Tinnie Treasures


My Grams has, over the many years of my life, typed me letters when passing on treasures and heirlooms as a gift. I’ve always saved them in my cedar chest that my Grandpa Howard made. As I unpacked boxes this morning in my new home and replaced my treasures into the chest once more, I came upon one that I had tucked away for a long while. I honestly couldn’t remember when exactly it was given. 

As a family, we all moved a lot in life. My grandparents traveled the country as ministers and social workers, retiring as Salvation Army Officers. My dad was a pastor who was skilled in loving hurting churches or called to “fix” the broken.  My aunt and uncle similarly were in ministry and social work. We didn’t have homes that were buried deep with layers of memories. They had to be carefully chosen and intentional. 

Each of our homes had a “family wall” that kept us close to each other. Distance was erased with a glance at the precious memories. 

As I carefully packed the chest I opened a little box. It held a letter and a small round cameo frame. Inside the velvet lining was a small oval that held my Grams favorite picture of me as a baby. Having been named Christine, being the very first grandchild, being so tiny, and eventually being the only granddaughter, I held a precious little place of my Grams heart. I was her Tinnie. I was Grandpa’s Chrissy. This is who they saw, regardless how old I was. 

At times I wanted them to see me as a grown up, struggling as a teen. I wanted to be a grown woman when I had a child of my own. I wanted them to be proud of me. Often when confronted with a situation I didn’t know how to handle, I’d ask myself, “Can I sit and tell Grams this? Would she be proud of me? Will I be proud of myself” It was a reality check that would send me back to my core personhood. Essentially it forced me to see if I was being authentic or not. 

I read the letter. There is no way she could have known how much Id have needed to read this right now. To hear her profession of love and pride in me, it drew tears. 

As I sit now, on my bed in my new room, I stare at this picture then out the window. It’s a new year. Today begins the next book of my life. I want to write the pages that will make me proud of myself. 

Lately I’ve been numb. I’ve not had a lot of good days. The last few years have been incredibly hard. Last year at this time I sat in a hospital with my son and prayed that God would heal him. His burst appendix terrified me, and I had to force myself to be strong for him when I wanted to collapse. I had to draw upon courage and strength I felt were fleeting. I didn’t feel confident in handling all the things that continued to try my strengths and to tease my weaknesses. It was a very long year. 

I look out the window once more. They sky is lazy today. It’s as tired, before it even began, as I am. The hint of blue behind the clouds never quite makes it’s mind up to commit to unwrapping sunny rays for the day. It’s almost  like the sun pulled the covers back up over its head and decided to sleep in.  

Next to me sits another frame. It holds two pictures. One is of me a few years ago, where I attended a formal event. Next to me is my Great Great Aunt Pearl. She wears a pretty necklace. It too was given to me for safekeeping. It also included a letter in the long slender box it came in. It reads of a woman who’s heart knew no bounds, but was also strong and solidly rooted in her faith. 

I want to dig into myself, into family, into faith, and to find my core. Aunt Pearl was an incredible and strong woman. I want to be exactly that. Strong, incredibly full of love and grace, and above all to be confident and sure of exactly who I am and whose I am.
In one week I will have flown back to Indiana and will ride a transport that will bring my Grams to be with me in Texas. We get a road trip! I could not be beginning this year more different than last year, and I couldn’t be more happy about that if I tried. ❤️

2017, I welcome you into my home. Let’s do great things together in the coming year. 

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Sucking at being me


Here’s the thing, I am not all that great at being me. Oh I may fool you well enough, but the fact remains, I’m kinda sucking at it.

Before you go all, “You are NOT sucking at being YOU!” on me, let me just explain. Can you at LEAST let me do that much? I do have a reason for saying it.

I had this delusional assumption that by the age of 40 I would really have a handle on who I was, and I would even be kind of an expert at being this kick ass version of myself. I’d not only feel comfortable being in my own skin, I’d also WANT to be in it. I’d know what I need to do by now, and aside from the fact it may not always be fun, I’d really have no issue getting up each day, do THAT, and be awesome at being me.

These are the facts here: Jr. High is far behind me, I long ago stopped answering that, “what do you want to be when you grow up,” question, (you didn’t seriously just ask yourself what that was did you?) and to top it off, I got a crew of kids of my own, two of whom exited their OWN Jr. High years already. If for no other reason than THAT, being me should be a tad bit easier right? I mean, I’m a full adult, not to be confused with that twenty something period of time where you can kinda get away with still being a kid, nor that early thirty something time where often you get treated like a kid, getting told how to raise your own incessantly, even though you’ve had a lot of life under your belt. Now the 40’s means you just plain are old enough to be, well, old enough for whatever. Name it, you are now old enough. I mean, right?

Wrong.

10406520_10208216250350408_555694893439241058_nI turned 41 in a couple months ago. I have zero “numbered-birthday-issues.” I frankly am proud of my age-to-wrinkle ratio. I’m WINNING at that, and darlings, it really rocks like an old school rockstar.

I just thought, unrealistically, that things got easier the older you got. I thought somehow I would stop feeling like a complete novice at this life thing if I DID add a few wrinkles and stubborn grey hairs. Reality can be harsh.

I am not loving feeling like a newbie parent as my kids turn new corners and I find myself learning anew how to catch up to the crazy kid-rearing-train that isn’t stopping or even slowing down.

I sent two girls off to high school, who both appear for all the world to be women hell bent on breaking the world’s hearts. My baby enters into a Jr High season of his own, manhood lapping at his heels. I just got used to what it meant to be a mom of toddlers and somewhat unwillingly moved on to that of tweens. But hey, I figured it out and I had a real handle on it. Now? It’s all new and I’m back to feeling all thumbs. AGAIN.

I get up every morning, try to arm wrestle an upper hand on the things I’m to do and be, and by the end of the day I, for all the world, feel like I am drowning and flailing around, pretending to be me. I want the world to believe I got it covered, I mask up real good and with enough make up I don’t even appear as tired and haired as I am. It’s all a lie though. I’m faking it. I’m like the live version of photoshop… all pretending and no reality.

Wait. Is that what being a grown up is? Pretending you got this? Do we ALL do this?

Seriously?

Did you just nod your head?

Crap. Well, at least I no longer have to feel like I am sucking at being me. I guess I’m doing pretty well at that. It’s just not the version of me I was hoping for. Maybe someday. Maybe ten years from now? No? Oh, okay.  Well, how about 20 years?

Right. Okay. I’ll stop asking.

I remember that essay I wrote back in high school, “Where I see myself 10 years from now.”  I am laughing at that now. I actually thought I would have my act all together in ten whole years! Like that was enough time to fix my insecurities and get myself into mental shape; figure out what I wanted to do and be and then go DO that. That would have made me a whole 27 years old. I graduated at 17.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I’m sure some people do that. But it’s not me. Know what? That’s okay.

I bet my life is a bit more interesting than the tame life I had thought I’d have. But tame? Who wants that anyway?

Certainly not this redhead, and it wouldn’t suit my curls, quite frankly, either.