This post is part of the July blog series "Why Am I Still Single? {And Other Pressing Questions}". To follow the series and meet other likeminded readers, like Every Woman a Theologian on Facebook or join me on Instagram! I could have grown up jaded by the church....
Praying for your future husband shouldn’t be the only thing on your prayer list by any means. But if you struggle with contentment, route your discontented thoughts into prayer. As one of my dear friends told me: “worrying is praying for what you don’t want”. Don’t worry about being single. Pray for wisdom, strength, humility, and a desire for the God who loves you – the same God who loves your future mate.
This post is part of the Broken and Beautiful series, a discussion of beauty and identity. I finally met her in person at a lingerie shower for a friend. I had seen her from afar and we shared dozens of mutual friends, but I had never approached her - partially...
"After this baby is born, I'm writing an entire series on why you shouldn't believe anything you read on the internet concerning pregnancy." I said to my husband, slapping my laptop shut. He chuckled. "So they shouldn't believe anything you write, either." "That's...
This post is a part of the series The Broken and Beautiful, a discussion of identity, self-perception, and beauty.
I stood in front of the mirror and frowned. What had once been the outline of my abs was disappearing overnight, my face was broken out in all-new places, and I could point out several other flaws at the drop of a hat. Mr. M poked his head in the bathroom door.
“You’re beautiful.”
I smiled wanly. “At least you think so.”
I am now five months pregnant with Baby M, and though I’ve been able to hide my growing body underneath my regular clothes so far (thank heavens for blousy trends!), it is growing more difficult by the week. Not just that, but I’ve seen the visible changes as I get dressed each morning and hastily cover up my “undesirable” to put best face forward in my world.
Many of you are like me. Pregnant or not, you look in the mirror and cringe at what you see; then you cover up the “undesirable” before facing your world.
A few days ago I received my Commencement packet in the mail. As I flipped through the pages, I was in something of a daze considering how long this day has been in coming. Hours of late night work, crying over papers I was sure would be the death of me, doing my best to keep up my grades through engagement, wedding, full time job and then early stages of pregnancy – and here I am: graduation!
Until my last class concluded in March I had always been sure of two things: I had to finish my degree, and we (Mr. M and I) needed to pay off his student loans to become debt-free. In March, I finished my Bachelor of Science in Religion and we made our last payment to Sallie Mae. I wanted to shout: “I’m FREEEEE!”
Once the excitement died down, however, I realized the things I had worked toward for so many years were now complete. The things that were certain were gone. Suddenly, the future seemed clouded with a fog of options and uncertainties, completely out of my control.
Every month I reassess my goals using Lara Casey’s PowerSheets. As I wrote down my goals for May I looked back at the goals I’d listed for 2015. I was a little astonished at what I could check off.
“You are going to be white if it kills me.”
I plopped the bucket on my kitchen floor and got down on my knees, scrub brush in hand. The grout in my kitchen tile is the bane of my existence. I’ve tried bleach, I’ve tried baking soda and vinegar, my good ole’ Murphy’s Oil Soap – nothing would make the grout white. So on my day off I decided to attack the tile with full force: baking soda and hydrogen peroxide.
What began as a small, ‘quick’ project turned into a five-hour affair of misery.
First, I ran out of baking soda (some planning would have been nice). So, I thought, isn’t washing soda pretty much the same thing?
Friends, washing soda is not the same thing as baking soda.
The washing soda and peroxide paste morphed into cement. It took an extra half hour of scrubbing, splattering all over my stove, cupboards, and refrigerator, two bruised knees and a lot of paper towel to remedy my little experiment.
I will never again tell my floor to “kill me” in order for it to be clean. Because it will.
The other night I made a magnificent replica of Olive Garden’s chicken and gnocchi soup. It had a whole stick of butter and two cups of milk and it was Italian perfection.
The problem: it made enough for six people, and Mr. M and I are only two.
I put the pot in the fridge and for the next week chicken and gnocchi stew was our primary lunch option. By the third day, I was really over it.
We were still in the midst of the gnocchi siege when my parents called, saying they would swing by on a Tuesday night – boosting our dinner number from the usual two to seven people. I raced to Kroger on my lunch to buy a fat-laced chuck roast, heirloom carrots and fingerling potatoes. Then I floored it home to get the meal in the crock pot before heading back to work.
The roast turned out perfectly for our company – walking in the door I could smell the herbs I’d rubbed into the meat, the smell of the beef broth and the vegetables, and pretty soon the green beans and rolls began to waft their scents into the air. I set the table carefully with my Blue Willow china and cleaned the kitchen. It’s not every day you have company from 16 hours away!
I put the gnocchi soup on the stovetop as a back up in case people were still hungry… but never served it. After all… it’s leftovers.
It’s not the first time I’ve used such choice words. Or rather, words of choice – those few who make themselves readily available in situations such as these. They lie in wait for stress, anxiety, car doors and thumbs to make their grand entrance. Not everyone struggles with their mouth and not everyone struggles with their mouth in this way. While I’m not proud about my temptation to swear when frustrated and angry, I’m not going to pretend I haven’t done it, as the story above illustrates with painful clarity. But there’s a bigger issue at play here; a question that may seem silly to ask but in a culture of compromise is one many Christians are asking: should I do anything about it?
I took the pregnancy test in a hotel bathroom. I left it on the counter and went into the sitting area to do homework while Mr. M watched TV. It was our one year anniversary.
“Well?” He asked. “I don’t know anything yet,” I replied. “It’s really probably nothing. I’m going to do homework.”
Ten minutes later Mr. M came out of the bathroom holding a plastic stick with two pink lines.
“We’re having a baby!”
—
My husband was thrilled when we first found out. Just the week prior he had been asking when I thought we’d really try for a Baby M, since we weren’t really trying at all. It all happened so much faster than I had anticipated, and while I wasn’t disappointed by any means, I felt extremely unprepared.
I’m the woman who maps out the entire itinerary for a trip, day by day, list by list, prior to leaving. I’m the one who plans my grocery list around a map of the store for most efficient shopping experience. And I’m the one who plans my schedule two weeks out, so if you need an appointment, tomorrow is not available.