Eleven, and Ten, and Nine: Reflections on the Loss of My Mother

    

In Sandra Cisneros' "Eleven," the young female protagonist writes: "What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven."

So, on this day that approaches the one-year anniversary of my mom's death in a few days, at my current age of 52, I realize I am also:

1. My 51-year-old self who held my mother's hands as she died 367 days ago. Who laughed with her during her last 3 days. Who was fortunate to be able to tell her of my love and admiration before she was gone. The 51-year-old who was not ready to be parentless.

2. The 47-year-old parent calling her on my commute from work each day, sharing teacher stories and proud Mom stories during my oldest son's senior year. Thousands of miles away, she was a part of my daily life story

3. My 35-year-old self who called her each morning and evening, crying, revealing my broken heart and fears for my children in the midst of my divorce.

4.The 29-year-old self traveling with her to weekly garage sales, buying baby clothes, laughing when a garage sale was awful, singing a silly song left over from childhood, "Give me a J, give me a U, give me an N, give me a K. What do you have? Junk sale!" (Funny I just remembered that writing this)

5. My 27-year-old self who laughed hysterically with her as we purchased the biggest 7-11 convenience store soda made (64 or 70 oz.) in a cup so big we could not drink and still see the road.

6. The 23-year-old self who watched my mom speak with strength and courage at my dad's funeral at the hardest moment of her life.

7. My middle school-aged self who sat in admiration at Mom play an Atari duck hunting game for so long she had indentations from the game gun on the side of her nose.

8. The younger self who watched her pick up dumped cucumbers on the side of a country road and go home and pickle them.  Or wield an ax or use a chainsaw on a tree.  Through her, I knew women were indestructible.

SO . . . . 

If it is true at 52 years of age that I am all those other ages, my mom never leaves. She never disappears. Her DNA still runs in my blood. (Since I unfortunately have the same genetic mutation that possibly led to her cancer, I now have medical proof it is true). My previous selves were molded and shaped and transformed by her personality and presence. 

I know now the words I shared with her after Dad's death are oh so true:

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still." Henry Scott Holland

Mom, I love you. I wish you were here. Not a day has gone by where I have not missed the one person who understood me better than anyone else. I am so glad you are a part of my DNA!

2021 Edition of: The grill is on, and the table is full: Rediscovering Church under a Tailgating Tent

 The grill is on, and the table is full

I’ll be honest.  I only started tailgating at Baylor in 2009 because my husband wanted to.  Don’t get me wrong.  I absolutely love college football, but in Texas heat in the early fall, I had never considered why in the world I would possibly want to spend 5 (or more) extra hours in the heat rather than watching the game in my air-conditioned living room.

However, he wanted to, and I joined in.  We bought the food, set up the tent, and sweated.  At first, it was just the two of us tailgating, or when the boys were with us, the four of us tailgating.  (Andy was 10 when we started our first year, and now he is in graduate school and bringing 10-15 of his friends tomorrow to the game).

(our first year tailgating)

As the years progressed, however, the tailgating crew grew.  We met people from the neighboring sites.  We invited people from our lives to join us.  Those from an additional 3 groups/sites have now joined forces with us (or perhaps, we have joined them), and now our numbers usually exceed 30.  We have sweated---and sometimes frozen—and sometimes we have even gotten wet and muddy. 

What I have recently realized, though, as sacrilegious as it sounds, is that I have rediscovered the true meaning of church under that tailgating tent.

Here are some of the things I’ve learned under that tent:

1. All are welcome under our tent.  Our tailgating crew is made up of staunch Republicans, liberal Democrats, gun-toting Texans, and those who hate guns.  Teetotalers and drinkers, black, white, Hispanic, old, young, single, divorced, and married all spend time under our tent. God-fearing churchgoers meet with those who wouldn’t attend church if they were paid.  Those who smoke and those who don’t, those who curse and those who wouldn’t dare all find welcome here---a welcome without judgment. 

2. Despite our different backgrounds, we are all part of a family.  Our tailgating family comes from various paths of life.  Some of our crew are co-workers or former co-workers or children of co-workers.  Some are those in neighboring tents who have enjoyed the shade for a while or Anthony’s delicacies and have become our “autumn” family.  The “kids” from the site next door who joined forces with us several years ago put up with us, even though we are old enough to be their parents.  Just as a real family, we have celebrated the births of their children, even while our children graduated from high school and college. 

Some of our crew actually are just passersby and perfect strangers who come to ask questions about the grill, grab a drink, and then find a welcoming seat.  We have welcomed people we have met on Twitter, those we know through our kids’ school, and those we know from past life connections.  We have even had our regulars invite people they know and the “autumn” family grows.  Our crew often finds themselves sitting next to perfect strangers, as people from various walks of lives share moments under that tent, and yet the conversation continues.  Despite the differences, as far as I know, no single argument has ever arisen regarding our differences, and no one has felt left out or unappreciated. 

3. Whether we know each other well or not, we give of what we have to others.  Several years ago, a wind storm came out of nowhere.  Jill and I were the lone lingerers at the site, and the tents went flying.  Perfect strangers came and helped us take down the tents.  Then, we, in turn, went and helped other neighbors.  If someone nearby forgets an item, we share with those around us.  We have shared phone chargers, fingernail clippers, folding chairs, hand sanitizer, trash bags, and of course, we have shared food.  Whatever any of us have on our table is open to our neighbors.

4. We each contribute our strengths.  Anthony is usually the grill master and the extrovert.  He shares his food and his plus-sized personality with literally anyone who walks by.  As the introverted organizer, I try to make sure we have everything we will need, and now that our “family” is bigger, I have a fellow organizer in Courtney.  Others, like Steve and Walker and Marshall, have contributed their muscles to take down the tents and chairs.  

Others, like Lisa, Allie, and Josh, and Jill are the conversationalists who can talk to anyone about anything.  Robin provides the most wonderful hugs, and all the children make me smile.  Kerry's humor never fails to brighten my day, Tammy's deviled eggs are always a hit, and Mike and Ernie always bring Anthony to life.  Brad and Paul’s stories make us laugh, and all the others I am not mentioning by name still bring the same smile to my face right now when I think of them!  We each seem to find our place to make the tent a welcoming place.

5. What happens under that tent is real.  No facades need to be worn.  When we are all stinky and sweaty in 100-degree weather, who needs to pretend to be all “put together”?  With out-of-place hair and wet foreheads, our flaws and dysfunctions are very apparent.  We have laughed, talked, and yes, even cried under that tent.  We have shared personal details that would make some blush.  We have talked about our families, our less-than-wonderful pasts, and our fears about our children.  Yet, I haven’t heard one single remark that is anything less than loving for the one going through the difficult time.

6. We don’t get hung up on the little things.  If University of Texas is playing Baylor, we accept jerseys of both colors under our tent.  Everyone is welcome.  We laugh and tease each other, but in the end, we know that the school color, the jersey, and the loyalty is not what matters.  Rather than focusing on the differences, we focus on the similarities.

The year 2020 was already a bit challenging dealing with COVID, my mother’s death, and much more.  The absence of my tailgating family was real.  We have continued to meet occasionally on Zoom for a virtual baby shower, via text conversations, via videos of me reading books for the little ones.  Despite continued COVID fears, regardless of whether we actually merge with the crowds in the stands, we will meet in the open air under the tent.

So, when you see me this fall writing a Facebook post about surviving the heat of the summer a mere 8 hours before the game, or when you see a picture of all of us bundled up and gathered around a fire pit, eating chili on a 30-degree morning, you will know why I do what I do.  

It is more than just sitting under a tent.  It is more than football.

Church is not always held inside a building with stained glass windows.  The truths of Jesus can even be found under pop-up tents.  As a churchgoer and minister for years, I often lost Jesus in the sanctuary.  

However, I know where you can find that type of love and acceptance this fall if you’re interested. 

It started for Anthony and me with the two of us, and now our family includes thirty or more.  There is always room for more! 

Join us under the tent.  The grill is heated up, and the table is always full of food. 

You have a standing invitation.

 

Restoration IS Possible---A Reflection on 2020-2021

Today I picked up the restoration of a picture that hung above my grandparents' bed my entire childhood.  It was a frame and picture I have long admired since I was a little girl.  It is one of those fancy oval frames with the rounded glass.  It was a photo that had been taken long before I was born of the farm my grandparents owned in upstate New York, between Buffalo and Niagara.  It was of the barns and fields and trees where my mother and uncle grew up.

I have longed to own it for decades, in part because I loved the frame with its rounded glass, but I also loved that the photo was one that meant a great deal to my grandparents.  Although I only visited the farm once, I, most importantly, loved this photo as well because of the heritage that came with it, the stories of the hundreds of chickens, the daily egg deliveries, the farmers markets, the huge gardens and fields, and the experiences that made my mother and my grandparents who they were.  

Long ago the fragile print tore after being taken out of the frame, and the colors faded to dull grays and pale yellows, but my mom kept the print and frame with glass with the intention of restoring it one day.  After my mother died this past October, I found the frame and picture in the storage unit, and I carefully dragged it halfway across the country in my crowded Ford Focus.

Today I picked up the restored photo.

Today is an important day because today was the day in 2020 when I realized life as we all knew it was changed.  The educational system, the norms, the hugs and gatherings, the friendships----all came to a screeching halt due to a virus that became more threatening each day.  All were replaced by uncertainty, masks, and more of an isolated life than I was used to.

Life these last 12 months has not been easy.  Life is more uncertain.  Life is more tenuous.   Friendships and families are often only held together by the virtual waves of Zoom and Facetime and phone calls and emails.  

I recently described to a friend that life in 2020-2021 has made me feel like I am a shadow of my former self.  The death of a mother, the hospitalization of a husband, the silent pain of watching my sons absorb the loss of graduation ceremonies and the loss of after-graduation job opportunities have certainly not helped.  Like all of us, I have regularly grieved putting plans for the future on hold and grieved the loss of the strength I used to get from friendly hugs and the presence of others.  Perhaps my description of a shadow was poorly worded.  

After seeing the before/after picture of my grandparents' photo, I believe a more fitting description is that life in 2020-2021 has been muted and dulled, and some of the color has been temporarily removed.  

However, I do have this hope 365 days after the news that we would be in quarantine and I would be teaching from home-----life can be restored.  The color, the vibrancy, and the joys can be restored.  I have found brief moments of this in the past twelve months with a renewed respect for the power of a colleague's smile on a Zoom screen, with a new-found discovery of new ways to teach, and with a new appreciation for the smaller things of life like the spears of asparagus I now have peeking above the dirt in my raised garden.

Just as that restoration photographer did, I can work on stitching up the torn pieces of 2020 and 2021 and adding color and life back to this world.  I can add color back into the lives of my friends, my family, my sons, and my students.  The color was there all along---hiding behind the faded surface.  

Merriam-Webster defines restore as "return (someone or something) to a former condition, place, or position."  Life in 2021 and the future may never be the same as pre-COVID.  I may always hold myself at more of a distance in crowds and these moments of this past year will never be forgotten.  However, the things that bring me the most joy---the relationships I have with others, the small leaves that are about to burst forth from my bur oaks, the tender cuddle of my dog, and the hugs of my loved ones--can be restored.

2021 Word of the Year: Breathe

Breathe.

Many of my friends pick a word for each new year, a word that will express their desires and their hopes.  A word that will inspire actions and thoughts in the next 365 days. 

The last present my mom would ever give me arrived in the mail.  It was a cotton wrap that said, “Just Breathe.”  Beside the words was an image of a dandelion puffball being blown into the breeze.

At first, I thought my mom was telling me to “be calm and carry on.”  However, the dandelion helped me imagine breathing into the puffball, releasing its seeds into the breeze to be carried far away.  

My word for 2021 is Breathe.

 

Breathe out.  I intend to breathe out stress and undue responsibility by realizing I cannot control the world, including the actions, apathy, or choices of others.  I intend to breathe out the “what if’s” that continually hound me.  I hope to breathe in this moment only.

Just breathe.  I intend to keep reminding myself to just breathe.  Be confident that these words are true:  “You are enough.”  I don’t need to do more.  I don’t need to impress.  I don’t need to be more or be different.  Just breathe.  Remember those around me who love me just as I am.  Focus on those who see me and hear me just as I am.

Breathe in.  I intend in 2021 to breathe in activities, people, dreams, and places that breathe life into me.  What brings me joy?  Happiness?  A sense of peace?  A sense of contentment?  A sense of goodness?  This might mean a brisk morning walk---or sitting still in the sunshine and not doing anything.  It might be a Zoom call with a dear friend or a glass of wine at the end of the day.  I intend to breathe life into myself since I often tend to care for others—at my own detriment. 

Breathe into.  I intend in 2021 to breathe hope, love, and kindness into those around me.  My goal would be to breathe kind words into someone each day---whether it is thanking the convenience store clerk who smiles each morning as I get my Diet Dr. Pepper or perhaps telling someone who matters to me what they mean to me.  Some of the most precious moments cleaning out my mom’s house involved uncovering all the notes that she placed around her house—notes my dad had left her from 27+ years prior, notes that told her how amazing she was and how he loved her.  Those words on those worn-out, yellowed sheets of paper held her up all those years.  Three words can make a difference in someone’s day (or life).

Breathe beyond.  I intend to breathe beyond this moment.  I will live with the hope that the seeds of possibility are riding the breeze to be planted. 

 

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” ~Sylvia Plath

“When you own your breath, nobody can steal your peace.” ~Author Unknown 

Just Breathe--A Christmas Letter for Mom by her Daughters--Christmas 2020

 

Christmas 2020—A Christmas Letter from Peggy’s Daughters

From those who have complained about difficulty breathing while wearing masks to those unforgettable dying words of George Floyd, to those struggling to breathe in COVID wards,and to those of us with anxiety and worry about all the trials of 2020, it seems that breathing is more critical this year. Perhaps I am just thinking of this because Mom struggled with breathing in her final week on earth. Or perhaps there is more to my thoughts.

Just breathe could be the motto that sums up the year 2020.

Perhaps it could mean:

1. Just breathe. Don’t react immediately to all that is so scary. Breathe and find calmness.

2. Just breathe and see the present for what it is. Find pleasure in the little magical moments.

3. Just breathe. Recognize your value and place in the world. You are here. You matter.

4. Just breathe. Breathing=surviving. Keep going. Despite how it feels, it will be OK.

When Mom sent me a comfy wrap in September with the image at the top of the page, I at first thought it was a gentle reminder for me to find calm in the midst of my struggle with depression and anxiety. Just wrapping it around me made me feel calm. However, I believe her last gift to me has a much deeper meaning.

Just breathe. Even though it could mean taking one day at a time, due to the dandelion image, I now think there was a message of hope that she wanted me to recognize. Kelly and I used to love summers in North Carolina, in part because of the presence of dandelions. We would tear off the puffballs and blow, watching the seeds float away in the air. Little did we care we were spreading weeds. All we saw was the magic of a child’s wishes.

Christmas is all about that same magic. The Christmas story is all about the magical hope that it will all make sense, all come together, and all mean something. Mary and Joseph faced instant judgment and misunderstanding, but they breathed, and a “magical” human presence came into the world. The wise men breathed, hoping that each step they took toward Israel on a very difficult trip (with only the guidance of a star) would bring them into the presence of God. Simeon and Anna, despite no signs of a promise made hundreds of years before, breathed and witnessed a miracle.

I can promise that at ages 49 and 51 this December, Kelly and I do not feel the same magical childlike innocence in dandelion puffs, and with the realization that we are still fairly young to have lost both of our parents, this Christmas will be hard. However, we are determined to breathe this year. We will breathe into our “dandelions” and anticipate a hope unseen:

1. Although we miss our mother deeply since we both talked with her every day, we breathe with joy that she is no longer suffering from her brief stint with cancer. She no longer has pulmonary fibrosis and stiff joints. We breathe with the hope that she is able to see mountains, climb trees, and enjoy a beauty we cannot see.

2. We breathe with the hope that Mom and Dad are together again—finally. We know the last 27 years have felt like eternity to her. We imagined with Mom in her final hours what Dad would do and say when he saw her again for the first time in a long time.

3. We breathe and anticipate what we do not see yet for our children. Parker and Jacob and Andy are now in the “real world” and dealing with health issues and/or COVID-related job challenges, and yet we anticipate health and direction for them. Amy and Jonathan are both freshmen in college, exploring their passions, and we anticipate a clear vision for their futures. Aaron is in his first year of high school, learning virtually from home, but we anticipate a future wide open, ready for him to jump into.

4. We breathe and anticipate better days in our jobs. All 4 of us—Anthony and I and Kelly and Billy—have experienced new challenges in our jobs due to COVID. As has happened for all of us, we anticipate a day when masks may not be necessary, when fear does not exist to be near others, and when we enjoy our friendly gatherings again.

This year has not been easy. For any of us. We have missed out on so much—from time with loved ones, to graduation ceremonies (as 3 of our kids did). The rhetoric used in our political spheres have drawn battle lines and have divided friendships and family relationships. We have canceled vacations, had to rethink jobs and school, and lived with uncertainty. We dream and anticipate of a day when friendships and families are reunited, when hate no longer fills the airwaves, when we see all those around us with a sense of love.

I have no idea what words Mom would share with you this year if she could, but as she sat in the hospital hours before “comfort care” took over her care, she made sure Kelly and I knew where the Christmas cards were that she had already bought and encouraged us to send them out regardless of her condition.

Regardless of what I don’t know of Mom’s message, I am confident that she would want: 

1. To let you know how much she loved and appreciated each of you—for your love, friendship, and support. She always felt like her friends were a part of her family.

2. To let you know how blessed she was to have you in her life.

3. To remind you that there is hope, there is magic, there is joy in life---and even in death. Mom was at such great peace moments before death. She breathed slowly physically, but she breathed with a full anticipation that there was life after death.

4. To remind you to breathe. To dream. To allow the seeds of hope to spread.

5. To become a child again in simple (but not always easy) childlike love, hope, and trust.

6. To breathe and enjoy something magical this Christmas season.

7. To love each other (regardless of political leanings, appearance, religious beliefs, or lifestyles). To hug. To tell those around you that you love them. To live each moment to the fullest.

Kelly and I, attempting to fill in for Mom in this letter in her absence, wish you just breathe and discover a true anticipation of something you cannot see at this moment.

Merry Christmas.

A Non-traditional Christmas--Christmas 2020

 Christmas 2020

While going through my mom’s house recently, I ran across a document where she listed her

family traditions and my dad’s family traditions prior to their marriage. In typical Peggy Lewis-

organized fashion, she also listed how they had intertwined these traditions while giving up ones

that could be set aside. My Christmas tree reflects one of these traditions. Each year, my

parents gave me an ornament that represented something from that year. I continued the

tradition with my own sons. As a result, on my tree, beside the deteriorating 47-year-old

Raggedy Ann ornament is a metal flag to represent the year Jonathan screamed in joy every

time he saw a flag and on a branch nearby is a giraffe ornament for the year Andy fell in love

with the animals at Animal Kingdom.

This past year COVID-19 has caused each of us to reexamine our traditions. I know traditions

help us build community, build family, hold on to the past, build a legacy for the future, and find

meaning in life. Yet, in 2020, we have had to re-examine these traditions and weigh their value

with the value of the lives around us. It has been a hard year.

Yet, if we look back at the first Christmas, we can see that it was anything but traditional.

Nothing from that event---from the two young newlyweds desperately looking for a place to stay,

the unusual spot of a stable for a baby’s birth, the arrival of dirty shepherds, and eventually, the

unexpected visit of three men who most likely looked and spoke differently---was traditional or

normal. However, over the past 2020 years, we have often built personal traditions up to be the

only way we feel we can celebrate the holiday, sometimes forgetting the true meaning of the

holiday.

2020 has taught me that if our eyes are on the priority---our love and friendship with

others—then, traditions can be changed, and life continues on. Due to the uncertainty of the

pandemic, and most recently due to my mother’s death, I have found myself rethinking what is

most important.

For Andy and Jonathan who both just graduated---one from Baylor and the other from high

school, there were no traditional graduation ceremonies or cap and gown pictures. We grieved

the loss of those ceremonies, but we celebrated both of the boys and their achievements. For

Andy, COVID limited job opportunities, so he moved home and we got to spend 6 months with

him and his dog, Astro, but we chose to celebrate sharing a few more moments together.

Jonathan completed an internship at Cameron Park Zoo this summer, and although the job

changed due to COVID, in true spirit for him, none of that mattered as long as he could care for

the fish in the aquatics section.

Anthony and I each had to alter traditional modes of our jobs. Anthony learned how to use 360

videos to do house showings for clients, and he began his own YouTube channel, reaching

people all over the country, several of whom have since contacted him. I learned how to Zoom,

how to use online breakout rooms, and how to hold online office hours. Despite a longing to

tailgate with friends or a desire to see friends in person, we have creatively maintained our

friendships via Zoom sessions or lunches spent talking through the open windows of our

separate cars. Just in the past 4 months, Anthony and his dad have both been hospitalized and

my mom has died, and despite these challenges and the loss, Anthony and I have chosen to

celebrate in our new socially-distanced lives the moments we sit on the back porch, smell the

smoke of the grill, and listen to music.

This year the LED lights may not sit in my house windows, and the decorations may not all be

displayed. I may not be making my traditional desserts, and the Christmas parties will not

happen. However, the legacy my parents left me and the legacy I hope to leave will not

change: Cherish friendships. Show kindness. Hope. Dream. Do justice. Be merciful. Show

grace. Celebrate the moments. Love. Love. Love. Despite the traditions that you find unable

to continue this year, I pray you and your family find an opportunity to celebrate your love for

each other. Merry Christmas!

Of Voodoo Curses, Magic Shamrocks, and the #blessed Theology

For the past two years, my sister and I have joked that we have a special type of sister bond---a shared voodoo curse.  Little did Kelly and I know when we were young, when we played the M.A.S.H. paper game of the 1970s that allowed us to dream about our future home, husband, and financial situation, that our lives would not turn out at all like we had thought it might. 

Our joke is a sisterly twist of Murphy’s Law.  For us, the Lewis Sisters’ voodoo curse is a matter of the two of us trying to find humor in some very humorless situations.  To continue our dark humor, we mutually own two little miniature voodoo figurines of Wonder Woman, and her ringtone on my phone states "voodoo jester.” 

Although I have no real belief in voodoo curses or in magic shamrocks or in the colored rabbits’ feet I used to buy as a child, I do truly believe that the #blessed theology is dangerous.

From Christian friends of mine who claim #blessed when their kid’s Christian sports team wins a game (I guess because the other Christian team is not blessed) and from Christians who claim #blessed when their luxury boat is not harmed in a hurricane while others’ hard-earned trailers are demolished, I find it hard to swallow this #blessed theology.  If this theology is, in fact, true, then unfortunate situations prove that God does not love me, does not listen to me, does not protect my belongings, or have my team win.  He must not love me as much as he loves these #blessed people.

I would guarantee that those who landed on American shores to obliterate Native Americans by the thousands thought they were blessed as they ate their first Thanksgiving dinner provided by the Native Americans.  I am sure the pictures of that event would have been tagged with #blessed had Twitter existed then. This #blessed flawed theology states that because the Native American culture was completely demolished, God must have not cared as much for these people. 

Likewise, when people were rounded up to become slaves in this #blessed country, historical reports show that the white slaveowners told their slaves that God had allowed them to rule.  As a result, these African slaves were led to believe that God must love the white slaveowners who openly committed adultery with their female slaves and beat others to bloody messes more than he loved the small African boy.  What a twisted image of God this is!

After all these years, we still treat God as if He is some rabbit’s foot.  If we rub the rabbit’s foot enough by praying the right amount of time, use the exact right words, tweet #blessed enough times to witness to others, then God will provide all we dream and ask. 

I believe God is more than a rabbit’s foot.  This #blessed theology makes those whose loved ones die of cancer or have incurable diseases despite all types of prayers feel like they failed, that God must not love them enough.  This #blessed theology makes those whose marriage collapsed despite prayers feel like even God does not care.  This #blessed theology makes anyone whose “luck” is down, whose paycheck is not enough to pay the bills, or whose lives are not ideal question who they are in God’s eyes.

I have to believe that God is more complicated than any tweet or hashtag.  Just because I have belongings or a win for my kid’s team does not mean that God has blessed me.

Recognizing God’s blessing means that we recognize in private the many ways He has quietly stood beside us when life was falling apart.  Our lives may not be perfect, but He sat with us through the wreckage.  Recognizing God’s blessings is not connected to monetary successes or achieving the Pinterest house or having the Norman Rockwell life.  God’s blessings do not come in perfect houses, luxury boats, the proper clothing, the achievement of the American Dream, or the extravagant paycheck. 

God’s blessings come in small ways---from the complicated spider web that shimmers in the dew, from an expected word of encouragement from a friend or stranger, from an extra long cuddle from a child, from a deep conversation with a special someone, or just a brief moment of peace in the midst of a storm of life.

There are so many watching those who claim faith.  They see when their life circumstances do not “match up” to those who call themselves #blessed.  I do not want to be the person whose #blessed theology makes others lose hope, believe less in themselves, or believe less in my God who is much more complicated than any hashtag I use.