On Owning It. Or The Fart Backstage.

We were in the wings of the middle school auditorium.  I’m fairly certain this was during a rehearsal and not an actual show because I don’t remember wearing costumes.  I do remember who I was with back there.  Two of the popular middle school girls.  In middle school I was cool girl adjacent, on the peripheral of the group not an included member.  Of course now, looking back, I realize that my refusal to just make actual, real, non-cool girl friends rather than hang on to a group of people who didn’t really like me says a lot more about me than them.  But it was middle school and I just desperately wanted to be accepted by the accepted.

So I hung on.

Around that time these two popular girls had started the trend of “owning their farts.”  It was genius, really.  These two girls knew how to take the most embarrassing of situations (a fart in middle school) and turn it into an opportunity to be awesome.  If one of them made the social faux pas of all faux pas, they would shrug and say, “I farted” with a who cares, I did this thing and I’m too cool to be embarrassed by it attitude.  Or they would say it loudly and proudly, laughing as though their gas was the funniest thing ever.  And that made them cooler.  If you were secure enough to own your fart, no one could get to you.   I was obsessed with this who gives a crap mentality.  Because I so couldn’t do it.  If I farted in school I’d keep my mouth shut and hope everyone pinned it on the smelly kid.

Any way I’m backstage with the Heathers and I fart.  And in a single moment I decide go with their tactic.  I think I thought if I tried on this attitude, like one of the school play costumes, I would become more like them, which is to say cooler and less insecure.  Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “I farted.  That one was me.”

The girls burst out laughing and I knew I’d done it wrong.  I didn’t say it with the same “I’m so secure about this” tone.  Something about it was cute, like when a little kid repeats words she’s only heard the grown ups say.  And I was still mortified.  I went through the act of owning my fart without really owning it. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this “owning your fart” mentality.  One of the truest lessons I’ve learned in the last decade is that the act of speaking your shame aloud always diminishes its power.  I’ve found freedom in this truth with some of my deepest shames. 

But today I’m thinking of some smaller shames.  You know the truths about yourself that aren’t a big deal, but you still hope you’ll outgrow before anyone figures them out.  The things about yourself that you fear make you shallow, or silly or dumb.  The farts backstage.  These are the things that make me human in the easiest possible way and also the things I don’t really want anyone to realize.

Today though, I’m owning it.  I’m realizing the freedom and joy that’s found in living fully into who you are, quirks and embarrassments and all.  I’m tired of waiting to outgrow something, or change into the person I think I would be better off being.  I'm tired of the shame and panic that rises in me when someone starts to tease me about one of these things.  And so today, I’m confessing loud and proud a few of these smaller shames.  Imagine I’m saying it with the “who cares, this is me, and I’m too cool to be embarrassed” tone that I failed so miserably with twenty years ago.

My name is Colleen and I love celebrities.  I have always been easily star-struck.  I love People magazine, E! News, and I can tell you about every time I’ve been in proximity of someone of note.  I’m desperate to know what famous people are really like, and if I find out you know some one of some reputable fame I will grill you for hours.  I sat next to a very chatty someone who worked for the producers of Lost during what became my most favorite flight.  This girl was not afraid to spill insider secrets and for the entire trip from New York to Phoenix I got all the dirt.  What’s even worse is that my litmus test for celebrity is incredibly easy to pass.  Basically if people know about you, you are famous in my eyes.  My friend Marty once won a trip to Mexico by calling into a morning radio talk show that I love.  He charmed his way into the hearts of the hosts and was featured on the show’s broadcast from Mexico.  And now Marty has achieved celebrity status.  Because one time he was on the radio.  I’m ashamed of this quality because I fear it reveals some sort of shallow, celebrity worshiping quality in me.  Or that people will deduct my own desires for fame.  And also it taps into one of my worst qualities, gossipy-ness  (definitely a real word).  So I try, without success, to down play this quality, but today I’m claiming it.  I get star-struck about celebrities (shoulder shrug).

This second confession kind of goes along with the first, but I like pop culture way more than high-minded things.  I’d rather listen to the Entertainment Weekly radio station than NPR in the car and I’d rather read People Magazine than Time at the dentist.  I’ve got loads of really great documentaries in my Netflix queue, but all I watch is Friends and Gilmore Girls reruns.  And I’ve never read the New Yorker.  In my defense I do listen to NPR, read Time and watch documentaries, but when given the choice I will always choose the pop culture route first.  Again, I fear this makes me so, so shallow and less intelligent in the eyes of others.  But I can’t deny it.   I want to be a person that knows all about the conflict in Syria but has no clue about the conflict amongst the cast of a Shonda Rhimes show.  But I'm not.

Also, I talk to myself in my car when I’m alone.  Sometimes I play out conversations that I need to have, but am afraid of.  Or I have imaginary conversations pertaining to all sorts of imaginary things I hope to one day accomplish but probably never will. (I’m fairly certain my days starring in an academy award-winning movie are behind me.)  I’m a daydreamer and always have been.  It’s silly and weird and something I probably should have stopped doing when I was nine, but there you go. 

FIESTA! Also, don't try to discern a patters.  There isn't one.  I'm going to get ALL the colors.

Finally, I love color way more than classic neutral tones.  This isn’t one I’ve necessarily tried to hide, but I’ve always sort of hoped eventually I’d get my act together and become someone with classic whites and neutral shades all through her home.  For years I’ve coveted Fiestaware, the most colorful of all dinnerware, but never committed to buying it because I was always worried people would think it was childish.  But you know what?  My mom got me some settings for my birthday this year, and then I used the birthday money from my mother-in-law to buy more settings and now I have nine settings in nine different colors and I can’t even tell you how happy it makes me to open my cabinets.  It’s silly really that a rainbow of dishes could bring so much joy.  But I love it.    

Ok, so now I’m a little mortified at these metaphorical farts that I’ve just owned.  But next time I start gushing over some blogger that isn’t really a celebrity I’m not going to feel ashamed.  I’m just going to own it.  And really this is just the tip of the iceberg.   There is so much more I could have said, and probably one day will- if only to give you all the freedom to claim your own farts and feel no more shame.   Maybe we’ll host an “Owning It Friday” around here.   What about you?  Anything you’d like to not feel ashamed of anymore?

(For the record, when it comes to actual farts I absolutely do not own those.  I will throw my kids, husband or complete strangers under the bus if I happen to fart in public.  No way am I ‘fessing up to that if I can help it.)

Thirty-Two Things...

Oh hey there.  Remember when I was awesome in the beginning of 2015 and writing all the time?  Well February happened.  February is pretty much my least favorite month.  It's still cold and dreary and I've been over winter for about two months already at that point.  And this February was lost to sick kids and sick grown ups and I don't know what else.  All I can say is that if you look at my planner for the month of February there are a whole lot of things that were supposed to happen, but never did.  Cleaning my house was at the top of that list.  Anyway, let's just pretend February never happened and I didn't take a six-week blogging break.  Cool?  Thanks.

I had a birthday earlier this week.  This is the first birthday I’ve encountered where I’m actually starting to feel old.  I’ve joked about feeling old around past birthdays and pretended to hate the annual passing of time birthdays mark.  But this year.  This year I’m feeling it.  I Google things like “skin care regimens” and pay attention to all those before and after pictures people post on Facebook because I’m starting to look…older.  And this was the year I started forgetting my age.  I could not for the life of me remember if I was turning 32 or 33.  (For the record it was 32.) (Also for the record, until this year I could never understand how people could forget their age.  How was that possible?  32 years and 3 kids later I get it.)

This year also marked a significant shift in the age of people doing the things that I aspire to do.  There are a few secret, deep down aspirations I hold in my heart.  In the past I’ve watched other women set down paths similar to the one I’ve longed for.  And in the past those women have always been older.  I’ve always had a few years left to start achieving those dreams.  Until now.  I’m more and more aware of women younger than me starting down the paths I’ve dreamed of taking.  It’s making me feel panicked.  Like there isn’t any more room at the tables I hope to occupy and I’m getting to old for those tables anyway.  Anxiety sets in and I begin to believe that I’ve run out of time, I’ll never accomplish anything and my life has been small and uneventful and when I’m 85 I will lament all the things I didn’t do.

So today, in an effort to remind myself that I have, in fact, lived 32 good years thus far I’ve compiled a list of 32 things I DID do before I turned 32.  Kind of the anti- x, y, or z things to do before you turn x, y or z age.  I want to be someone who celebrates what I’ve done.  Who sees the glass, and life, as half-full.  So in an effort to be kinder to myself I’m focusing on this list.  I’d love to hear your own list.  Maybe it’s not 32 things, but what have YOU done in your years thus far that makes you proud?

 Thirty-Two things I did before I turned Thirty-Two:

      1.)  Backpacked through Europe

      2.)  Lived in the one place I always said I wanted to live

      3.)  Got my masters

      4.)  Taught high school English to a challenging group of kids, and loved it (and them)

      5.)  Stayed out all night dancing in Spain 

      6.)  Celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin

      7.)  Became a mom 

      8.)  Got married

      9.)  Made the kind of friends I always hoped I would

      10.)   Found myself in the back of a police car

      11.) Got a tattoo

      12.) Changed careers

      13.) Started writing publicly

      14.) Helped kids fall in love with reading

      15.) Lived alone

      16.) Lived with strangers 

      17.) Waitressed (poorly) at a diner

      18.) Ran three marathons

      19.) Learned how to cook 

      20.) Taught a different group of high school kids about God and loved it (and them)

      21.) Said no when it was hard to do

      22.) Said yes when it was hard to do

      23.) Zip lined in Costa Rica

      24.) Nurtured relationships with my girlfriends

      25.) Learned how to host a great dinner party, and opened my home to others every chance I got

      26.) Leaned into vulnerability

      27.)  Learned how to advocate for my kid when he needed it

      28.) Got tipsy with my husband on date nights

      29.) Made a commitment to God and continued to work at that commitment even during seasons I  didn’t want to

      30.) Made peace with the things I’m not and the things I don’t do

      31.) Mourned the loss of my dad

      32.) Lived thirty-two years with very few regrets in regard to the decisions I made, the ways I treated people, and the person I was

       So how about you?  What's on your list?

An Open Letter to Chipotle

Just two of my kids enjoying your fine cuisine.  These two aren't even the messiest.

Dear Chipotle,

First of all, I need to thank you.  Eight years ago, after completing my first half marathon, I sunk my teeth into my first burrito and it was love at first bite.  You became my very favorite post-race beast feast spot.  With my running days on temporary hiatus I’ve pared down to a burrito bowl, but still nothing beats your cilantro lime rice.  And you, dear Chipotle, are the only fast food establishment that my husband and I can agree on.  This is no small feat.  You’ve saved our marriage (or at least money on therapy- all problems can be solved over your chips and guac).

Now that I have kids I’m even more indebted to you Chipotle.  There are very few places I can go with the kind of quality food you provide.  Nothing fried, or chock full of preservatives and crap.  And my kids LOVE you.  Because of you Chipotle my daughter asks for rice and beans whenever and wherever we eat out.  Even at restaurants that do not carry rice and beans.  They are always up for Chipotle, just like their mom.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing, dear Chipotle.  I feel as though it’s time for me to address the one sided, almost abusive, nature of our relationship.  I’ve been a taker with you, Chipotle.  You give and give and give and I do nothing but take.  And it’s time for me to apologize. 

I can see the look of fear in the eyes of your wonderful employees when my brood and I come through your doors.  Three small children are no one’s favorite customers.  But for you, Chipotle, those rice and beans we love so much are the very bane of your existence I’m sure.  I know you know what’s coming when I stroll through the line asking for two kid’s quesadilla meals and extra sides of rice and beans.  I can see the resignation on your face and the knowledge that 75% of those tiny grains of rice and sauce covered beans will end up on your floor.  I’m sorry.  I feel the deflation when you size up the eight-month-old in my arms and realize that extra order of rice and beans is for her.  I’m so very sorry.  And yet despite the food explosion that we both know is coming, your employees are nothing but kind, helpful and upbeat.  It's a miracle really.

Please know that I try my hardest to clean up after the animals have feasted.  As you can see by the bean sauce that covers my eight-month-old’s hair, ears, eyes and hands, she is not exactly a neat eater.  Rice is stuck on every inch of her body and somehow made its way into her socks.  I wish the mess was contained to her being but alas it is not.  Bean sauce covers every surface within her reach and even, inexplicably, the table next to ours.  I use eleventy million wet wipes to wipe down these surfaces and give her a bath in your bathroom sink.  I wipe off the piles of rice and beans scattered on the chairs of my other two children.  But it’s the floor that defeats me.  The floor, so covered with rice and beans, now looks as though my children’s meals actually exploded at some point.   I only purchased three orders of rice and beans, but like rabbits that wonderful combination of carbs and protein appears to have multiplied.  At least eight orders worth are now covering your floor.  I’m not sure my kids consumed the food as much as smeared it on their faces and clothing before brushing it onto the ground.

I’ve thought about asking if I could borrow your broom, but you are so dear Chipotle that I know that you would never let me do it myself.  I’ve even thought about smuggling in my own dust buster and trying to remove all evidence of our dinner explosion before we leave.   But it’s hard enough to get all three of my kids through the door, much less a smuggled cleaning utensil.  And so instead I avoid eye contact as I pack up my three howling children, so ashamed am I to leave behind such a catastrophe in my beloved restaurant.  As we shuffle out with our heads down I turn and leave your fine employees one last apologetic, chagrined look, my eyes pleading with them to understand the depths of my remorse for the mess I’ve left behind and the deep need to be allowed back again.  I need you Chipotle, please don’t kick me out.  I’m sorry for the ways I take and abuse.  I promise it won’t always be this way.  Someday these urchins will learn to eat neatly.  I hope.

Sincerely,

An indebted customer

MLK

We sat in the (ugh) minivan waiting for the light at the end of our block.  Monster was chatting about all sorts of things and I was only half listening.  Until I heard him say,  “Mommy, Dr. Martin Lunar King looked like a man, but he was a hero.  He went in peas.  Some kids couldn’t go to school because only white kids could go to school and he didn’t like that so he gave a lot of speeches.  Dr. Martin Lunar King was a hero and also a king.  But not a king with a castle.  I like Dr. Martin Lunar King a lot.”

I resisted the urge to ask more questions, pull more out of him, because I’ve learned it’s best in situations like these to let him just talk.  I always get more from him this way.  Just like with his dad.  I had a million questions of course: what else did you learn?  Did he go in peas or peace?  What do you think about the fact that some kids couldn’t go to school?  What else, what else, what else?

He kept repeating the facts he’d learned that day in school about Dr. King, filtered through his 4-year-old understanding (there will be time to correct Luther and Lunar, peace and peas).  My heart burst as I began to understand the knowledge of one of history’s greatest that Monster had retained.  I loved that he was interested in Dr. King’s story and reveled in the conversation we were having, one I’d long imagined having with my kids.

I share this story on this Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. day because it gives me hope.  My four year old knows his story.  Knows that he was a hero and that he fought for justice.  When I get frustrated and disillusioned with how far we still have left to go with regard to civil rights and race relations in our county my four-year-old gives me hope.  He knows about a hero.  A real one.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. 

Why I Won't Be Watching the Academy Awards This Year

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In 1994 Anna Paquin won the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award for her role in The Piano.  She was eleven.  She wore this bright blueish/purple dress with a matching hat and when she got up there she just sort of stood there giggling nervously in shock.  I think this moment may have begun my love affair with the Oscars.

A year later Martin Landau won Best Supporting Actor for Ed Wood and some kid in my TAG pullout group went on and on the next day about how Martin Landau was his great-uncle.  I was so insanely jealous.

A long time ago I dreamed of being a big actress and of course those daydreams included a trip up those stairs to accept my award.  I’m not ashamed to admit it (ok, maybe a little embarrassed) but I definitely practiced my speech in the mirror.  And in a total Meta moment I remember saying (in my practice speech) how I used to practice this moment in the mirror as a kid but the real thing is so much better.

I was kind of a weird kid.

At any rate for the better part of twenty years I have LOVED the Academy Awards.  I’ve paid attention to the predictions, listened to the talk radio circuit in the weeks leading up to it and watched the entire coverage from the red carpet to Oprah’s interviews the next day.  I’ve DVR’d it and watched pieced together versions on YouTube.  I’ve rushed to Walgreens the next day to buy the People Magazine coverage and scoured the best and worst dress lists.  It’s my Super Bowl and March Madness and Stanley Cup all rolled into one and I love it.

Except this year I won’t be watching it.

On Thursday morning they announced the nominations.  While I haven’t seen any of the movies in the running this year (because, well, three kids means I ain’t watching anything I can’t see from the comfort of my couch.  And half those movies have only been out in limited release until this weekend) I’ve read reviews and listened to interviews with many of the directors or critics about the movies.  I’m not completely uninformed on this topic and I had my own predictions on who would be up for the awards.

The radio blared as I made the kids breakfast Thursday morning and I perked up a little as they began to announce nominees.  There were a few I was fairly sure were “safe bets” as far as nominees go.  When I didn’t hear David Oyelowe’s name for Selma I thought maybe I’d missed it amid the clamor that is my kids and breakfast time.  And then I didn’t hear Selma director Ava DuVernay’s name either and my heart sunk a little. 

I wasn’t the only one who noticed the glaring omission of any real diversity in the nominees this year.  People took to twitter pretty immediately to express their disappointment, creating the trending hash tag #whiteoscars.  In all four acting categories not one person of color received a nomination.  This hasn’t happened in seventeen years.  And Ava DuVernay was expected to be the first African American woman to receive a director’s nom.

Except she won’t be.

This is certainly not unprecedented.  For years the Academy has been criticized for its lack of diversity.  Part of the problem lies in the Academy voters, 94% of whose population is Caucasian, 77% male.  Read that again.  94% of the people who are voting for the nominations and subsequent winners are white. (source)

That’s a problem.

The Academy Awards have a strong influence on what movies people will go see.  And the money those movies make determine the kinds of movies that will be made the next year.  And so on and so on.

I have a hard time believing there were no compelling performances by people of color in the past year.  But even if there weren’t, if movies starring strong characters of color aren’t being made at all, that’s a big problem too!  There is an unjust system at play that we keep perpetuating by ignoring the reality of it.

I know this is not a new problem.  Every year the list of nominees if pretty white washed.  But this year it really bothers me.  In part it’s because of the events of Ferguson and the lack of charges in Eric Garner’s death.  And because of the deaths of Tamir Rice and John Crawford, Ezell Ford, Dante Parker and countless others.  It seems that racial tensions are at an all time high right now.  I’m increasingly aware that there are major systems of injustice at play in our world today and I can’t keep taking part in them blindly.

I know that my refusal to watch the Academy Awards in February won’t likely change much.  No one at the Academy will find out that they’ve lost one life-long fan this year.  The advertisers will still pay lots of dollars to air commercials during the show and the same thing will probably happen next year.  And I don't fault anyone who will participate in all the Oscar to dos.  But I’m realizing more and more that my choices in how I spend my time and money are casting votes for something whether I’m intentional about it or not.  I can choose to vote to maintain systems of injustice and oppression or I can vote for something better.  For a new way of doing business.  For a bigger, more diverse table.  And maybe if we all start voting this way the people making the decisions will start listening.

So that’s why I won’t be watching the Academy Awards on February 22.  It’s why I won’t go out and buy People magazine the next day or spend lots of time reading all the recaps online the next day.  That time is a vote and I can’t keep voting to maintain an unjust system. 

Dublin Dreaming

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During my junior year of college I studied abroad in Ireland.  Dublin to be exact.  I am the daughter of a man who traveled to Ireland at least a hundred times.  I’m not really exaggerating here either.  My father would go there every chance he got, and as an United Airlines employee who enjoyed free airfare, he got a lot of chances. 

All of my friends were planning on studying abroad so in the fall of our junior year we started mapping our adventures.  Sarah would be studying in Nottingham, Whit in Paris.  Shan and Mal went to Barcelona, Afeld to Madrid.  I waffled between Italy and Dublin ultimately choosing my Irish roots because I didn’t want to have to deal with learning a foreign language.  And because Guinness.  Then I found out I could study acting for a semester even though it wasn’t my major and I was sold.  For four whole months I could pretend to be the theater major I always dreamed of.  And I could do it in Ireland with cute Irish boys with cute Irish accents.  Really, what more did I need?

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I’ve found myself thinking a lot about this semester abroad recently.  Our friends Mary and Niall came over for dinner one night last fall.  Niall is Irish, born and raised outside of Dublin.  Naturally the semester abroad photo album had to be busted out.  We flipped through the pages, Niall knowing just about every spot with very few clues in the details of the picture.  It had been a while since I perused the pages of this scrapbook.

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 I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the buskers, street musicians that played up and down Grafton street, and the very distinct child buskers who sang in whiny, high pitched voices all sounding the same.  They must have been trained somewhere together.  I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the huge stack of books I read while I was there.  After coming off a tremendously busy season before study abroad, having the time to read and read and read felt amazing.

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I remember the feeling of living in a city, the ways it rejuvenated me every morning, stirring something deep in my bones.  I remember dark pubs that turned into weird nightclubs after a certain hour and an Irish boy named Tommy who tried to kiss me in one.  I panicked and put my hand in front of his mouth.  I’m not known for my smooth moves.

I can picture the pubs and coffee shops where I studied and read.  The department store I bought the one pair of black stretchy pants I would wear daily for the next four months having not known to pack black “movement” clothes for theater classes.  I can hear the Irish music radiating from Oliver St. John Goagarty’s and smell the cigarette smoke that thickly filled that pub on that last day before the no cigarette ban went into effect at midnight.  My mind wanders down the path to the Tesco where we bought our groceries, mine an assortment of peanut butter, rice cakes, green peppers and nutella.  Always nutella.

There are so many smells and sounds and images that Ireland conjures up.  Beyond that, the greatest thing it invokes is a feeling.  It’s a feeling of excitement and happiness, energy and endless possibility.  Studying abroad was four months of endless possibility.  Paris for the weekend?  Sure!  Guinness for breakfast?  Absolutely!  Every week held a new adventure and when studying is done in a century old pub off of Grafton Street, even studying is an awesome endeavor.

It is sometimes frustrating, in this season of small kids, and cheerios and endless monotony, how far from my study abroad experience life has taken me.  I wish I could go back and do it again.  They don’t tell you, when you’re in it, how once-in-a-lifetime this experience is.  Or maybe they do and you’re just too young and foolish to understand.

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I know I’ll be back.  It’s top of my bucket list to run the Dublin marathon and show Tommy (my husband, not the poor Irish lad I rejected) the place that holds a piece of my heart.  And my siblings and I hope to some day take a portion of my father’s remains there, certain he would want a piece of him to reside in his favorite place on earth.  In the meantime I’ll just stare longingly at the pictures in the InstaIreland instagram feed and remind myself that there’s still time.  And maybe Monster or Toots or Red will choose to study there in twenty years.  In which case I better start saving now for the airfare to visit them…

Pictures courtesy of the InstaIreland instagram feed, my newest obsession.  Check it out.

On November and Being Filled

On the morning of the first of November I woke up early and began to prepare brunch for fourteen adults and three and a half kids.   The bacon sizzled filling the whole house with its glorious smell.    I made blueberry crisp with Greek yogurt, goat cheese scrambled eggs and three pots of coffee.  Sarah J brought pumpkin bread and Sarah R a crust less quiche.  There were mimosas and bloody marys, coffee cake and oranges.  We used every one in my eclectic collection of mugs, which gave me a profound sense of happiness. 

Most of the morning was spent in my kitchen, around my island and then my kitchen table.  We laughed and sipped coffee and I realized that brunch may just be my favorite type of gathering to host.  As our friends began gathering their things and saying their good-byes Marty commented that this whole morning was “good for his soul.”  All I ever want is for my home to be good for the soul.

*******

We sang happy birthday and Tommy blew out candles on an icing-less birthday cake a few days later.  A simple birthday dinner with his parents and sisters was one of his nicest.  My mom and sister joined us for dessert and I watched from the doorway between the dining room and kitchen as all the different conversations happened before me.   I watched my husband in his element, surrounded by the people who know him best, thankful for this place for everyone to land.  

*******

A few days after that a different, larger group gathered for my brother’s thirtieth birthday.  His birthday was still a few weeks away, but he, along with many other relatives, were in town for my dad’s memorial service and it seemed as good a time as any to celebrate him and this milestone birthday.   With everyone around I wanted to gather us as much as possible.  I’d planned to keep it simple that night.  I knew it would be a hard weekend as we approached the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.  I ordered beef sandwiches and chopped salads from Portillo’s and let everyone else bring appetizers and booze.    That night I was in our bedroom nursing Red when everyone seemed to arrive at once.  I came into my kitchen to a whirlwind of plates, food, greetings and fullness.  Full kitchen, full home, full heart. 

We sat in my living/dining room in a large circle for hours that night laughing full belly laughs.  Long running inside jokes wove in and out of the conversations.  Some of our oldest and closest family friends, the Dunns, stayed last telling story after story of our shared past, reliving them new as adults. 

Something special happened that night.  Something got put back together a little bit in my living room and for the first time in a long time I had hope for my family.  Maybe we weren’t broken completely.

*******

The next weekend my living room turned into a filming set as my house church/small group/supper club contributed to a promotional video for a book we’d been reading.  Once the interviews had been conducted and the “B-Roll film” shot the cameraman left and I found myself eating chili-mac around my table with the people who have in many ways carried me through this past year.  After dinner we continued our conversations utilizing the open layout of my living/dining room combo while some sat on the couch and others stayed at the table, everyone fully engaged in one long conversation.

And again I marveled at how important it is for me to fill my home with my people.  When we first looked at this house with our real estate agent I stood in my dining room and looked across the expanse of this great room and imagined my people in it.  I could see it.  Could see the very scene that now lay before me in real life.  This home was meant for my people.

*******

Our single greatest endeavor in the art of opening our home came at the end of the month when we welcomed 25 people in for Thanksgiving dinner.  There were a million reasons this last party should have been a disaster.  I’d never actually cooked a turkey or any of the traditional thanksgiving foods for that matter.  Tommy and I decided to invite whoever was around from each of our extended families, which meant that our large gathering consisted of quite a few people who don’t really know each other.   And on top of all of it I wasn’t quite sure how my immediate family would be feeling that day; the holidays, Thanksgiving being the first of a long six weeks or so of merriment, have a way of heightening grief I’ve learned. 

On the morning of Thanksgiving I found myself in a state of panic, worried I’d mess up the turkey, worried no one would interact naturally with one another and it would be 25 people crammed into my house in varying states of awkwardness with only my over-done turkey to keep them occupied.  In this moment I needed my dad.  I needed my buffer of a father who could connect anyone and make everyone feel comfortable.  I needed my dad.  And so I threw up the same desperate prayer I’ve been praying for weeks.  Redeem this Lord.  Redeem even this.  Please.

We pulled out the leaf again on my dining room table and set our large card table next to it.   I put on the new table clothes and used my most colorful cloth napkins trying to create a lovely space that would make people feel comfortable without going too crazy because table settings aren’t really my forte.  I set my timer every thirty minutes to baste the turkey and prepared everything I could ahead of time, all while pleading with Jesus to do his redemption thing.

And miraculously he did.  People arrived, strangers forged connections, laughter reigned.  For weeks afterwards people let us know what a nice time it was at our house on Thanksgiving.

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I don’t share this to regale you with tales of my hostess-ing prowess.  I’m actually not naturally a very good hostess.  I constantly forget to offer people drinks or take their coats and I can never seem to remember people’s dietary need and preferences.  I’ve made meat for vegetarians and pizza for gluten-frees.   I tell you this because November was supposed to be the worst.  November was supposed to be a dark month filled with dark days and dark memories of what had happened a year before. 

Instead November was a whirlwind of opening my home to pretty much every cross section of my people.  It was a steady cycle of laying out glasses and table settings, piling coats on the coat rack, serving meals, loading the dishwasher, lather, rinse, repeat. And something happens to me when I do this simple act of welcoming my people into my home.  It fills me up in the simplest way.  It floods the darkest parts with light.  I can’t explain why, or how, but having a home filled with people is good for the deepest parts of me.  November was supposed to suck.  But it didn’t.  I didn’t plan on filling my November with all these gatherings; it wasn’t until mid month that I really looked at the calendar and saw what had happened.  But I don’t think it was coincidental at all.  It wasn’t an accident that during the month I needed it most I was already set up to do the thing that makes me whole.

I want to encourage you to do whatever it is that puts you back together.  For me it’s filling my home with my people.  Maybe for you it’s painting furniture or creating jewelry, writing, or going to movies alone.  Maybe it’s dancing or dinner with your most favorite person or holing away and reading alone for hours.  Whatever it is, do it with reckless abandon.  Let these acts put you back together when you’re finding yourself at the end of yourself.  Do the thing that fills your inner darkness with light and don’t apologize for it.  We need to do the things that make us whole, even when, especially when, we don’t think we have time for it.

November was supposed to suck.  And it didn’t.