The M&M Story

I don't like my thighs.  Never have, and probably never will.  There is just *a lot* of them--more than I want. And I know the filter from my brain to my mouth is rather thin. Rice paper thin. "Did I really just say that out loud?"  And then there is the issue of my independence.  Funny how I still think I am totally in control, yet clearly I am wrong. Create the earth? No. Make the sun shine? No. Decide how the story ends?  Not really. But the thing is...despite all my shortcomings, flaws, and insecurities, I'm beautiful. Way beautiful.   Stunning, as Lucy Van Pelt would say.   And my life is beautiful. Way beautiful. Stunning, in fact.  Grace. Again.  Beautiful, Beautiful by Francesca Battistelli Don’t know how it is You looked at me And saw the person that I could be Awakening my heart Breaking through the dark Suddenly Your grace Like sunlight burning at midnight Making my life something so Beautiful, beautiful Mercy...

I'm way behind on posting--there are so many beautiful tidbits that come from the "mouths of babes." I'm at the tail end of being a part of a musical (behind the scenes, of course), still adjusting to married life and systems we have yet to create, and continuing to learn the delicate balance of work/family/play. But...onto the beautiful tidbit.  Now this one occurred at 5:45 this morning and I was half asleep, so I'm sure I will miss most of the details. But M came into our bed and snuggled up close announcing--"Mommy, I had another bad dream."  This, by the way, occasionally happens.  We all have them, yes? My sweet son proceeded to tell me about people chasing him, they turned into zombies and then he said, "and that translated into me running as fast as I could to safety.  Then I woke up." I often have the same dream (though not sure I've been chased by zombies--more like the sleestaks from Land of the Lost)--and it struck me that ...

M:  Hey, Mommy, if there was a contest between Michaelangelo and DaVinci for the best artist, do you know who I would vote for? Mommy:  Who? M:  DaVinci. He made that important statue of David. But did you know that David was naked in the statue?  And had no arms? This conversation took place right after Max had gone to the bathroom and taken a shower. I smiled realizing that my 8-year-old, not-so-little boy was thinking about century old artists.   Yep, kind of beautiful. 

M sees a moth on the ground and promptly stomps on it. B's response:  "Max! You just killed God's (pronounced gawd's) creation!"

Until We Are Broken, Our Lives Will Be Self-Centered True strength does not come out of bravado. Until we are broken, our life will be self-centered, self-reliant; our strength will be our own. So long as you think you are really something in and of yourself, what will you need God for? I don't trust a man who hasn't suffered; I don't let a man get close to me who hasn't faced his wound. Think of the posers you know-are they the kind of man you would call at 2:00 A.M., when life is collapsing around you? Not me. I don't want cliches; I want deep, soulful truth, and that only comes when a man has walked the road I've been talking about.  As  Frederick Buechner  says, To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do-to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst-is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yoursel...

Two weeks after my first husband entered the gates of heaven, I fell in love with Elphaba.  I didn't mean to--especially after everything I'd been through--but it was hard not to be infatuated with the green-skinned beauty who--well--defied gravity.  For many, many years--I would spend at least six Sunday nights a year with my BFF from high school seeing some of the greatest (and not so greatest) shows in history at the Fox Theatre-- Jekyll and Hyde, Bring on Da Noise, Bring on Da Funk, Footloose, Fosse --too many to count and then there was Wicked . After every show, I would call Brian on the way home and talk him through all the amazing (or not so amazing) points of the show, even so much as acting out my favorite part when I walked in the door at 10:30 p.m.  So it was a little bit off-setting when--on a late November evening--I didn't have anyone to call after I had encountered my soul sister.  My loving and most gentle little brother was the recipient of my phone...

Last week I got married. Graciously—for a second time. My first go around donned the dress, the veil, the church, the 300 people. This time it was different. On the beach, with best friends and family. Sand and sea. Barefoot. Champagne brunch on a rooftop. Evening gathering, filled with immeasurable love and laughter. I could not have designed anything more perfect. Even with all its imperfections. As I’ve reflected on that moment of pure grace, I keep dancing around the great biblical notion of privileged suffering. Maybe it’s all those years in Los Angeles when I first learned of the “very important people’ concept—being on the list for On the Rox, getting in the side door with Vince Vaughn or hanging with Prince in the VIP room. Name-dropping. Walking on the red carpet. The Deserved. The Entitled. But what if the deserved didn’t get to be first? Instead, they were last? VIP suffering, maybe? As I’ve traversed life as a widow—one without a partner but never alone...