Nicole K. Twedt

Being Brave When Life Is Hard

Archives for July 2017

Weekend Roundup, July 28, 2017

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We had a minor setback with Chloe’s Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety. It was my fault.  It was way too late in the evening to be walking the dog, at least by Chloe standards.  And it had everything to do with the sound of death rising from various automobiles, and their headlights, which was the worst part for Chloe.  Actually, the worst part of the nightwalk of terror was a certain siamese crouched and (hardly) ready to pounce or strike, all just a half-block from home.

Let’s be real.  There was nothing scary about the kitty, except that it was to Chloe.  The siamese scared the crap out of my little dog.  Literally.  Right there on the sidewalk.  My ten-year-old says I need to examine my word choice.  She suggests I write that the kitty scared the daylights out of Chloe.  My Apologies.

Chloe was given a few carrot pieces and all is well now.  And she performed just fine on this morning’s walk with Lauren and me.  Not that anyone cares.  Really, the only thing worse than tales of a cat lady is that of a dog lover.

But human anixety and real-life panic attacks, well, they don’t exactly come with a simple fix like Chloe’s bag of carrots.   I should know.  It’s more like one step forward and three steps back.  Or is it two steps forward and one step back?  I really can’t say.

The essays I’m about to share are a little on the heavy side.  If anything, writing has taught me not to be afraid of going deep.  So on this Friday afteroon in the middle of the summer, go ahead and kick off your flip-flops, or Birkenstocks if you’re like me and have issues with your feet, and pull up a chair.  We’re about to get real.

I’m glad I came across Kaitlyn Bouchillon’s essay, You haven’t been buried, you’ve been peen planted.  Kaitlyn writes, “I won’t pretend to know God’s timetable. I won’t attempt to put words around all He’s up to. But I can tell you this: You haven’t been buried, you’ve been planted. He’s weaving together a story that will tell of His faithfulness.”

The next one up is Tara Dickson’s I will not be shaken. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ve shared this essay before.  I’m pretty sure I read it somewhere else.  Yet her tagline caught my eye: Bruised But Not Broken, which pretty much sums up my life right now.  I’m sure you can relate.  Earlier this year I wrote this essay about being scarred and how there’s beauty in suffering.  Our stories are more than profound, pain and all.  We’re shaped by them.

Mary Carver, a blogger whose work I’ve followed for the last year or so, well she wrote about what happens When You Find Yourself Caught In a Current.  Notice a theme with today’s shares?  And just for fun, go ahead and read this one about Wonder Woman, and why she’s the hero we need right now.  It wasn’t a Hope*Writer share but it caught my eye when I was copying and pasting the URL for today’s share.  I don’t remember reading this one, which means it’s probably lost somewhere in my overflowing email inbox.

Here’s another one from Glenna Marshall.  Glenna made an appearance last week when my Weekend Roundup was still called Friday Share Day.  So much can happen in a week around here (rolls eyes).  I know I’m kind of a downer this week with all these shares about brokenness and anxiety.  But really, the more we talk about and write about our struggles, the struggles are prevented from having power over us.  I’ve said it before and I’ll keep on saying it until it sinks into this stubborn heart of mine.  Sometimes our brokenness is what God uses to set us free.  I believe it, as crazy as it sounds.

Oh, and here’s another essay on anxiety!  Aren’t you glad you decided to stop by?  Just call me Ray of Sunshine Gone Wrong.  Anyway, in How to Answer Anxiety, Elli Johnson pretty much writes what I just said about personal struggles, in her case, anxiety, and how it helps to talk about it, to say it out loud.  She has much more to say about the subject, so go read her work.

By the way, I know that you know I’m not a medical professional or a trained psychologist.  Neither are these folks.  But it matters that we share our stories.  It means we’re not alone.  Get help if you need it.  We all need to deal with our stuff.

Here’s a guest essay from my friend-in-real-life Emily Sue Allen, the visionary behind Kindered Mom.  I can’t stop gushing about Kindred Mom, an upcoming blog about flourishing in motherhood.  This essay is technically not from Kindred Mom.  Whatever.  Emily’s essay is about infertility, but not her own.  It’s about being a friend when life is hard.

Another friend-in-real-life, Kate Laymon, wrote this post about why we don’t want to make time for God.  I’ve experienced this, in the past year even.  Hint: as Kate mentions, avoiding God has precious little to do with time-management.  In my experience, me running from God had everything to do with a deep hurt I was holding onto.  I wanted to link to my essay but now I can’t find it.   Back to Kate.  You’ll like her.   Kate is a tender-hearted mama, lover of Jesus and a kindred spirit.

And finally, Erin Whitmer wrote this stunning and frank essay about faith and prayer.  I didn’t want to read this one because it’s about the beginning of Erin’s journey as a mama of a very sick little one.  I’m glad I had a change of heart.  In Erin’s words, “When we can’t pray, when we’re really little more than a quivering, sputtering, salty-teared mess, if we believe just a little–we’re talking poppy seed, grain of sand size of faith here–the Holy Spirit will pick up the depth of our desires directly from our heart and He’ll translate all that mess for our Heavenly Father. And then He’ll go beyond that. Requesting even more than we know to ask for. Because that’s who He is.”  Enough said.

That is all lovelies, that is all.  Greg just walked in the door from a long day at work.  And it occurs to me that I forgot to make dinner.  I constantly miss the mark and will never attain Domestic Goddess Status as a wife and mother, but I’m a happy writer, even joyful.  I’ll be a starving writer if I don’t get my act together soon.  Thank goodness I have an understanding husband.  The kids, not so much.  Have a wonderful weekend.

Happy Mother’s Day (a Few Months Late)

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You know the saying, A Day Late and a Dollar Short? Well, how about Over Two Months Late and Flat Broke?  I’m not really broke. But I just got back from Target, so there’s that.  I guess my claim is semi-honorable, emphasis on semi.

We were mosly there because the Tiniest Tiny had birthday bucks that were burning a hole in her pocket.  The big kids were with Nana and Grandpa Dave at Wild Waves.  To quote my British gentleman friend, otherwise known as Siri, “It looks like Wild Waves Theme & Water Park is about 43 miles away as the crow flies, Knee-cole.”  Thanks for that, Siri.  Anyway, if you met me in real life you’d know that I’m not one to rock the boat.  But I’m not shy about my feelings about water parks or bathing suits in general.

Back to Target.  It was just the two of us, a rarity now that Lauren is older and in school.  What do you suppose my six-year-old chose to spend her money on?  Well, the Tiniest Tiny hand-selected four Barbie outfits, a marbled-blue bouncy ball and a purple travel toothbrush.  I have complicated feelings toward Barbie, but Lauren’s love for her is true and runs deep.

I came home with two cases of La Cruix, and a faux watercolor print of three feathers to hang above my oak writing desk.  The feathers, and really all things bird-related, reminds me of the three Twedtlings, as well as Psalm 91, which is a significant part of our family’s faith story.   I also bought two different types of dry shampoo.  The struggle is real to find the perfect dry shampoo.  We’ll see how it goes.  I solemnly swear never to write a future post about the chronicles of dry shampoo.

As I type, the Tiniest Tiny is happily treating Barbie and Ken to a day at the hair salon at the kitchen counter bar.  They’re getting the whole nine yards, well except for the haircut part of the salon experience because no, just no.   What Barbie and Ken lack in the full salon experience, Lauren is making it up to them in dry shampoo hair treatments followed by a deep conditioning of Young Living’s Thieves Hand Purifier.  “Mama, it’s the best day ever!” At least they smell delightful. Hopefully their hair won’t fall out anytime soon.

I suppose it’s very privileged and first-worldly of me to claim that I’m broke.  But there’s truth to the other part of my claim: I’m more than a few months late.  And when I say I’m late, I don’t mean I’m late in that way.  Oh no, my friend, I’m alluding to Mother’s Day and the entire month of May.   It seems that I convieniently skipped a month of writing.

I remember May being the end of volleyball season for Emily, and we were nearing the end of the autism evaluation process with Steven, which you can read about here and here.  No wonder I was too busy to write.

But Mother’s Day is on my mind this Thursday afternoon because I found myself scrolling through our family’s digital photos while Lauren’s Barbies enjoyed their day at the spa.

I landed on several pictures of me with the Twedlings on Mother’s Day.  The pictures are just terrible.  I never posted them here or even on Facebook or Instagram because, frankly, they made me angry.  Here are the photos  in all of their glory, each one more terrible than the one before.  And not because of lack of skill of the photographer, not at all.  Let’s just say it was a challenging moment I’d rather not be reminded of.  Plus, my normally round face is extra puffy.  You can tell how tired I am.  It’s not even 10 a.m.

Come to think of it, the morning of Mother’s Day began wonderfully, with a flourish of gifts and breakfast in bed, a promising start.   The day quickly went downhill from there.  It had everything to do with Steven-in-the-middle, though the details are unimportant in retrospect.

After meltdown after meltdown, we made our way to my favorite bakery in Redmond for Mother’s Day treats.  The Flying Apron was actually my third choice for how I envisioned spending Mother’s Day with Greg and the Twedtlings.  We bailed on favorite spots number one and two due to, you guessed it, more meltdowns, and a little rain.  We’re near Seattle, after all.

This post isn’t a rant about Steven.  Like every child, my boy has his share of naughty moments and poor choices but he’s my favorite guy under forty-seven.  You can guess the name of my other favorite, the one about to turn forty-seven.  Please understand, there’s usually a darn good reason for his meltdowns and misbehavior, often leading us to seek out and implement Plan B.

I don’t know why I’m writing about Mother’s Day in July.  I guess I’m writing because, looking back on these pictures from the month of May, I find myself laughing, really, really laughing as I’m reminded once again that time doesn’t erase tension but has a funny way of erasing some of the pain and frustration, or at least it kinda sorta helps me place matters into perspective.  I’m reminded that the unexpected, the unplanned, in it’s own wonky and wayward way, and when I’m not fighting against it, well, it’s also good and sometimes even wonderful.

Lauren would say the best thing about today is that I allowed her to go to town with her Barbie dolls and her business of all things beauty (except haircuts).  My favorite thing, besides watching Lauren’s delight in dry shampooing the heck out of Barbie and Ken: those hilarious Mother’s Day digital photos.

When Friday Share Day Happens on a Saturday

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It’s 9:40 on this cool Saturday morning.  I’ve ditched my Starbucks tumbler in favor of the mug with the turquoise mama bird and her nest that found me at Central Market earlier this year in the dead of winter.  It matches B’s mug perfectly, and I think of my sweet friend whenever I use it.  This has nothing to do with anything.

The dog is next to me, as always.   She’s fast asleep on top of the armrest of the ugly rust couch.  I’m just as surprised as the next person that someone so anti-canine would come to delight in such a creature, and a little dog to boot. If it strikes your fancy, you could read about my change of heart regarding all things furry, here.

Friday Share Day is going to have to morph into Saturday Roundup.  I should be kind to myself and call it a Weekend Roundup.  No matter what I call this showcase of writing, it’s time once again to share the work of fellow Hope*Writers.  Even if I’m a day late.  I’m supposed to have a sweet little plug-in or widget (whatever it’s called) somewhere on my blog identifying me as a Hope*Writer, but it’s one of many techie-tech parts of being an online writer that I haven’t yet figured out.  Someday I’ll get my act together, or I’ll have someone else figure it out for me, and I’ll be linked to my group of writers, at least officially.

This is only the third time I’ve decided to feature the work of other writers, but I notice a theme.  I keep pulling from the work of the same people.  I think I’ve found my tribe.

Anyway, the dog is off following Greg around the yard, so now’s the perfect time to go to the computer and share my findings.

My Kids Are Jerks.  Everything you need to know about this essay is in its title.  Well, not really.  But check out Robin Chapman’s essay on Kindred Mom.  It’s a good one.

Jill’s essay.  I suppose I should sign up to follow Jill E. McCormick’s blog because I’ve linked to her work every time I’ve had a Share Day, except I’ve only really had three.  Back to the Jill’s piece: While I believe God certainly tells us when to head left or to the right, at times it’s less certain.  Sometimes we really don’t know which way to go, which brings me back to why you should read this essay.

This.   I get to be part of two distinct (though overlapping) writing groups.  For some reason I thought Karen V. Rutledge was a fellow Hope*Writer and a Glory Writer.  She should be, but my mistake.  I get people and groups of people mixed up in the flurry that is Facebookland.  Anyway, please read Karen’s haunting reflection of a recent Friday she spent at a homeless shelter.  I appreciate the way Karen doesn’t end her essay with a tidy Christian bow but allows for the opportunity for us to sit with her in the grief of it all.

Faith Gibson’s guest post, Come As You Are Hospitality is a recent essay featured on Voice of Courage.  Authentic hospitality, not Martha Stewart hospitality, is something that is always on my mind.  The struggle is real for this introvert and recovering perfectionist who really wants to open her home but doesn’t all the same.

Kathleen Cope wrote a splendid essay that was featured on For Every Mom exploring why being a mom is more than enough.  She’s not saying that women are defined by motherhood alone, nor does she try to convince us that our role as mother is the only job a woman can do.  But being a mama is a worthy endeavor, and a warrior can often be found with a tiny babe in her arms, chasing down a toddler or chauffeuring children to and from their activities in the Honda Odyssey.

Although running is not my jam, I easily related to Dorina Lazo Gilmore’s essay Running Therapy: How Grief Crashes Like Ocean Waves.  Dorina’s words helped me make sense of the way I (inwardly) reacted the way I did when someone I know lost a parent.  You can read my essay, A Time to Mourn here.

And finally, I chose Because, No. We Are Not There Yet since “Are we there yet?” has been the anthem of our summer walks with Chloe.  But seriously, I love how Leigh explores why we should bring our questions to the one who can can handle them.  And by the “one,” I mean God.

Happy reading everyone.  Peace out.  I never say “peace out.” Not sure where that came from.  Anyway, in typical Nicole-fashion, have a lovely weekend.

N.