*Quick shout out to Mr. Ocean for owning that title phrase until the end of time. I mean, you know you started singing it.


I haven't written in a bit. I'm going to just let this flow and not edit myself (sidebar, I just came back up here to add the part about not editing myself which is itself, an edit. Oh boy). It may not make a ton of sense but there is so much on my heart today. These last two weeks I have been running on empty. I keep hoping that at some point things will just fall into place and make sense. That I will suddenly know how to be a stay at home mom and maybe even start trying to keep house a little.  If you know me at all, you know that housework aint my bag. And now that I have two little humans, it falls even further back on the list of important things. But I digress. And then there was Daddy. He was sinking too. But for different reasons. Depression, anxiety, and a daughter 3000 miles away are his beasts (don't worry, I'm not an asshole. He knows I am writing this). The idea that my babies' emotional and physical health is being held in mine and his shaky hands is a topic that is often circling in my heart. I have a feeling it is for many parents.  So these last few weeks we have struggled. A lot. With finding peace again. And also being grateful for what it is we have instead of lamenting what it is we don't have. We are hoping to find our Christmas spirit stat. Every time Mr. Pants sees Christmas lights while driving in the car, he exclaims "ahhhh!" while pointing at the spectacular sight his little eyes are experiencing. And Plum's delight in crawling under the Christmas tree while trying to make sense of the mystery that is tinsel.  These things bring me back to what I believe in. The meaning of all of this. My purpose (cue dramatic music).

So when I drove past the sign in front of my church the other day to see that the service for Sunday was titled "Living with Purpose", well you know I had to go. I hadn't been to church in weeks and I knew I needed it. And so did Daddy. So we scrambled the kids, dealt with a diaper explosion at the last minute and Mr Pants' desire to run naked and not get dressed. Come hell or high water, I was getting my family to church. Period. And I am so grateful that we made it. 

For both of us, the tears began to flow almost instantly. We've both been wound a bit tight lately. I've talked before about the emotions I feel when I sing. Well, that held true this morning the second I began singing the doxology..."From all that dwell below the skies, let songs of hope and faith arise; Let peace, good will on earth be sung through every land, by every tongue". Tears. Tears that had been waiting to come. Needing released. And they didn't stop there. By the time the service was over, I had been touched on just about every level. From the story of "Sloppy Joe" about a kid that was a messy mess (hey! I got one of those!) to singing the children out to their classrooms, "You've got the light of love inside you, go on your way in peace...", to meditation, to praying for peace and love to rise up for the Hubs and I, to the sermon.  That's the Readers Digest version but you get the point. I sat in church this morning and I cried. Tears of release and anxiety followed by tears of beauty, then tears of sadness as our minister shared a devastating truth. Then tears of release again, rounded out by tears of hope. Hope that no matter what comes at us in this life, there is always healing. There is always love. Even in times of sadness and pain when we feel like we can not trudge through another day. Love waits on the other side. 

What I came to understand this week is that I have to be willing to do the work. And this shit is hard work. But the work has to be done. You have to go through the muck to get to the love that waits. The struggle to be our best self is a daily challenge. At least it is for me. And while I get it right a great amount of the time, sometimes I just don't. Or Daddy doesn't. And on rare occasions, we both miss the mark at the same time. But we made a pledge to each other a while back that we would love each other through these kind of  times (I think my vows even stated clearly, "even if I barf them out all over the internets"). The cool part is that we both put a ton of stock, sweat and belief in those promises. And when we have these times and we need reminded, there's this little dude and lady that remind us that this family we created is amazing. Mr. Pants' mission is simple. To experience this life and squeeze out every bit of awesome  (and ranch dressing) that it has to offer. I want to do that too. And wow, here I am blogging about love again. You are no doubt rolling your eyes and thinking, "Oh great, here she goes talking about how love is all there is." and I will refrain from saying that in this post in an attempt to be less repetitive. Just kidding! Guess what? Love is everything ;) 

I have never been one who prays. I had always believed that praying meant that you were locked into the idea that someone was listening. So the skeptic in me just decided that I didn't pray. I have been through so many things in my life that were pray worthy too. I've lost loved ones, had scary medical issues and was petrified that I wouldn't be able to carry my growing baby to term and yet I still did. not. pray. Nope, not me. That was for The Believers not The I Have No Idea What I Believe-ers. Sometimes I'd light a candle and whisper my thoughts into the air. Or I'd lay down on my floor and imagine my body being slowly filled with sand and then when it was time to let the sand out, I'd release whatever it was that had me worried or sad and ask The Universe for strength or calm. Other times I'd sit and cry in my car and talk to myself.  What I came to realize recently is that I was praying. I think I have always been praying. The conflicted "what does it all mean" Unitarian Universalist in me kept putting up smoke screens and giving it names like meditating or sending good vibes into the Universe. For me the act of praying is letting go of the idea that I have total control. Praying for me is an excersize in humilty, honesty, release and faith. Yep, you read that right. Faith. I do actually have some faith! I even surprised myself with that one. My faith is all over the board though. So I have decided that in my 36th year, it's time to hone that. But I know myself well and while I will dedicate myself to the journey, I will most likely never get to any kind of difinitive "this is what I believe" place. But that's cool with me.
 
I could gone on for eons about what I don't believe. Starting with Godzilla. I don't believe in Godzilla. But since that list is longer than time, I have decided to place my focus on what I DO believe. I believe in love. I pray for love. Does that sound hokey? It probably does. But love does amazing things doesn't it? Even in times of horrific tragedy. Even when we think we can not go on, we do. Because of love. When I am in pain or struggling, love comes around to wrap me up and hold me tight. It comes in so many forms. My love for others, their love for me. It comes from adults and children. It seems to me that everyone knows HOW to love. Even the tiniest baby can do it.  Even my completely self obsessed toddler at risk for autism can do it. And even my completely silly, obsessed in general adult self can do it. 

The other night something beyond the realm of pain happened to someone that I love. The pain that was unleashed that night rippled through every cell in my body. I was consumed. My tears, beyond tears of sadness, became heaving grief and fear and I retreated to Mr. Pants' room to hide and sob. Loud crying has always been very confusing and even scary for Mr. Pants. He is unsettled by complex emotion and struggles to understand. So I hid. But he saw me go. He sauntered into the room and looked at his mama sitting on his bed, eyes swollen and broken down. He ran out. I assumed he was uncomfortable with my tidal wave of emotion and was grateful for a moment that he didn't seem scared. About a minute passed and he came back. He was carrying his wubby. It's a little pillowcase that he carries around and rubs between his fingers when he is stressed. He came over to me and softly laid the wubby on my lap. He looked me straight in the eye as though to say, "Here you go Mama". Such an act of love from my baby boy. And he quietly walked out, turning to look back at me to be sure I was ok. That night I prayed. I prayed for my friend and for my children and for myself and daddy. I prayed that we will continue to love. That we will seek love and give love without hesitation. I prayed for love to continue to rain down on us. I asked that, should we begin to forget, love will remind us of it's power. I prayed for peace for my friend. Then I climbed into bed next to my sleeping baby and as I watched her sleep, I prayed that my children and yours will always know love. And that love will carry them through this life all the way to the end.

I still don't now what is beyond this life. I have some ideas but I suspect that I will never fully commit to one. But what I do know is that I feel those that have left it. I feel my aunt hanging out with us when our family gathers and I can hear my friend Bo's voice guiding me just about every single day. I feel them, I talk to them and I am still comforted by them. It's not sad at all either. It feels good and often gives me a kick in the pants to be better and love more (sometimes Bo just talks me through plunging the toilet though). That's an awesome legacy. So I'm out of the prayer closet. I totally pray, dudes. And it helps. Even if just for minute. It helps.