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Wearing jeans does not make you less feminine.⁣ Wearing jeans does not make you less feminine.⁣ ⁣ Gaining weight does not make you less feminine.⁣ ⁣ Working outside or inside the home, wearing your hair short, or preferring math to Jane Austen do not, in any way, make you less feminine.⁣ ⁣ Neither does being infertile or single and childless, disliking makeup, lacking cooking skills, or having a strong mind, strong opinions, or strong temperament.⁣ ⁣ Not one of those things detract even a little bit from the beauty and power of your womanly heart. So what does?⁣ ⁣ Vanity. Foolishness. Selfishness. Lust. Greed. Wrath. Jealousy. Envy. Pride.⁣ ⁣ Also, not seeing the dignity of the person standing in front of you…or on the other side of a screen.⁣ Rashly judging others’ hearts and not cultivating compassion. Refusing to defend the vulnerable, provide for the poor, and welcome the stranger.⁣ ⁣ Never controlling your strength nor expressing your opinions with gentleness. Seeking justice without exercising mercy. Telling lies, spreading rumors, and practicing deceit.⁣ ⁣ Refusing to receive: love, help, forgiveness, grace, life.⁣ ⁣ Not listening: to God, the Church, your spouse, children, and those who love and need you.⁣ ⁣ Not prayerfully discerning: your strengths, your weaknesses, where God is calling you to be, and what He is calling you to do.⁣ ⁣ Saying No: to suffering, sacrificing, and dying to yourself for those you love.⁣ ⁣ Seeking to control everyone and everything around you.⁣ ⁣ Focusing so much on yourself that you’re unable to see the needs, struggles, and hurts of others.⁣ ⁣ Faithlessness.⁣ Rejecting Truth.⁣ Rejecting Christ.⁣ ⁣ Skirts are pretty. Baking is good. Jane Austen is brilliant. All can, in their way, reflect the feminine heart and help some of us to cultivate a more feminine heart. But they aren’t the heart of femininity. That is motherhood—sometimes physical, always spiritual, ever welcoming, ever nourishing, ever nurturing, perpetually defending, encouraging, and seeing the particular beauty of all. That motherhood is what our world is dying for. That mother is who God made you to be.⁣ ⁣ And if you want to be her in old jeans and a turtleneck sweater, the Church doesn’t mind at all.
Today, I am thankful for well-worn jeans, comforta Today, I am thankful for well-worn jeans, comfortable boots, and turtleneck sweaters; for cool autumn breezes, grey Pittsburgh skies, and delicious coffee in pretty mugs; for a messy porch, cluttered with strollers, the third load of laundry going, and the music of @michaelkiwanuka drifting outside, through our open front door.⁣ ⁣ I am also grateful for games of tag, piggy back rides, and 3 babies napping at the same time; for pancake breakfasts eaten, apple crisps waiting to be made, and the pumpkin soup we’ll have for dinner; for going nowhere, doing nothing, and seeing no one but the people I call my own.⁣ ⁣ In short, I am grateful—so, so exceedingly grateful—for this, the most ordinary of days in this beautiful, ordinary life for which I hoped and prayed and waited for so long. I know it will be gone as fast as it came, but it’s here now, and there aren’t enough words of thanks for the extraordinary gift of it all.
Double posting today because I thought I couldn’ Double posting today because I thought I couldn’t write a coherent sentence, but then I got the kids down for naps and, after scrolling for 4 seconds here, saw that today was the day Instagram is remembering the babies we lost.⁣ ⁣ Which is only a bit strange as yesterday, one of you in the question box asked me if I still thought about the baby we lost, the baby we hoped to adopt, Toby’s biological sibling, who passed away sometime around 16 weeks in utero. That was 2 years ago this month. And no one ever asks me about her. No one ever. ⁣ ⁣ I don’t usually talk about her either. Mostly because she was never mine. She was always someone else’s. And I never want to minimize the grief of a mother who carried a child by talking about my grief over a baby who I never carried.⁣ ⁣ But I did grieve her. I do grieve her. I loved her from the first second I heard about her and was so blessed to be able to say yes to being her mom…even if that yes never actually had to be said. She was always real to me. She still is. And while I never did get to bring her home, I am so grateful for her. ⁣ ⁣ It’s because of her that Chris and I moved forward on a second adoption. It’s because of her that I came up with the cookbook fundraiser that enabled us to adopt both Becket and Ellie. She, in a way, made it possible for me to become a mother twice more.⁣ ⁣ I hope, someday, I will get to see her and thank her for that. I hope, someday, I will get to hold her in my arms and tell her what a great joy it would have been to be her mother if she had lived. ⁣ ⁣ And I don’t know why I am sharing this here other than to say, “You’re not alone” to other adoptive moms and would-be-adoptive moms who are silently grieving the loss of babies who weren’t theirs. Your loss was real. Your grief is real. And there is nothing wrong with feeling it.⁣ ⁣ You said yes to loving that child and that love cost you something. But that child knows you said yes. They know of your love and they you were ready to love them and their mom forever. And I believe that child is thanking you for that love by praying for you before Christ’s throne. For what it’s worth, I am praying for you, too.
People think my family is beautiful. That’s the People think my family is beautiful. That’s the first thing strangers say to us. We hear it from men and women, young and old, from all cultures, everywhere we go. Those exact words. “Your family is beautiful.”⁣ ⁣ At first, I didn’t know what to think of those words. I felt guilty. Like a fraud. Because I know adoption is born of trauma. I know my babies’ first families grieve their loss. I know adoptive parents are not saints: most are a far cry from it.⁣ And I know, as my children grow, they will⁣ have so many questions— about identity, loss, culture, and more.⁣ ⁣ I also know every law of ethics has been broken by adoption professionals. I know vulnerable women have been pressured, manipulated, and forced to place their babies. I know some still are. And I know adoptive parents, desperate for a child, often willfully ignore that evil.⁣ ⁣ I know adoption is messy and complicated and some experience it as anything but beautiful.⁣ ⁣ Yet, those comments keep coming. Why? Are people just ignorant?⁣ ⁣ I’ve wrestled with that question. And I don’t think ignorance is the answer. I think people see my family as beautiful because it is beautiful. Or, more accurately, because we remind them of truths that are more than beautiful—that are sacred.⁣ ⁣ Like every adoptive family, we are kind of sacrament. We make visible the love of a God who calls us His children, not because we are His by nature, but because we are His by adoption, by grace. We are a walking, talking, laughing, dancing, kissing, hugging, baby chasing reminder of that grace. We also remind people that God calls us to love everyone, not just those who look like us; that in Christ, all are family; and that God can bring joy out of even the most complicated, tragic situations. ⁣ ⁣ And that is beautiful. Even when the reality of adoption in a broken world falls short of the beauty it’s meant to reflect.⁣ ⁣ Our family will fall short, too. We won’t perfectly do what we’re called to do. But we are trying. We’re begging for the grace to be the parents these children need us to be. And what a blessing that is—to get to try, to get to be Mama and Daddy to these little people, who are indeed breathtakingly beautiful.
I didn’t grow up praying the Rosary. I thought t I didn’t grow up praying the Rosary. I thought that was something only old ladies did. That changed when I was 26.⁣ ⁣ One night, very late, I lay in bed, grieving, worrying, and feeling all prayed out. I was desperate for God’s help, but didn’t know what else to say. Then, I spotted my grandma’s prayer book sitting by my bed, with her Rosary next to it. They’d sat there for 7 years, since her death when I was 19. Not until that moment, though, did it occur to me that while I might not have the words to pray, Mary did. She would know just what to say to her Son.⁣ ⁣ So, I picked up the Rosary, thumbed through the book, and started to pray the words written in it. As I did, it felt like Mary took my hand in hers, assuring me all would be well. Eventually, it was.⁣ ⁣ That was in 2001. I suppose I’ve prayed more than 6,500 Rosaries since then. About 1 a day, every day, for 18 years. Some more focused than others. But not a one where some comfort, consolation, or help wasn’t given. Consider last night.⁣ ⁣ I was, for the 3rd night in a row, up in the wee hours with Toby, who was crying in pain. At 3 a.m., it was too soon to give him another dose of medicine, so I lay there, holding his shaking body, again grieving, worrying, and feeling all prayed out. But this time without really even a thought (because 3 a.m.), I started praying the Rosary aloud. He was quiet by the end of the first decade, asleep by the end of the fourth. I prayed the fifth silently, in gratitude, feeling as always like Mary’s hand held my own. But now, also Toby’s.⁣ ⁣ I don’t know what cross you carry today. I don’t know what worries weigh on you or what sorrows afflict you. But I do know this: Mary wants to hold your hand, too.⁣ ⁣ Praying the Rosary may not get you the miracle you seek. It may not even get your baby to sleep. But when you pray those Hail Marys, the Mother of Jesus will be by your side, holding your hand as you hold her beads. And that will be enough to get you through this present sorrow. It will, in fact, be more than enough. She will see to it. * (I wrote this 2 years ago, but I could have written it today. Resharing for the Feast of Our Lady of Rosary.)
Today is the feast of the Archangels, but especial Today is the feast of the Archangels, but especially St. Michael, after whom the day, Michaelmas, was traditionally named. As described in Revelation 12, Michael is the one who cast Lucifer from heaven and does battle with him still. That’s why the Church urges us to call upon him whenever we have to fight Satan and his minions in our own lives.⁣ ⁣ That all sounds very dramatic. And sometimes, it is. Somedays, there are dragons to be slain, outjie boards to be burned, and crystals to be crushed. When that’s the case, Saint Michael is there for it.⁣ ⁣ But most of the time, the work of casting out demons is far more straightforward.⁣ ⁣ It’s telling the truth when we could tell a lie.⁣ ⁣ It’s giving money away when we’d rather hold it close.⁣ ⁣ It’s reading God’s Word when we’d prefer to scroll.⁣ ⁣ It’s praying for our enemies rather than cursing them.⁣ ⁣ It’s apologizing rather than justifying.⁣ ⁣ It’s offering it up rather than complaining.⁣ ⁣ It’s choosing to trust when we want to control.⁣ ⁣ It’s putting the most charitable interpretation we can on another’s words or actions.⁣ ⁣ It’s asking God for the grace to forgive the person we don’t want to forgive.⁣ ⁣ It’s walking away from the argument.⁣ ⁣ It’s worrying more about our sins than our neighbors’ sins.⁣ ⁣ It’s loving people even when we disagree.⁣ ⁣ It’s surrendering our desire to have the last word.⁣ ⁣ It’s avoiding whatever near occasion is our near occasion, the place where Satan quietly trips us up day after day after day after day.⁣ ⁣ It’s all that and a thousand things more, none of which seem terribly dramatic. Yet, every time we struggle against vice and choose virtue instead, the angels rejoice and the demons lament. For Satan’s will has been thwarted. His voice ignored. His plan upended. Those battles in our soul, no matter how small they seem, are real battles. They’re the way Satan fights most of the time.⁣ ⁣ So don’t wait for heads to spin or bodies to levitate before you call on St. Michael. Call on him now, in the ordinary battles of daily life. He’ll be there for that too.
I don’t know the whole secret to happiness. But I don’t know the whole secret to happiness. But I know it involves Jesus, not giving our hearts over to sin, and loving our neighbors as ourselves. I also know it involves two habits of mind that it has taken me a solid four decades to cultivate.⁣ ⁣ The first habit is this: Never assume anyone has it better than you. They might. Today. Or this year. But you don’t know the sorrows from the past coloring their present. Nor do you know the sorrows that await them in the future. Every person is struggling. Every person is carrying some cross. No one goes from birth to grave without suffering, pain, and loss. Remembering that, assuming brokenness, assuming struggle, considering others’ griefs worse than our own, is what keeps envy and bitterness out of our hearts and cultivates compassion instead.⁣ ⁣ The second habit? Don’t assume tomorrow will be easier than today. It might. In some ways. Some struggles will end. But some blessings will end too. Then different crosses will come, followed by different blessings. That’s how life goes. It’s ebb and flow. Joy and sorrow wash in and out like the tide. Babies grow; parents die. Money comes; time disappears. Bodies are healed; friends are lost. There are no perfect seasons. There are better seasons and worse seasons, but no perfect ones. Maybe perfect hours or days…if you’re lucky.⁣ ⁣ Remember, the Church calls this world a valley of tears. Not the single years or the elderly years, not the baby years or teenage years. All the years. The world. It’s a broken place—beautiful, full of grace—but tears are always falling.⁣ ⁣ When you realize that, though, you’re free—free to stop waiting for perfect and free to enter into your imperfect now, loving the present blessings, embracing the present crosses, learning the present lessons, facing the present challenges, overcoming the present hardships, doing the present work, receiving the present graces.⁣ ⁣ Some presents are heartbreakingly hard. Some presents make it exceedingly difficult to find the grace. But Jesus promised He would be with us always. And now is part of always. So He’s here. In this hard present. Which means somehow, someway, happiness can be too.
A while back, a publisher asked me to take on a pr A while back, a publisher asked me to take on a project to which I wanted to say no. It was like nothing I’d ever done before, totally new, 100 percent out of my comfort zone, just not my thing. I hesitated. And hesitated. And hesitated. But finally, I said yes. I’ve no idea why.⁣ ⁣ And guess what? I’m doing it now and having the time of my writing life. I’m enjoying sitting in front of a screen and typing away like I never have before. I can’t stop smiling. Or reading what I’ve written to everyone who walks into sight. Or emailing my editor and thanking her for believing that this old dog could still do a few new tricks. ⁣ ⁣ This thing I didn’t think I could do? The thing I didn’t want to do? The thing it never even occurred to me to do? It’s the most enjoyable book I’ve ever taken on. And I almost said no.⁣ ⁣ I’m tempted to pop into stories and read what I’ve written aloud to you. But I won’t. Not yet. What I will do, though, is write this gentle reminder to you. A reminder to try something new. To listen to the people around you, urging you on to something different. To never feel like you’re too old, too settled, too set in your ways to branch out and try something radically, gloriously different.⁣ ⁣ God wants to make all things new. Including you. Don’t get in His way.
Closed! The winner is @annlieseinnc !!! Who wants Closed! The winner is @annlieseinnc !!! Who wants a free book? Better yet, who wants 5 free books and the discussion guide (with a bonus letter), so you and your friends can spend some time together (and with me) talking about faith, trust, prayer, love, babies, and the surprising paths to which God calls us?⁣ ⁣ My other baby of 2021, “Letters to Myself from the End of the World,” is three months old today, so I am hosting a little giveaway. 5 books, one study guide, and, if you want, an evening hanging out with me.⁣ ⁣ I can’t travel to give talks and hang out in person right now (because many babies), but I can virtually attend your book club for one night, drink wine with you, and answer questions about the book…or life…or babies…or cooking…or whatever.⁣ ⁣ For those new here, “Letters to Myself from the End of the World” is a huge piece of my heart. I wrote it last summer and fall while the world fell apart and as we adopted Becket (and prepared to adopt Ellie.) It holds all the wisdom I’ve got on how to navigate this upside down world of ours with faith, hope, and charity and offers you an intimate look at the work Jesus has done in my heart and mind these last 20 years.⁣ ⁣ If you’re struggling with the Church or culture, if you’re struggling with motherhood or what the world expects you to be as a woman, if you’re constantly fighting anger and envy, if you don’t know how to pray right now, respond to injustice right now, or hold on to your faith right now, I wrote this book for you. And I want to talk with you about it!⁣ ⁣ To enter the giveaway:⁣ ⁣ 1. Like this post.⁣ 2. Save this post.⁣ 3 Tag at least two friends you want to read this book with.⁣ 4. Tag more friends (up to 5) for extra entries.⁣ 5. Share in Stories and tag me for another extra two entries.⁣ ⁣ Giveaway closes Monday, September 20 at 11:59 EST. Winner will be randomly selected and announced on Tuesday, September 22. Winner must live in the continental U.S. This is definitely not affiliated with Instagram. 😁
We always mention the weather. Have you noticed th We always mention the weather. Have you noticed that? Those of us who were there, in New York and DC. When we tell our stories about September 11, we always bring up the blue of the sky or the clarity of the air. That’s as locked into our memory of that day as falling towers and rising smoke.⁣ ⁣ That morning, we walked into work-or onto planes-smiling, whistling, chatting, feeling wonderfully, gloriously alive. Then seconds later, some of us weren’t. In an instant, 2,997 of us were gone.⁣ ⁣ In the moment, it gave us whiplash. We stumbled around in shock, the sun still shining, but the air now thick with smoke and ash.⁣ ⁣ I know now, though, what I didn’t know then. This is life. For all of us. All the time. We are always just one heartbeat away from our worlds being turned upside down. One fall down the stairs, one slip on the ice, one driver not paying attention, one babe who slips unnoticed out of the house, one doctor’s appointment that ends with bad news, one aneurism that bursts, one gun shot that rings out, one heart that just stops.⁣ ⁣ We rarely know when the moment will come. But it inevitably does. It comes for us and for our spouses, children, friends, and enemies. It comes in an instant and steals what we love. We can’t stop it. We can’t hide from it. No one yet has escaped it. Not even the one who defeated it.⁣ ⁣ Which is why it’s so important that we live now, while we can. That we give thanks for healthy babies and healthy bodies now. That we hug the ones we love now. That we look at their faces and hold their hands and soak up the time we’re given now. Because tomorrow is not guaranteed.⁣ ⁣ Life is short. Each of us is only given so many minutes. And the older you get, the faster those minutes go. They slip through your fingers like sand. You can’t hold onto them. You can only use them well, lavishing each precious one on loving God and neighbor.⁣ ⁣ Don’t be reckless. But also don’t waste the minutes God has given you in anger, bitterness, envy, and hate, trying to control what you can’t control. Use those minutes. Use every one. Because in an instant, they can be gone. Death comes for us all. Even on a glorious September day.
How do you eat that and not gain weight?⁣ ⁣ Ev How do you eat that and not gain weight?⁣ ⁣ Ever since I started sharing our family’s meal plans, I’ve gotten that question. Sometimes politely. Other times less than politely.⁣ ⁣ I’m never sure how to respond. Partly, because I have gained weight. Not because I occasionally eat pasta and rice with my family. But because I’m 46. That’s what happens in your 40s…although I probably would’ve gained less if I hadn’t blown both my knees last year.⁣ ⁣ Nevertheless, I haven’t stopped eating pasta and rice. Why?⁣ ⁣ First, because I value my mental health over my jean size. I spent 6 years in my 20s starving myself, and I never want to go back to that prison. For me, restricting food groups is a one-way ticket back to anorexia. So, I don’t do it.⁣ ⁣ Second, because I’m not just eating for myself. I’m eating for my children. I’m showing them what healthy, normal eating looks like. Eating that is balanced. Eating that is grateful. Eating that is temperate. Eating that is not overly picky or particular (two things which the Church teaches are forms of gluttony). Eating that is intuitive. Eating that is communal. Eating that rejoices in the goodness of God’s creation, recognizes all foods as good, and only eliminates foods that will cause sickness or death. Like, for me, peanuts.⁣ ⁣ On another level, I’m eating for Ellie. The majority of women who develop eating disorders had mothers who habitually dieted, restricted, and fretted about their bodies. No one else in this world will affect how Ellie thinks about food and her body like I will. And I do not want my past to become her future.⁣ ⁣ Lastly, I eat pasta and rice because they taste good. Really good. They bring me joy. They are a glorious gift from God, and life is too short to not occasionally partake of that gift. Unless of course that gift makes you sick.⁣ ⁣ But they don’t make me sick. And even if they do contribute to a bit of inflammation and weight gain, I prefer that to the obsession, compulsion, and self-flagellation that would follow if I gave them up. I prefer just about anything to that.⁣ ⁣ So, tonight, we’re having scallops with brown butter risotto for Mama Mary’s Birthday. I wish you could join us.
We were not made to carry the sorrows of the whole We were not made to carry the sorrows of the whole world on our shoulders. We were not made to grieve every loss, fight every fight, right every wrong. We were not made to save the world. Someone else already did that.⁣ ⁣ Instead, we were made to love the Lord, our God, with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength.⁣ ⁣ We were also made to love our neighbor as ourself. Not abstractly. But concretely. Practically. Personally. By feeding the hungry in our home and in our town. By welcoming the stranger at our table and at our parish. By giving to the poor, visiting the sick, and clothing the naked—both our naked babes and the babes of the single mom.⁣ ⁣ We were also made to love our neighbor by treating our employees justly, paying a fair wage, and honoring every person as the image of God they are. ⁣ ⁣ We were made to love our neighbor by praying for them, offering our suffering for them, and walking with them in their time of need.⁣ ⁣ And we were made to love our neighbor by not committing the sins of rash judgement or detraction, by bearing wrongs patiently, doing good to those who hurt us, and forgiving others even when we don’t think they deserve it. Because who among us does.⁣ ⁣ Above all, we were made to love our neighbor by taking the plank out of our own eye, examining our heart, and asking Jesus for help rooting out all the envy, bitterness, bigotry, ignorance, prejudice, and hate that dwell there.⁣ ⁣ And really, this is where loving our neighbor starts. There will be days in each our lives where we must stand firm against injustice in our home, community, or world. But most days, it’s the injustice in our hearts against which we must stand firm. It’s our sins, not the world’s, which we must conquer. It’s our mind, not the mind of the stranger on the Internet, that must be transformed.⁣ ⁣ This is the hardest work. And the most important. Because if injustice reigns in our hearts, it will reign in the world. We will commit injustices as we fight for justice. We will perpetuate injustice in the name of justice. We will never truly love God or our neighbor. And the griefs, sorrows, and wrongs of this world will just grow and grow and grow and grow.
I cannot find time. Not to do so many things I wan I cannot find time. Not to do so many things I want and need to do. Not to exercise. Not to call my friends. Not to read. Not to pray. Not to drink water.⁣ ⁣ If 3 crazy years of mothering babies and working from home has taught me anything, it’s this. I cannot find time. There are too many urgent tasks that need doing. There are always deadlines to meet, babies to feed, laundry to wash, papers to sort, and bills to pay. My to-do list replenishes itself daily. There is no spare time to find. ⁣ ⁣ I cannot make time either. I’m not God. I can’t add hours to the day or days to the week. Time is fixed. I can create no more of it.⁣ ⁣ But what I can do is take time. That’s what I’ve discovered in this 4th year of motherhood and 46th year of life. If I want to do things I love, things that are important but not urgent, things that make me feel whole, joyful, and at peace, I need to take time to do them. That’s the only way.⁣ ⁣ If I want to shower, I need to take time from work. If I want to pray, I need to take time from sleep. If I want to read, I need to take time from cleaning. If I want to exercise or drink water or call a friend, I need to let something else go. I need to take time from one thing and give it to another.⁣ ⁣ And that’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s healthy.⁣ ⁣ Realizing I can’t find time or make time, only take time, is teaching me to set boundaries and prioritize the things most important to my heart, soul, and body, not my ego or bank account. It’s reminding me that some things matter more than met deadlines and clean kitchens. It’s forcing me to surrender my need to control everything, do everything, never fail at anything. It’s helping me remember God is in charge, not me, and this earth will keep spinning even if I drop a few balls (or a few dozen balls).⁣ ⁣ I’m still learning. Taking time doesn’t come naturally to me. Stressing about time does. And, of course, sometimes it works in the opposite direction, where I have to take time from holding babies to meet deadlines or take time from exercising to clean.⁣ ⁣ But slowly, I’m figuring out the right rhythm of give and take. I’m learning to breathe. And it’s so good.
Once, long ago, I wrote a book. I’ve written man Once, long ago, I wrote a book. I’ve written many books, but this was my first, about being single. It wasn’t a topic I wanted to be an expert on, but God had other ideas.⁣ ⁣ Regardless, after I wrote the book I was proud of it. I hoped it would help women. To get that book into their hands, though, I had to market it. This is where I faced one of the most important choices of my life. ⁣ ⁣ It didn’t seem super important at the time. A friend, who was a big marketing executive, saw my book and loved it. He loved it so much, he offered to market it.⁣ ⁣ “We’ll build a website,” he offered. “We’ll do a Facebook page. You can build a personal brand as the go-to expert for single women.”⁣ ⁣ I thanked him, then said no. I didn’t want a personal brand. I didn’t want to put my writing or me in a box.⁣ ⁣ It was the right call. The book didn’t sell as many copies as it might have. I never built the audience that someone who focuses on 1 topic builds. But I built something more important: myself. ⁣ ⁣ In the years since, as a writer, I’ve pursued 100 interests, not 1. I’ve written about Catholic social teaching, adoption, infertility, the Eucharist, the theology of the body, food, prayer, mystics, Church history, and now skin care.⁣ ⁣ As I’ve done that, I’ve discovered how endlessly fascinating everyone and everything is—how every person and place has a story and how those stories are all part of the greater story of salvation history. I’ve found grace in unexpected places: a trailer park in the Sierra Nevadas, a restaurant in Ukraine, an old house in Pittsburgh. Most important, I’ve gotten to be me while doing it, with all my complexities and contradictions, not a shiny, polished, one-dimensional brand.⁣ ⁣ I am not a brand. Neither are you. We are persons. Not cereal boxes. We exist to know God, love God, and love one another. Not to be a personal corporation. It’s okay to focus your career or social media on 1 topic. It good to know and do something well. But don’t ever be afraid to try, do, or say something new just because it’s not your “brand.”⁣ ⁣ God is calling you to more than the boxes of this world can hold. Don’t let a label stop you from answering that call.
I saw her face days before she died. A friend shar I saw her face days before she died. A friend shared a photo, tweeted by the military, of her with a baby in her arms.⁣ ⁣ When I saw her face again, it was flashing through my feed alongside photos of other mothers’ babies, who aren’t coming home.⁣ ⁣ I don’t know her. But not a day has gone by since I saw her photo for a 2nd time where I haven’t wept for her. The tears come from nowhere. While I’m making dinner, cleaning my bathroom, holding one of my babies.⁣ ⁣ Sometimes, it’s not tears, though. Sometimes, it’s anger. Anger at those responsible for her death. Anger at our confusing, maddening, broken world. Anger at all the craziness that has crippled and divided us this last year.⁣ ⁣ Anger, you see, is my besetting sin. I’m a redheaded choleric who craves justice. Anger comes naturally. Mercy doesn’t. So my greatest sins have come from anger. Words I’ve said. People I’ve hurt. Bridges I’ve burned. They haunt me still. So, I’ve spent 2 decades working to control my anger—to restrain my tongue and my judgements, to feel compassion, to extend mercy, to avoid near occasions.⁣ ⁣ I haven’t mastered my anger yet. I still lose my temper. But not as often as I once did. Which is something.⁣ ⁣ This past year, though, has tested my progress. There’ve been moments where my anger flashed so hot, I felt sure, if I let it loose, it could burn the whole world down. ⁣ ⁣ But if I did, the first world to burn down would be my own.⁣ ⁣ So, when my anger runs ahead of my reason, I fight to call it back. I ask God to transform it from fire to fuel, fuel that helps me pray more urgently, give more generously, write more powerfully, and pour myself out more completely. I beg for the grace to let anger motivate rather than lead. And when all else fails, I throw my fireballs at Him, knowing He can consume my fury in the flames of His Sacred Heart, a heart that has every right to feel wrath, but chooses mercy instead.⁣ ⁣ If you struggle like me, I get it. There’s so much to be angry about. And holy anger is real. It can motivate and inspire.⁣ But it can’t save. Only mercy can do that. Only mercy has done that.⁣ ⁣ When in doubt, choose mercy. He does. And He knows what He’s about.⁣
Last week, we took the side off Toby’s crib, tur Last week, we took the side off Toby’s crib, turning it into a toddler bed. Our hope was it would stop Toby from screaming like the house was on fire when he woke every morning at 6, and waking the other babies in turn.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ It has.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Now, instead of waking at 6, Toby wakes between 1 and 3, then comes flying into our room. With one word, “Mama,” he rouses me, then proceeds to hop into our bed, climb on top of me, wrap his arms around my neck, and fall back asleep.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Shockingly, I don’t fall back asleep nearly so quickly. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I am exhausted. My brain is a muddled, sleep-deprived, slow-moving mess. But I’m not here for advice about how to get him to stay in his bed. I don’t really mind his presence. In some ways, I kind of love it.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Those of you who have been here for a while, will remember I started writing regularly in these here squares while baby Toby napped on me in the afternoons. From the start, he was a great morning napper, but afternoons naps needed to take place on Mama.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Eventually 2 naps became 1, and I was no longer needed as an afternoon bed.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ In the evenings, however, I was. Cuddling at length with Mama was how toddler Toby drifted off. Everyone warned me he’d never learn to fall asleep on his own. But he did. Now, I can leave him day and night, awake, looking at his books, and know he’ll close his eyes soon enough.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I also know that one day these night wakings will end too. And there will be no little Toby climbing in bed with me in the wee hours of the morning, nestling up against me, drifting back to sleep, safe in Mama’s arms. There will be no little Toby. He will grow and change and not even think of running into my room at night. More likely he’ll be sneaking past my door, like I now sneak past his, trying his hardest not to wake me.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ So, I’ll take the exhaustion and the muddled mind. I’ll take the weight of his sweet warm body, half crushing me in the dark. I’ll praise Jesus for every night this child still runs to me. And I’ll pray that no matter how big he grows or how far he goes, that he knows he can always run back to me, that as long as I live I will be here, ready to hold him tight, safe in Mama’s arms.
I don’t know what the days ahead will bring. I c I don’t know what the days ahead will bring. I can’t guess at what new sorrows or new mercies await us. But I do know those sorrows will be amplified and mercies missed if we continue to harden our hearts against each other—dismissing, demonizing, and detracting when we disagree.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I understand the fear. I understand the frustration. I’m caught up in the same vortex of uncertainty as you. But everyone who doesn’t see what we see is not the enemy.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ All of us are formed by our experiences, fears, and anxieties. Those things often push us in opposite directions. They push one family to vaccinate, one family to not vaccinate. They push one person to mask, one person to not mask. They push one person to champion one candidate, policy, or political party. They push another person to the opposite candidate, policy, or party.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Sometimes, the direction we’re pushed is wrong. Sometimes, it’s dangerous. Other times, it’s just different. But while some might choose a direction because of ignorance, precious few choose one because of malice.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ The malice usually comes after the choice. In how we view those who choose differently. In how we talk about those who choose differently. In the pride we feel in our own rightness and righteousness. In the injustices we perpetuate in the name of justice.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Contempt makes no converts. Love, however, does. Compassion does. Respect does. So too does humility. We can’t begin to understand how others’ experiences, fears, and anxieties have shaped their thinking, until we recognize how our experiences, fears, and anxieties have shaped our own.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Sit with that. Figure it out. Then, the next time you’re angry or frustrated with someone standing on the other side of an issue, put the most charitable “why” on their thinking. Or better yet, ask them about their “why,” with no plan to change their mind. Listen to them. And love them, even if you still think they’re wrong. That, more than anything, will change their mind…or yours.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ One of the hardest things Jesus asks His followers to do is love people when they’re wrong. But He loves us when we’re wrong every day. And if we ask Him, He’ll give us the grace to do it, too.
What do you do when the world is burning? What do What do you do when the world is burning? What do you do when everything and everyone seems to be spinning out of control, whirling and tilting in some mad, pointless dance? What do you when everywhere you look there is so much damned waste—of life, of love, of effort, of families, of reason and friendship and commonsense?⁣ ⁣ First, you pray. You ask Jesus to be with us in the mess and show us a way out. You offer your own mess to Him. Then, you do what Catherine Doherty called “the duty of the moment.” You do the task that God has put right in front of you in that very second.⁣ ⁣ So, you hold the baby. You change the diaper. You wash the bottles. You wipe the tears. You do the laundry. You play the game. You listen to the story.⁣ ⁣ Or, you smile at the customer. You file the report. You return the email. You teach the lesson. You check on the patient. You sit down with the client. You meet the deadline.⁣ ⁣ You also call the friend. You offer the dinner invitation. You make the new mom a meal. You check in on your parents. You watch your sister’s kids. You kiss your spouse when he walks in the room. ⁣ ⁣ Whatever the next right thing in front of you is, you do it. And you don’t just do it. You do it with love. You do it with attention and care and the heart of a servant. You do it with everything you’ve got. You do it like you’re doing it for Jesus Himself. You change Jesus’s diaper. You meet Jesus’s deadline. You make Jesus’s meal.⁣ ⁣ Then, you do the next duty of the moment. And the next. And the next. And you keep on doing the duty of the moment until you are standing before Jesus, hearing Him say the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”⁣ ⁣ It may not seem like much. It might not earn you any applause or gold stars or even a thank you. But it will change the world. It will help save the world. Slowly. Often imperceptibly. But change will come just the same, one moment at a time, one person at a time.⁣ ⁣ And the more people there are doing the duty of the moment—whatever that duty is, in whatever place God has placed them—and doing it with love, attention, and grace, the faster that change will come. The faster peace will come.
Have you ever wanted to hide your face? Not metaph Have you ever wanted to hide your face? Not metaphorically. Literally. Cover it. Veil it. Keep it inside the house and away from mirrors so not even you have to see it⁣ ⁣ I did. When I was 23. Some eating disorder related problems with my cycle led my doctor to put me on birth control (Yes, bad call). When the side effects became too much, I went off it abruptly. That’s when the breakout started.⁣ ⁣ My skin had broken out before, and in my teens I dealt with occasional acne. But all those breakouts together didn’t compare to what happened to my face in the summer and fall of 1998. Every inch—every centimeter—of my face was covered in small red pimples. There were hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand. And no amount of makeup or concealer could hide them.⁣ ⁣ In the months that followed, I tried over-the-counter creams, prescription creams, antibiotics, special diets, everything. Nothing worked. So, I tried something else—something so toxic that it required regular monitoring by a doctor. That worked. My skin cleared. But to this day, I wonder how that contributed to the myriad of weird health issues I’ve battled ever since.⁣ ⁣ That experience is one reason why, as I got older, I became more committed to clean beauty products. It’s also why 3 years ago, I made the switch to using @Beautycounter.⁣ ⁣ In a season of life where I can’t do much for myself, I can still care for my skin. Yes, it’s getting older. But skin doesn’t have to be young to be beautiful. Skin can glow, shine, and feel supple at any age. Sunscreen, good nutrition, and virtuous living all help. So too do quality skincare products, free of toxins and harmful chemicals.⁣ ⁣ Starting today, August 11, until Monday, August 16, @beautycounter, is having a site wide sale. All skin care products are 15% off. This only happens 3 times a year, so if you’re ready to make the switch to clean beauty and give your skin the best care you can give it, head to my stories for details. Together, we can figure out the best products for you. ⁣ ⁣ I know what it’s like to want to hide your face. I also know the confidence and peace beautiful skin can give. That confidence and peace is all I want you to know.
It’s August 10, and I haven’t had a nervous br It’s August 10, and I haven’t had a nervous breakdown yet. Which may not seem like a big deal, but a few weeks ago, that’s where I thought I was heading. The stress of babies, laundry, cooking, cleaning, adoption paperwork, knee surgery, and writing deadlines had my adrenal levels in overdrive. No matter how much I prayed, ate right, and tried to have reasonably expectations about the day, my heart still raced from morning till night, and I felt like a stupid, weak, self-absorbed failure for drowning in what, compared to others’ struggles, was barely an inch of water.⁣ ⁣ But here I am, 3 weeks later, still busy, still juggling, but no racing heart. When a sitter cancels or a baby won’t sleep or the house looks like a three-ring circus practices in it, I don’t break down crying or lash out at an innocent bystander.⁣ ⁣ What changed? Just one thing. I talked about how I was struggling.⁣ ⁣ I talked to Chris. I talked to a few friends. And I talked to you. I shared what I was going through. I admitted I needed help. And then I accepted the help offered.⁣ ⁣ I also heard again and again that I wasn’t alone—that so many of you feel this way too. In my head I already knew that, but it made a huge difference to hear it from those going through the same struggle at the same moment.⁣ ⁣ Now, 3 weeks later, I’m breathing again. Just because I didn’t keep the stress, anxiety, and sadness bottled up. I didn’t pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. I did what someone made in the image of God was created to do: I communicated. I shared myself with others. And it helped. It helped a lot.⁣ ⁣ All of which is to say, if you’re struggling, if you’re hurting or drowning in the chaos and confusion of this life, please tell someone. Your husband. A friend. A therapist. The Internet if you have to. God for sure. Let it all out. Even if it doesn’t come out naturally. Even if you feel like a fool. Even if the first person you talk to doesn’t receive it well.⁣ ⁣ You are a gift. Every part of you. Including the struggling parts. Don’t hold that gift back from others. Life is a valley of tears, but it’s so much easier to walk through that valley when we don’t try to go it alone.
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