You know that part in the Hunger Games when Katniss spins around and her dress lights up in flames? It reminds me of those push up spin toys I had as a kid. Mine was a peacock and when untouched, the feathers covered the bird entirely, but when you push the side, the feathers spin around and open revealing a beautiful bird inside.
I love that image. I want that image.
I want to spin around so fast that any unwelcome layers of life are flung off revealing my true self. To shed the years of built up fears, of people pleasing, of shape-shifting. To shake off the opinions of others, of self-judgment and anything else that is diluting the real me.
What would that look like? What does it mean to be comfortable in your own skin? To be the me from concentrate? Continue reading
(Click here to read Part I first)
On the morning that I decided it was time to play the role of Pastor’s Wife, there was a torrential downpour. Flooding everywhere, rain pouring down in droves. We arrived late because I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me while driving. We parked far away and at a mega-church, that means FAR away. Being late: strike one. I don’t have a raincoat or umbrella because it’s not the kind of thing I think of bringing. Ever. I take my 4 year olds hand and carry my 2 year old and we make a sprint (well, as fast as a 4 yr old can run) for the church doors. We get in and I just stop and stand there. People walk through the doors, lower their umbrellas and shake the water off their raincoats while offering me a smile. I take the girls to the bathroom where my 4 yr old starts crying because her tights are wet. I panic slightly knowing that this daughter of mine would rather be naked than have something – even water- on her clothes. No umbrella: Strike two. I put her under the hand dryer and tell her some story about Noah’s ark and convince her that it’s fun to be wet. I turn to look at my 2 year old who is saying over and over “ooh, oooh!” I look to where she is pointing and notice that she is missing her shoe. It had fallen off in our desperate sprint from the car to the church doors. I stare blankly at her wet shoeless tights. Continue reading
There are plenty of reasons why I make possibly the worst Pastors Wife ever. And for those that know me, I’m sure they could add a few reasons of their own.
- For starters, I don’t have the gift of hospitality. Or organ playing. And that seems to be a requirement of pastor’s wives.
- My 4 year old recently said the word dammit and I’m pretty sure she didn’t hear it from her father.
- The only craving I have had in my current pregnancy is wine. Delicious red wine. (Don’t worry, I haven’t given in yet).
- I love Greys Anatomy and Revenge, and 90210 (the original) is still at the top of my list.
- I don’t like to pray outloud.
- Most revealing however, is that I hate going to church. There. I said it. I hate going to church.
In fact, I have always hated going to church. But let me be clear – it’s the GOING that I hate. In high school, there were not many things appealing enough to get up for at 8am on a weekend. In college, new found freedom led to late Saturday nights and it was super hard to get up for church after going to bed just a few hours prior. After college, I returned home but didn’t want to go to the church I grew up in and it’s hard to start going to a new one by yourself. Translation: It was always easy for me to have an excuse not to go. Continue reading