Dancing Shoes. Hard decision

I have dreams of dancing…lightly and effortlessly. Swooshy dress, dancing shoes…heels. Held in someone’s arms, who isn’t the least bit worried about me falling.

I’ve reconciled to someday be in that dress, in those shoes, in those arms…and to dance.  Someday.  Even if in Heaven.

Because I know it will happen.  I will be healed.  I will be light and effortless.  And it will be Joy.

But a surgeon at Emory says he can help me now. On September 12, to be exact.

He can make my toes straight by cutting the tendons, and he can make my heel touch the floor by lengthening my Achilles tendon and fusing my ankle in place. And he says sandals and 1″ heels are in the near future.

So here’s the thing I’m sifting through:  This woman as IS, the walker with a limp and curled toes, the carrier of the cane…is a woman after God’s heart.

This heart, broken with loss, is the healed heart. Fully healed.

Amazed and transformed through what I thought I couldn’t bear, this woman loves Jesus. This woman sees joy in pain. The endless possibilities through what I can’t do. A grateful soul that wouldn’t ever give back the experience of what I lost.  The marriage, the stroke, the self-focus, the vanity , the preoccupation with the mirror. All of it.

See, I don’t want HER back.

I just want God. And I long for deep, deeper, deeper still.

Will I be besotted with my pretty toes in sandals? What will my eyes be drawn to without a cane to slow my gait? Will God be honored in my life if the thorn is gone?

Active faith.

Showing up on 9/12.

Expectantly waiting.

Willing again to be changed.






Reblogging again…The same lessons, different date…


Although I am deathly afraid of heights, I am not afraid of public speaking.  Get me close to the edge of a cliff or in a glass elevator, my legs shake, my heart beats faster, and I am noticeably uncomfortable.  Ask me, however,  to step up to a podium on a stage and share on a topic I’m passionate about, and I have zero fear.

I am not eloquent, but I am direct. As a younger woman, editing my speech wasn’t my strength, so I would have been described as frank…occasionally even rude.  I realize that isn’t pretty, but it’s the truth. The good news is, as I have grown, in age and in wisdom, I’ve learned to insert some grace as I speak.  And it is intentional, this change.  I work on this every day, because it’s something I truly want.

Graceful, direct communication takes practice!  For people like me…

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You Will Survive Being Left

Jul 162014
I read this post on Momastery  ( http://momastery.com/blog/2014/07/16/survive-left/) this morning.  It isn’t my exact story, but much of it is.  Just really hit my heart.


Our Messy, Beautiful Summer Week 4: Beginning Again

A guest post by Jennifer Ball

lavendarHow long has it been? You should really be over it by now.

You need to move on.

You’re better off without him! Time to live it up! Hey…it could be worse!

I could live to be 124 years old. Older, even. I could live forever and there are things about that evening I will never be able to forget.

How the August air hung low and thick over the patio that night. How the single candle we had burning flickered, back and forth, even though I swear there was no wind. How I could see inside the house from where I was sitting, see the warm inviting glow of the kitchen light fixtures spilling out onto the lovely hardwood floors. How I could hear a neighbor dog barking, barking out to everybody and nobody in the dark. How the spot on my abdomen, the same area where my numerous c-sections happened, was still sore and tender from the tubal ligation I’d had the week before.

How cool and smooth the wood of the patio table felt on my forehead, and how odd it was that I couldn’t cry.

How time slowed down, and then for a few seconds, stopped. That must have been when I cataloged all of these memories. All of these sights and sounds and feelings, filed away under the heading, “The Night He Left Me”.

We’d been married for 12 years and there were four children made during the first half of those years. Was our marriage perfect? Were we happy?

No. And yes. At least, I thought we were happy. I thought he was happy. I assumed I was happy.

Were there warning signs? Did you know? Come on. You must have known.

I was up to my armpits in kids. They were little and active and oh my god there were FOUR of them! Our house was old and falling apart, we had cats who sometimes peed in it and my husband left in the morning and came home at night. I wasn’t looking for signs of anything other than maybe a sign that this too shall pass or that someday I’d have a few minutes to myself so I could stop and BREATHE and remember to ENJOY the beautiful chaos that surrounded me.

No. There were no signs. No. I didn’t know. I had no clue.

And then, that night. The words flew fast and slippery into the air and like a little black thunderhead they floated over to me:

“Jenny…I’m not happy. I feel like I live in a prison. I need some time to myself. I’m leaving.”

He didn’t apologize. He couldn’t look me in the eye. He had sunglasses in his hand, I remember that. And as he talked, as he gave me his goodbye speech, he tapped them on the hard table in perfect cadence with his words. Like a fancy expensive metronome made in Italy with the finest polycarbonate glare-resistant lenses.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tappity–tap. 

He said he’d call me later in the week to “figure things out”. He went inside the house, he was swallowed up in that warm inviting kitchen light and he said goodbye to our babies and then he left.

He didn’t say goodbye to me.

Sometime later, after the lawyers had joined our merry little party, after the shock of being left had begun wearing off, I found out about her. I had done a good job of convincing myself, and probably nobody else, that he’d left because of a mid-life crisis, or because he was depressed or because he needed to find himself and a two-bedroom apartment with a tiny balcony and free cable was the place to do that.

But then. I found out about her. The woman he went to, when he left me.

All divorces are different. Those that involve another person though, a Plan B who waits quietly (or not so quietly) in the wings…those are particularly awful. The scars these divorces leave are jagged and ugly and oh-so-slow to heal.

They are disfiguring, at first.

You see it every time you look in a mirror. You used to see YOU when you lifted your gaze to meet the one in the bathroom or the bedroom or the hallway. YOU. Maybe you were a young and pretty and tired mama. You might have been a woman of a certain age, with some mileage around your eyes and lines on your cheeks that deepened when you smiled big. It doesn’t matter what you used to see in that mirror.

Now you see the woman who was left. You see the one who lost, the one who didn’t measure up. You see the one who was too old or too fat or too cold or too busy or too lazy. You see the one who just couldn’t compete with the Other.

You see the one who was left.

I’m not going to lie or sugarcoat or get all Polly-freaking-Anna on you here. If you’re going through this, if you’ve been left, you need to know the truth.

It hurts. It’s humiliating and degrading and there will be moments (or hours or days) when you will want the world to open up and swallow you whole. You will maybe do what I did, and think about ending it, ending your life. Write eloquent, tear-stained goodbye letters to your children, your parents. Your husband. Hopefully, you will also do what I did and throw them out after writing them.

Because you need to stick around. Your kids? Oh, I could write a book about what this does to your kids. But the words here, the words I’m clickety clackety typing out right now, these words are for you. The one who was left. I’m telling you, you need to stick around.

I’ll tell you why: after some time passes, after the lawyers have collected their fees and you’ve signed and initialed a stack of papers that are taller than Jack’s giant beanstalk, after you’ve stopped wearing your wedding band and you’ve downloaded “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor onto your iPod…

You’ll look in the mirror one day.

And instead of seeing the one who was left, the one who wasn’t chosen, you’ll see someone else. A familiar face, a strong and beautiful face. There might be a few more worry lines on that face, maybe there’s a new strand or two or twenty of gray in the hair…but you’ll know that face.

It’s YOU. And you will smile at your reflection, you’ll admire the determined tilt of your chin, the knowing and proud look in your eyes. You’ll remember what it felt like to be left. You’ll remember how sad you were and how mad you were and how desperately you wanted things to be different.

You’ll remember feeling like it was the end of the world. And now– you’ll know you were half right about that. One world did end. The world of your marriage, that world filled with promises and hopes and dreams, it did end when he left you.

But oh, my sweet, strong warrior friend…oh my goodness. While that world disappeared into a black hole of grief and endings, a whole new world was born. And this new world, the one you are in right now?

It’s yours.

Is it the one you pictured yourself in, all those years ago? The one you imagined while resting your head on the chest of your husband, after the sex happened and the two of you shared that lovely afterglow, embraced in the dark and whispered about the future?

No. It’s not. But again, I tell you:

This new world is YOURS.

I won’t bullshit you. This new world can be scary. It can be intimidating and overwhelming and at times it can feel impossible to navigate. You will make some mistakes. You will mess up. But that’s okay. Because like a baby who stumbles while learning to walk, you recover from each misstep. You get up and you start over. One freaking foot in front of the other, sister.

With every day that passes, milestones will be reached. While your old world ended with a whole lot of “lasts”, this new world is full of “firsts”:

The first time you don’t think about him, not once, from the time you wake up until your head hits the pillow.
The first time you don’t think about her. About them. About what they did and where they did it.
The first time you realize you didn’t cry that day.
The first time you laugh. Hard. Like, pee-your-pants laugh.
The first time your kids mention something about “dad’s house” and you don’t wince.
The first time you feel the first-date butterflies. And the first kiss bliss.
The first time you realize that somehow, some way, you seem to have forgiven him.
The first time you understand what “moving on” means.

The first time it hits you, and I mean really HITS you:

You survived being left.

Jennifer and family


Jennifer writes about life after divorce, parenting teens and her uncanny resemblance to Hagrid at her blog, The Happy Hausfrau.

– See more at: http://momastery.com/blog/2014/07/16/survive-left/#sthash.xRyDRs1q.QPmwctoE.dpuf


I can describe anything.  Familiar with how I’m made and what I feel and think, there is almost nothing I can’t put words to.  Pretty awesome, actually.  I nearly always know how I feel, and am astonished when people I know can’t name their emotions or thoughts.  It doesn’t seem hard to me.  Just takes practice.

Now and again, though, my familiarity with myself is challenged. I get invited to a battle.

I started out today, entering my very day…just overwhelmed.  Under-equipped for the task.  My heart not right. Missing…something.  Weighted.

This day…this Day… just seem too high…too hard, too deep, too strong for me. Days like these aren’t often, but today is one.

Thinking it would dissipate, I waited it out.

Hours later, still waiting..

And waiting.

And waiting

At some point, I added an ingredient.


And now I’m fighting.

A simple action taken changes the current.

I just got in front and looked up.  That’s all.  Just pushed my way to the front so I could see His face.. Willing my heart to claim truth.

When I see You, I find strength to face the day.  Hosanna.  Worthy of Praise.

It’s a choice to believe that In all things, we know that we are more than conquerers. And its a choice to shift my gaze.

The weight hasn’t lifted.  Hours and hours later, I’m still weighted

But I’m looking elsewhere.

Straight on.

And I can see His face.

Better Ideas

Every time I look carefully at my right hand, I see a scar.  It’s on my first finger, acquired on a hot summer day when I was thirteen.

School was out, and for some reason dad was home that afternoon and mom wasn’t. He was mowing our huge yard, and I was under instructions to bring him ice water every so often.

I thought lemonade was better than ice water , so I set about making that.  In those days, lemonade concentrate came in a can, and you had to remove the metal lid to go about making a pitcher of it. And right there, mid lid removal, was the source of my scar. Next was a petrified scream to my dad, who hugged me, washed my hand and took me to get stitches.

Such a little thing, it seems. But that scar is a reminder.

It isn’t unusual for me to have a better idea than the path set before me.  At 13, it was just about lemonade.  All grown up, it’s about much more .

It can be about being argumentative or uncooperative.

It can be about what I reveal, and what is left hidden.

It can be about adjusting what I give, and what I dare keep.

And it can be me thinking I can control what isn’t for me to control.

This is a theme for me, and I long to clear the stage.

To be a woman of my word, to be a woman of THE Word.  To believe, and follow that Path.

I’m a collector of scars.