everybody about it once a year. Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

With all due respect (oh no, here she goes...), I believe that there is more.

Perhaps for some, there is peace, solace and a healing outlet in the cathartic world of Christmas letters and blogs. Perhaps they offer a means by which to stay meaningfully connected to oneself and to others. Perhaps they are a precursor to community. Perhaps they are the only vehicles by which some are able to expose pieces of themselves and allow themselves to be unveiled because they have been mocked and ridiculed or simply overlooked in the "real" world. Perhaps they are the only reason that some will actually download pictures off their digital cameras. Perhaps some people just need to process. Perhaps they may begin with social commentary that sparks compassionate action and ends with prolific, eternal gain. Perhaps they are the canvas upon which a masterpiece is painted or a timeless epic is drafted. Perhaps they are the person with whom one can share that random, but insanely funny thought he had on the way home. Perhaps they are the means by which a woman can share the testimony of her dying son with tens of thousands of people around the world and proclaim the mighty name and grace and love and mercy of Jesus in a way that it can finally be heard.

Perhaps, kind sir, you are reading the wrong letters and blogs.

Perhaps if you look more closely, you will find story and after meaningful story of struggles and joy, pain and endurance, significance and banality, love and loss. Perhaps you will realize that many people would keep writing whether or not anyone was reading. Perhaps you will encounter a rant or two, or perhaps you will find poetry. Perhaps you will become a part of somebody's story - the legacy of someone who was purposed and fashioned in the image of the master architect, artist, storyteller and blog author. Perhaps you will laugh or perhaps you will cry or perhaps you will find a bit of yourself if you stop laughing and start listening. Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

mommy

There was a moment. I think it was right after that final push, when my baby... a girl?!?!?... emerged and they put her on my chest. I sobbed - relieved, overwhelmed, overjoyed - eternally and instantaneously transformed. One second I was me, then the next I was more; I was a mommy.

I remember wondering both times I was pregnant, "How will I know what to do?"

"You just know," someone told me.

I'm still blown away by the fact that she was right.

Prior to January 2004, I could sleep through anything... everything. I couldn't be aroused, couldn't be disturbed and certainly couldn't HEAR anything once my head hit the pillow. But the moment I brought my baby girl home... amazingly, I could still sleep through everything but one thing: my child. Suddenly, I could hear her breathe, hear her sigh, hear her cry - all the way down the hall, behind a closed door. I was a mommy, and I could hear my baby.

Tonight, as my son was half asleep, fishing for his passy, in his room across the house, I could hear and feel him. I was roused from the deepest of sleep, to help my son. We shared a brief, sweet moment just now. I loved on him, put him back down, and he drifted back to sleep. I just knew.

Sometimes, I still can't believe that I have two children. I'll see or hear them, then realize, "Those are mine?!?!?" I'm a mommy. I'm THEIR mommy. I hear my kids. When they are upset, in the depths of my being, I know what to do. I am wired to love them how they need to be loved. We are connected. I hear and feel them from across the room, or around the corner, or down the hall...

Recently a friend asked me, "So, how do you know what to do?"

Without even thinking about it, I responded. "You just know."

I am absolutely in awe that God put this in me. Absolutely in awe.

OK, back to bed.

after

Think back, if you will, about five months to the deepest, darkest, DIRTIEST secret I disclosed in 2006. Do you remember? Perhaps I should refresh your memory...

(Cue the basement theme song... )

horns:
bah.......... Bah.......... BAH.......... BAH, BUM

percussion:
bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum...

horns:
bah.......... Bah.......... BAH.......... BAH, BUM

percussion:
bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum...


Yes... NOW you remember
(though everything within you tried to forget).

Well, I am thrilled to report that after two plus years of DEEP denial, five more months of absolute dread and dismay over the prospect of actually DEALING with my problem, and three intense days in the dungeon of my house, this disaster...


...is a now a distant memory in my past.

Say hello to the present (you are NOT going to believe this)...




Step 4 - the recovery... check.

Consider us RECOVERED.

YESSSSSSSS!

my toes

Do you remember that Judy Blume book from the third grade: "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." No. Actually, I think it was called "Blubber". Do you remember "Blubber?"

Judy Blume. There is someone I haven't thought about in a LONG time. She was such a pivotal figure in my prepubescence - one of the first to let me in on the enigmatic secrets of becoming a woman. I wonder how Judy Blume is doing... I wonder what Judy Blume is doing... I digress.

So anyway, "Blubber." Honestly I remember very little from that book, other than the obvious. There was this line, however, near its conclusion that came to mind this morning.

"I can see my toes," she said.

After a lifetime of burden - years of carrying around baggage that blinded this little girl to what was behind, beneath, around and within her - finally, she let it go. After searching and working and finally surrendering, she eventually looked down, and for the first time, she saw her toes.

There was a moment this morning, when I felt like she felt. This is a lot to get into. Far more than I intend to disclose at 4:30 in the morning, but the short of the long is that I can see my toes. For years I have been weary - carrying around burdensome baggage, blinded by a figurative (and somewhat literal) belly of extra weight. Even in the years when the scale read what I wanted, I was lost and unable to find pieces of myself. Somewhere down deep, I was crying out, "Are you there God? It's me, Abi."

Today - this morning - I can see my toes.

I feel free. I feel light. I feel joyful and peaceful and thankful and blessed. Lies that have bound me for years are unraveling. Boulders of mistruth and deception and isolation that once pinned me to the floor have rolled away.

"Come to me," He has gently enticed year after year, pound after pound, "and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your soul. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light..."

This morning I looked up, then down. I looked within and around and realized that He is here, that I am free and for the first time... ever... I can see my toes.

blog slacker

What is my DEAL? It's been weeks. No words, just thoughts. I have SO much to say. I am full... overflowing, yet totally and completely overwhelmed and devoid of the right words. Maybe I should take my own advice. Just start, right? Indeed.

Not today (sigh).

hard to say goodbye

It's been a little while, hasn't it? I'm not sure how more than two weeks have passed since I wrote last. I suppose I've had a lot going on and a lot on my mind (You would think that this would be my cue to write something groundbreaking or profound). Not so, not so.

Actually, I've been thinking about a pair of pants.

Do you have that pair of pants? You know, the pair that hugs you in all the right places, hides your flaws, accentuates your assets. Jeans, maybe. The fit is just right - EVEN out of the dryer. Perhaps you are the proud owner of the perfect little black dress or an impeccably-tailored power suit that just looks good or the classic shoe of all shoes.

Sadly, I have no idea what it's like to be you.

My pair of pants is ANYTHING but perfect. If you have known me for any length of time, you've seen the pants that I'm talking about. Through my days as a bachelorette, through marriage, three jobs, two pregnancies and two babies, who are now toddlers, I have shamelessly worn these tattered, elastic-wasted, stretched out, non-descript, shapeless, black-faded-to-something-not-so-black pants.

I'm that girl - the one you see in the grocery store with her nasty pants dragging on the floor. The one at whom you shake your head wondering how and why she made THE CHOICE to put on those raggedy knickers that do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for her. The walking, talking episode of What Not To Wear, proudly parading in a pathetic excuse for pants... yeah, that's me.

The worst part is that I KNOW. I can't blame it on ignorance. I KNOW. I know how horrible those pants looked three years ago, (let alone last week) yet I continued to wear them. Shameless.

The good news is that I decided enough's enough, while I was out one day last week. I bought not one, but THREE pairs of comfortable, yet practical workout pants to replace my vice. I made the call and told Paul that the end of an era had come. It was time for us to say goodbye. He actually squealed.

The bad news is that that was 10 days ago.

"I'll just wash them one more time, before I throw them away" I said to myself. Then I proceeded to stick them back in my drawer.

"I just have to wait until ARC or DAV or Salvation Army comes back to our neighborhood," I momentarily convinced myself.

"I'll just wear them when I paint," I even rationalized last night.

I guess you could say that I'm having a hard time letting go. Regretfully, I simply cannot promise that I will ever throw my pants away. With that said, however, should you ever see me walking around in public in those dilapidated black pants, you have my permission to smack me.