Author: merediththehoppinghome

It has been two weeks now since ROOTED-The Gathering 2014 Women’s Retreat. There are millions of thoughts that run through my mind,  but I figured if I didn’t get some of them out soon, I might not ever! 

When I first got up on stage with our associate Pastor Linda Gastreich, and was about to ask everyone to “dance like nobody was watching”, I was pretty nervous. I was expecting that I would have to ask a few times to warm people up, that they might not jump in at first, and I thought I would have to dance by myself a bit.

But the women of The Gathering can get down. Seriously. I was so thrown off, because the first time I asked, they DUH-ANCED. And apparently my “go to” move when I’m nervous becomes some sort of awkward “twerk” that looks more like a turkey/rooster hybrid trying to mate than anything you might see Beyonce do. . .it just kinda happened.

Sorry for that ladies, because YOU WERE WATCHING.

I was nervous because I guess that was the moment for me that would indicate if this whole event was going to be a fantastic success, or a fantastic flop. And if everyone’s hard work would pay off.

I would know if everyone danced.

Not only did we dance, but we sang, and we prayed fervently. We worshiped with abandon and glorified God. We wept healing tears filled with intense sorrow, intense mourning, and intense joy.

All photos courtesy of Kristi Foster. Check her out here! 

I know in my heart that God looked down and smiled and said “It is good.”.

It was about Saturday night late that I realized I might get through this entire event process without any major setback or trauma. I was flying high and free!

Then Sunday morning, I remembered. . .God had made it pretty clear there was something else I was supposed to do before the retreat was over.

Earlier in the week I had learned that our church The Gathering UMC was going to allow the fiscal offering from our Sunday morning worship service to go straight to the scholarship fund for the retreat. As soon as I knew that, I knew I was going to have to be transparent with the attendees when it came time for Sunday’s offering. Sunday morning I was getting cold feet. I was texting my husband back and forth, fighting with God, saying, “but. . . .” a lot. I did NOT want to go through with what I had promised God, and myself, and Nate I was going to do. Nate helped keep me accountable the best he could via text. The Sunday morning service began, Pastor Linda preached a wonderful sermon on accountability, the communion liturgy was finished. It was time to share what I had been called to, and so with a heart full of trepidation, I stood and read these words:

But most of all, I pray a precedent has been set where we support our sisters, that it is truly a place where everyone can be transparent with where we are at, with what we are struggling with, with the season of life we are in, and that we can do so without shame.

I think that’s what happens when we begin to live the Kingdom here on earth.

Because once we are ROOTED in that wide, long, high, deep love, then and only then can we confidently pray these words and know that we are proponents and active participants of the Lord’s will being done, and the coming of the Kingdom.

Thy Kingdom come,

Thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Amen.

This past weekend I was blessed to worship with 148 other women as we retreated to better know ourselves, one another, and Christ.

The more serious “deep” post is coming, but for now, I wanted to share with you one of the best experiences of my life.

I had this crazy idea, while watching Parks & Rec that we should take the infamous Treat Yo Self, and turn it into Re-Treat Yo Self.

I thought it was genius but wasn’t sure everyone else would get it/appreciate it. So I started small with making a meme:

And then I thought, well we should probably share the original clip at the retreat, right?

But, was that really enough? Or was it time to put my degree to use? 7 years after graduating 5 years since I’ve had an agent, and two babies later, my Theatre degree might just again serve me quite well (I was married before I graduated, so yes, 7.25 years of marriage tool! 🙂 )

I didn’t know if I would be able to convince Rev. Linda Gastreich to get on board. Wasn’t sure if she would see (what I was considering) my genius.

Because she is one of the wisest and most intelligent women I know, she complied. And what happened was nothing sort of magical.

So at the retreat, we opened each session with a call and response of:

Re-TREAT

Yo-SELF!

Followed by a clip of Sly and the Family Stone’s Dance to the music.

Because one of the best ways to Re-Treat Yo Self is to dance like no one is watching.

So we did (photos courtesy of the ridiculously talented Kristi Foster)

And I pray that you do too. As Rev. Deb Lemoine shared with us during experiential worship, the joy and laughter we share when coming together in Christ’s name is a spiritual discipline we must not ignore.

So take time to RE-TREAT YO SELF, and it might just lead to a renewal of yourself.

You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

Psalm 30:11

peace to you,

meredith

As Advent begins this weekend, I was reminded of a post I did two years ago. 

This is an excerpt from it, and the original link can be found here: 

noun

1.

a coming into place, view, or being; arrival: the advent of theholiday season.

2.

( usually initial capital letter ) the coming of Christ into theworld.

3.

( initial capital letter ) the period beginning four Sundaysbefore Christmas, observed in commemoration of the coming of Christ into the world.

4.

( usually initial capital letter ) Second Coming.

 

This past Friday I had the great pleasure of acting as model in a little photo shoot by my good friend Julie of Life Astonished while being styled by my good friend Krissi of Thoughtfully Dressed.

The afternoon was filled with fun, laughter, some serious style, and some serious art. The outfit that Krissi rounded up for me is one I will wear for a wedding my husband is co-officiating and I and the girls are attending. It will be my first time “attending” a wedding in over a year, instead of “working” a wedding as the planner. So my full thoughts on the day of being “shot & styled” won’t come until after the “event”.

My little mini-stint at modeling made me think of past adventures and antics. Combined with my dearest Francesca River turning five months old on Sunday this past  blog post came to mind (to hold you over till the “event”).

Below is the full text originally posted August 10, 2011-The Big Reveal

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Scars, both emotional and physical, begin to heal with time.

This is a promise that I hold to be true.

Mustn’t we all?

If we don’t, then we can’t make it through the pain, or the puss, or the stitches, or the staples.

We try to ignore that we were inflicted with the incision wound (be it with a scalpel, an inanimate object, or an unkind word) but when we look down, or up, or inside, the wound is there. . .
but it is beginning to heal.

Growing up, I always thought that one special day I would find out why God had made me the way I was (physically).

I would find out why God had made me with huge feet (size twelve by 6th grade, now a solid 13), taller than most boys and until the latter half of my senior year in high school, flat chested.

While it didn’t seem fair, I knew that God had a purpose for everything He did.

So whenever I was called Lurch everyday as I took my tray up after lunch in the cafeteria during Junior High (hell must be a lot like Jr. High, right? I heard you all say yes as you were reading this, thank you for the affirmation), I said in my head “God made you this way for a reason, one day, when He reveals it, they will all be sorry, really sorry”. In fact if someone got too close as I was taking my tray up, they would probably be able to hear it coming through my gritted teeth.

I kept waiting. . .and waiting. . .and waiting for this big reveal.

I imagined numerous times posing in front of the bathroom mirror with full makeup and slicked back hair, that it was going to be me as a high-fashion model (and maybe although too old, I’m still holding out hope for this one. . .  ).

In fact, while we were living in Chicago, my dear friend Lindsay was with Elite Model Management. This meant I was able to peruse the other models with Elite when she wanted to show me new pictures in her portfolio. I noticed that I had the same measurements as the Plus-Size models. Lindsay and I figured I should see about doing Plus -Size modeling. I went in and spoke with an agent at Elite, had my polaroids taken, the whole bit. Then he had to discuss with the other agents about my marketability. I waited for the phone call, all the while thinking, “Is this it God? This is why I am 6 feet tall?”

It wasn’t.

I got a call from Stephen the agent, and he shared with me that while my measurements were indeed the same as the other plus-size models they represented, I did not look “plus” enough. I looked too small.

Lindsay and I during our time in Chicago!

WHAT?!?!?!?

My whole life, I am told I am too tall, too big, too me, to do things, and then the one thing I should be fit for, I am TOO SMALL ?

Needless to say, Nate had a night class, I had probably a little too much of a bottle of white wine, an entire loaf of french bread, and watched Georgia Rule a HORRIBLE Jane Fonda/Lindsay Lohan film while I intermittently muttered things at God about this highly ironic turn of events.

But. . .
I got over it.

I must have been slightly masochistic about the whole situation, because when the Bridal Show was happening at The Merchandise Mart (this is where tons of dress designers come in for an expo of sorts) Lindsay suggested I try freelance modeling. She said that the Designers were always disappointed because the normal fashion models didn’t have “Womanly” bodies (I wasn’t flat chested anymore).

I figured this wouldn’t be the big reveal of why God had designed me the way He had, but might be a little “pick me up” to get  me to the big reveal whenever it was coming.
Just a nice little self esteem boost along the way.

Well. . .we got there, and Lindsay basically became my agent. She was already booked through Elite with Jessica McClintock for the whole weekend but she knew not all the designers came with models.

Three different designers had me try on dresses, only to have them not even go over my hips.

The fourth designer had me try on a free flowing wedding dress. After some adjusting of the chestal region, I sucked in my breath, zipped it up, and triumphantly threw back the fitting room curtain! Everyone was overjoyed, until. . .”We also need you to model the prom-wear” the designer calmly and cheerfully said as she handed me a mermaid style satin red gown.

I began to furiously pray.

“Maybe it will be stretchy, maybe it isn’t as tight as it looks, maybe it will fit. . “

Optimist that I am/was, I took a go at it. When it was apparent that I couldn’t breathe and I hadn’t even attempted to pull the zipper up, I decided to raise my white (or red as it were) flag.

I went to take the dress off, and I was stuck. Absolutely, irrevocably, stuck. With my arms straight up in the air and my control top tights showing, the dress had situated itself in my middle region, in a way that my left eye could peek out of the arm hole, but that was all of my face that was left uncovered. Looking like an Amazonian Cycloptic Lobster I gingerly began to call “Lindsay, Lindsay, could you come here for a moment?”

She obliged.

I shimmied, I shook, I jumped, I twisted.

Lindsay tugged, she pulled.

We prayed.

And eventually, by the grace of God, the dress came off, unscathed.

I walked out, again told a designer that “I’m sorry, it didn’t fit” and bid them adieu.

Lindsay had to leave for another appointment, but always the encourager she suggested I try a few more designers.

I went to a very high end Italian Design House and they gave me a beautiful (at least) $15,000 gown to try on. I was delusional enough to think that if they exclusively did wedding dresses, I might be in luck.

I didn’t have Lindsay this time.

What I did have was a thirty-plus pound dress that I had pulled over my head because God knows it wasn’t going to go over my hips.

Lo and behold, it wouldn’t zip.

Lo and behold, it is pretty hard to lift a thirty pound dress off of yourself, over your head when your arms are contorted just so.

I did a lot of praying that day. Only this time I literally found myself on my knees as I prayed, hoping that odd body contortions would help disperse the weight, making it easier for me to lift the dress above my head.

When I did, again, by the grace of God, get the dress off, I began my fifth defeated exit of the dressing room . I told the designer it didn’t fit, and in a thick Italian accent he repeatedly said “Just one, can’t we just get one that will fit her? Try them on and see if you can’t just get one.”

Really?

Are you kidding me?

You didn’t see me under the curtain making all those crazy movements?

So I gave it my best.

And none of the dresses fit.

A defeating/deflating/crushing day,
but. . .
I got over it.

Lindsay giving me a black cashmere Burberry scarf she had received at a fashion show didn’t hurt.


So skip a few years, and I am in a hospital birthing room. I have at least ten nurses around me, my midwife, and my husband.

I am standing, squatting on top of the hospital bed, COMPLETELY naked.
*to this day, neither Nate or I know how I got naked. Really. It just happened.


And all these nurses around me are abuzz, saying “Did you know she hasn’t had ANY pain medication!” and “Look at those hips, she was built for this” and “look at those feet, she has such a good strong base for giving birth”.

Inside I was sure that this was it.

This was to be the big reveal.

After two hours of pushing after a nineteen hour labor, squatting, standing, getting on all fours and some attempted hand maneuvers by my midwife, God spoke to me.


Clearly.

“This is not going to happen how you thought it would, you will have a C-Section”

You have to understand that I had never been more excited about anything in my life than having a completely natural child birth (OK, wedding night was pretty exciting, and as a result of that going well, I was found in an exciting place again, just different).

I had read tons of Ina May Gaskin, I had watched and made Nate watch The Business of Being Born, I had re-read The Red Tent the week before I gave birth.

I wanted to feel everything that my body had been made to do in the act of giving birth.

In that moment, it would have made sense for me to be angry, frustrated, and defeated.

But I wasn’t.

I looked over at Nate, and we looked at each other, God had told him the same thing.

My midwife came back in, after she had slipped out for a moment, where she was praying about the same thing.

I am so extremely thankful that God spoke to Nate and I before someone else attempted to make the decision for me.

Midwife Lila & Eleonore

And so preparations were made, the Dr. was called, and during my last contraction as I sat on an operating table, I was given my first taste of drugs in the entire process andI won’t lie, people use them for a reason, it was nice.

A beautiful baby girl came out.

The incision that was made was stapled up.

Are you surprised that this wasn’t the big reveal about why I was made the way I am?

I was too, but. . .
I got over it.

There may never be any “BIG REVEAL”.

Because each day God is teaching me to see that it is what he chooses to do through me and in me, not my physicality and physical appearance that matter.

But ughhhhhh I am human, and I want the “BIG REVEAL”.

As I was taking a luxurious, relaxing bath tonight, I saw that my C-Section scar is healing and fading.
And inside the scars are healing and fading.
Scars of a Junior High Girls insecurities.
Scars of a Young Woman’s insecurities.
Scars of a First Time Mother’s insecurities.

They only fade with the growing knowledge that my Savior is my Healer.

And in time He will make all things new.

Even me.

But for now, He doesn’t get mad at me for crying in the bathtub as I mourn a birth experience that didn’t go the way I had planned it.

He is simply there.

Yep.

That’s what He does, and He does it well.

peace to you,
meredith

Here’s one shot. More to come!

This was written August 22 , 2013. I failed to post it for whatever reason.

The following were my feelings and thoughts on that day.

Dear person who stole my husbands scooter:

This afternoon at approximately 2:30 PM I was sitting on our couch in our living room breastfeeding my 3.5 month old daughter. I had put the blind down in our living room, which faces the street because the garden crew was out and about and they are loud, and get close to the window.

I wanted privacy in my own home . . .novel, that idea of privacy.

My husband came home to switch vehicles from his scooter to our car so that he could take one of his guitars to the repair shop.

In the time he came in to do that and use the restroom, you stole his scooter.

From in front of our window.

You and I’s relationship, scooter stealer, or S.S. as I will proceed to call you, has evolved quite a bit this afternoon into evening. I started out mad at you. Like wicked pissed. I was upset that I couldn’t run outside and find you. I fancy myself a bit of a novice vigilante, and I was sure I would have found you, said SHAME ON YOU! and come back home victoriously.

I couldn’t, because my two dear babes were inside taking naps. I ferociously fought the urge to scoop my 2.5 year old up out of bed and go on a “walk to the park” which would translate into a suspicious once over to anyone and everyone I came across, long glances into the back of vans and trucks, and choosing directions that took us down alley pathways where we might, just might, get a glisten of that special 1993 Honda Elite red paint job peeking out from a garage door.

I was willing to wake up a sleeping toddler to avenge you.

But, as I said, I fought the urge.

I started to come to the understanding that this was a first world problem. That not having two vehicles is a ridiculous thing to be upset about.  But, I still needed to rationalize my feelings towards you. I thought that maybe if you had known S.S., that my husband uses that scooter for work, so that I don’t have to pile both girls into their car seats only to drop Daddy off, and then pull them back out when we get home, or not have a car whenever Daddy goes to work. you wouldn’t have taken the scooter.

If you had known that we just made the decision yesterday to not send our 2.5 year old to a preschool program we were really excited about, because it wasn’t going to be financially feasible without going into further credit card debt, you wouldn’t have taken the scooter.

Let’s pull out the big guns..

If you knew my Mom has cancer, you wouldn’t have stolen the scooter.

But that’s B.S. isn’t is S.S.?

(see what I did there?)

My beautiful Eleonore “driving” the scooter.

 My toddler did finally wake up. Today she chose to take a four hour nap (which is kind of like a unicorn to the mother of a toddler). Today, when I couldn’t get anything done because I was so distraught about the scooter.

It has been three and a half months almost since I last wrote. So much has happened that I am in the thick of writers block as I attempt to process everything. So I thought I would go back and grab one of my previous blogs to share with you. It is incredibly relevant as this week I was introduced to Dr. Brené Brown and this video for the first time on “The Power of Vulnerability” maybe you’ve seen it, maybe you haven’t. I encourage you to take the time to at some point. 

a time to “grow up”-Originally posted August 24th, 2012

It happened all of a sudden.

I wasn’t expecting it, I wasn’t looking for it, but in the middle of an apple orchard in Wisconsin (Harvest Time), God hit me over the head and said:

“You are a GROWN ASS WOMAN”.

Some of you are looking down your noses at me and thinking “did God say ass?”
That’s what I heard.
I’m sure God said ass when conversing with Balaam, so I’m not gonna get too broken up about it, hopefully you won’t either, and “spoiler alert” I’m going to reference it a few more times.

It all started with our “Weekend of Weddings”.

Three.

In one weekend.

And maybe because I like to torture myself, or because I ADORE weddings. I was coordinating the one on Friday night.

The Friday night wedding went splendidly! It was beautiful, it was fun, I danced and laughed joyfully with members of the church we have been sent out to plant from, Church of the Redeemer .

Then on Saturday, Nate and I split up. He headed to a wedding in Highland Park, and I hitched a ride to our wedding in Wisconsin, where Nate would later meet me for the reception.

The wedding in Wisconsin was David’s, a dear childhood friend of mine, to his precious bride Audrey.

The ceremony was beautiful both aesthetically and spiritually.

One of the best things about the wedding, was getting to spend time with my bosom friend Lindsay (you can read more about our antics here). As we descended the steps from eating Apple Cider Shakes, (yes apple cider shakes, yum, yimmy, yum, yimmy, yay) I was sharing with Lindsay how I was feeling insecure at this wedding. Why? Well my ten year high school reunion is coming up in October and this wedding was a bit of a “pre-gamer” if you will. While David and I went to high school together, we were more friends because we were from the same neighborhood, and his other friends at school were those I would classify as the “cool kids”. I never felt up to snuff with them, I never felt cool enough, pretty enough, (pick a trite “not enough” phrase, and it works) to attempt to associate with them. They weren’t mean, or hateful, or bullies. I was simply insecure.

The EXACT same moment that I am telling Lindsay this, said girls come up to me and say

 “Hi Meredith”

Those girls might very well be reading this blog right now, because I’m facebook friends with them.   And you can say you aren’t facebook “friends” with people you don’t interact with on a daily basis, but you’re lying. Because deep down you know that eventually your facebook “friends” are going to get married, or have some other lovely event, and you are going to want to be a creeper and see those pictures, because you love, love, love weddings (or that’s just me and in a moment we will get to why I am okay with that, (but we both know it isn’t just me)).

So ladies, you know who you are, and please take this confession as a compliment.

As far as I’m concerned, this life is too short to shy away from vulnerability and honesty, so all readers should cover themselves while I spew vast amounts all over this blog.

I don’t know if these girls (women? When do I make that transition to calling myself and peers women in conversation rather than girls? Is this like getting your period or losing your virginity or going through menopause? Do you just wake up one day and experience “the change”?) knew I spent a lot of High School wishing I was “them”.

But let’s take a moment to illustrate my ridiculous dramatic insecure pubescent nature:

The neighborhood boys I ran around with had a tendency to talk about one of these girls “calves”.

No joke. 

I would just stand there silently wishing and thinking that if God was going to perform modern day miracles of healing the sick, he could surely implant some calves in the definition-less area between my round indiscernible knee caps and ankles above my size 13 feet. I often questioned why he gave me this prime real estate of long legs and NO CALVES! So much so, that before a band competition 
(I was in the colorguard. I never actually tossed my flag in a competition, I always froze. I admitted that to the captain one day, got yelled at, and questioned my honesty policy for awhile. It’s still the best policy, despite the trauma of having an 18 year old girl with JNCO’s, a hemp shroom necklace and an Insane Clown Posse shirt on, yell at me for not tossing my flag. No one else had noticed, this was like the 6th band competition, what was the big deal? I even started to say that, then remembered she had on an Insane Clown Posse shirt, and hushed.)
where I had heard we would be staying in a hotel that had a pool, I spent the majority of the night before doing calf raises. Over 5,000 calf raises to be exact. I was “stepping out (up) in faith” in my own way, thinking I might wake up with miraculous muscular gams.

I didn’t.

I woke up with the most intense Charlie Horses you can even begin to imagine.

And. . .there wasn’t a pool.

OK, back on track. . .

As we spoke I attempted to keep my cool and was surprised at my ability to engage in pertinent meaningful conversation as we talked about where we were in our various lives, how some of us had moved back to Bloomington, how we all swore we never would, and I think right around then is when God hit me over the head and said:

“You are a GROWN ASS WOMAN! I didn’t create you to be a slave to your past, a slave to a geographic location, a slave to an uncomely opinion of yourself.  I created you to be a FREE GROWN ASS WOMAN”

Because I am.

Because that is what God has made me to be.

As much faith as I had put in my fake eyelashes (Yes, I wore fake eyelashes to the wedding. I had a gift card to Macy’s, went to the MAC counter, and after wiping about 3/4 of the makeup they had put on off, I felt like I looked pretty good. Judge away. It’s a dramatic outlet, it’s me using my “degree”, and I highly recommend it if you want to feel glamorous for a night), I needed to redirect it and reappropriate it to where it always needs to be.

Can you feel the glamour oozing from my eyelashes?

In God.

And I can talk to these girls/women/females as a “Grown Ass Woman”. And enjoy it, and find the privilege that comes from a shared history, not feel bogged down, or classified, or insecure because of it.

I danced with abandon that night as a “Grown Ass Woman”.
I laughed with great vitality that night as a “Grown Ass Woman”.

I’m there in the center “dancing with abandon”

And I thought back on my high school experience with a joy and freedom I don’t think I had before.

I look forward to going to my ten year reunion as a ” Grown Ass Woman”.
I encourage everyone to go to their respective reunions as “Grown Ass Men and Women”.

Because we are creatures created in Christ, not in the image of one another.

And with great thankfulness, this “Grown Ass Woman” raises her hand, and says:

“AMEN”.
__________________________________________________________________________

These past few weeks have been a whirlwind. Really the past 5 months. It’s been that long since I posted last, and life seems a million miles away from where it was last December. At least 163.45 miles away, across a river and past a State line.

On Monday May 6th I will deliver our second daughter via CBAC (caesarean birth after caesarean). Due to the circumstances surrounding Eleonore’s birth, I was not able to find a provider who would support me in doing a VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean) and we didn’t feel comfortable “going rogue” and attempting a home birth, because for all intents and purposes everything should have gone fine with Eleonore’s birth. So this is how Hopping #2 will come into the world.

This past Saturday (April 27th) we moved from Bloomington-Normal, IL to St. Louis, MO. After much prayer and discernment my husband Nate accepted a position as a Worship Coordinator at a church in St. Louis, MO. Two weeks before that, we had our final service as Church of the Savior Bloomington-Normal. Everyone in the group was supportive and felt God leading them in different directions as well. Some to different states, some to different churches. God’s timing is always perfect, but change is still hard, and the disbanding of that group, the leaving PEAR USA and saying goodbye to something we had put our ENTIRE lives into for 2 years, is enough for a year of posts. I am sure at some point I will get to those posts. If I’m honest I don’t have the emotional energy right now. 

Since last Saturday I have felt overwhelmed at the state of life, and yet it has felt consistent. You move, you unpack, you settle, you get to know a place. You get to know your new Target (the closest I will ever come again to a new dating relationship in my life is the getting to know of a new Target). You walk to the park and play and you have frozen yogurt pops or “froze” as your almost 2.5 year old calls them on the front steps of your condo so that you can watch all the dogs and the people walk by.

Enjoying “froze” on the front steps!

And sometimes, like right now, you do those things while 9 months pregnant.

When we were waiting for Eleonore as soon as she was overdue, we started doing dances everyday, to encourage her to “COME OUT”. It became a joyous and silly thing. It was what my long uncomfortable days looked forward to, and I was able to creatively as well as physically exert myself.

People started asking about if we would be dancing out Peapod (as we have been lovingly referring to her). It seemed easiest to say “We’ll see”. Easier than explaining the c-section. Easier than justifying the c-section (which I always feel a ridiculous intense need to do). 

You see, some people consider us “hippies” or “crunchy”. I personally think we could be a lot more of those things, but we do subscribe to a more “attachment” or “gentle” style of parenting. In some of those circles a c-section is right up there with, well I don’t know, cannibalism? And I feel judged, even if that isn’t the reality, even if no one is. I keep hearing in my head “Who is judging, WHO IS JUDGING?” a line from a play I was in during undergrad called Marat/Sade about Jean Paul Marat & the Marquis De Sade in an insane asylum. Seriously. I played an inmate who drooled for the 2.5 hour duration of the play. Real drool.

See that drool?

(The “Dancing Out” amongst other things about me, don’t seem so out of place do they?)

It became a favorite line among my circle of friends. To exclaim “Who is judging, WHO IS JUDGING?”, when we were in fact aware that WE were judging someone or something.

“Who is judging, WHO IS JUDGING?”

Me.

Myself.

I.

The reality of this life is that I want to give everyone else abundant grace. And I want to give everyone else abundant understanding. But when it comes to Meredith (and I know so many of us do this to ourselves) I feel empty of those things. I feel devoid of any capability to give myself grace. So I don’t. And it hurts, and it keeps hurting, and I inflict wounds I don’t know I’m inflicting and infecting.

Until it becomes too much to bear.

It seemed dumb to do dances to “Dance Out” a baby when I know the exact moment she will come out. It seemed “un-organic” it seemed unnecessary, it felt stupid. Name some negative feeling, and it felt that way.

Then yesterday something happened and I realized I wanted to dance.

I realized I needed to dance.

I realized I had to dance.

There have been studies and articles that have come out (this is just one example), that describe the epic importance of dance. They couldn’t be more true, at least in my experience.

I’d like to say that the dance fixed everything. And in some ways it was incredibly cathartic. It was 99% improvised and done in one take (mostly because you are really tired when there is a two year old in the mix and you’ve recently moved), and I was able to give myself more grace than I did during my last “Dancing Out” process (Don’t ask Nate how many times he had to film some of those dances, because he’ll tell you the truth, and I’ll be embarrassed). And I laughed when I saw that I unfortunately had on a nude cami, so halfway through it looks like my pregnant bare belly is hanging out of my turtleneck. If you know me at all, not needing to re-record after seeing that means I am learning to give myself at least SOME grace. So we put up the video and went to bed.

And the tears came. The violent body shaking tears that come from your gut and feel like they won’t stop because they are convulsing throughout your body and taking over. Your face becomes awash with puff and salt water and breathing becomes hard, if not completely impossible. I felt the need to scream at God. To scream at Nate. To scream at the world.

In three days that thing which happened almost 2.5 years ago is going to happen again.
This time it won’t be an emergency c-section. This time I will be knowingly having myself cut in half. I will arrive at the hospital at my given time, I will prep for surgery, I won’t be having a contraction when they put the catheter in, I won’t have been in labor for 23 hours when they give me the spinal. It will all be “routine”. It will all be part of everyone’s day. None of it will be “organic”. None of it will be “hippie”, none of it will be “crunchy”.

And it’s ok to mourn that.

More and more studies are coming out showing that women can suffer from PTSD after an emergency c-section. I now believe I have experienced that to some extent. I also know looking back that I experienced undiagnosed Post-Partum Depression. I didn’t want to get diagnosed. I felt ashamed, so I pretended it wasn’t there. I kept my story to myself.

And you can tell me how thankful I should be, that I have really great “by the book” pregnancies. That I can “move” the way I can at 9 months. That there is a beautiful healthy 2.5 year old toddler who makes my days equal parts crazy and beautiful,  and that there is another healthy baby that will arrive on Monday.

And please know I am.

But my experience has changed me. My story has changed me. It has hurt me, it has strengthened me, it has hardened me. My story has wounded me.

Let us talk about our stories more.

Without fear of judgement, from ourselves and one another.

Let us share what has made us who we are, good and bad, with abandon, so that we might know the beauty of the reality, that we are NOT alone.

Today I will dance. It won’t be perfect. It might be a little angry, or it might be downright silly.
And I might scream at God tonight, (I won’t literally scream at God or Nate, because we live in a condo now, and even after all this talk of not being afraid of judging, let’s be honest, “first impressions” and all . . .)

But God wants me to dance, and God wants me to scream. God wants to hear my story and be in relationship with me.

Please scream at me. Please dance with me. 

Please scream at God. Please dance with God.

Your story is beautiful, your scars are beautiful, you are beautiful.

Let’s dance for our lives.

Halloween came and went. And for those of you who know the Hopping family, you know the Hopping family DOES Halloween up. 

This year we had a theme we were going with and it all went kablooey at the last minute. 
That’s fine, us Hoppings, (both former Theatre majors) had something else up our sleeves. 

The costumes contrived and genius as we thought they were, were not, I repeat, NOT, a hit with the general public. 

On the contrary, there was maybe one person who got it. I’m not even sure if they got it, or if it was one of those “I don’t know that I really want to engage in conversation right now with strangers so I’m just going to say, “Great costumes. Really great! And walk away.”

I found myself wishing I had brought literature tracks with me to hand out of the “wardrobe”. Little thin copies of C.S. Lewis brilliance. Then I could have said “Take this, it will fill your insatiable hunger for delight and imagination and truth.” Leave it to the Hoppings, and Meredith in particular to make Halloween a dramatic meta experience for 4 year olds. 

Unfortunately (fortunately?) I didn’t have the resources or the room in my wardrobe to have 50+ copies of the book on me. So I went through the painstaking process of explaining:

“No, that isn’t the Cowardly Lion and Glinda. And no, I am not the house that fell on the Wicked Witch”.

“Would you like to look in the wardrobe? (Because I had pieces of fur on a dowel, a landscape of Narnia and an battery light behind the lamp-post.) The kid looked in, even grabbed a piece of fur (slightly awkward due to placement of said fur) and said “Neat”. As he passed us he turned to his Mother and loudly said:

“Totally didn’t get it”. 

We had decided to get Flingers with our friends Deb and Greg and Wolfie who were traipsing around with us. As Mr. Flanders, a Starbuck’s Barista and Ronald McDonald, one had to wonder if they felt the heavy burden of going around with this abstract trio. 

Ronald was a huge hit. Huge!

But as soon as we got our table it was clear it wasn’t going to work. So Deb and I in our maternal wisdom (desperation?) decided to walk the kids back to their apartment (a few blocks away), and then the gentleman could bring the pizza over there. 

My little White Witch was absolutely enamored with the moon. She kept shouting “My moon!”To which I try to convince her every time, “No Eleonore, we all share the moon”. She didn’t like this, and apparently the weariness of the day caught up to her right at that moment. 

She began to refuse to sit in the stroller. With all her heart, mind and strength. When I very firmly and clearly said “No you will not get out”,  she turned around and said “Deb?” hoping that Deb would give her the answer she wanted. 

Deb didn’t. 

And with a voice that seemed to have come from the power behind the White Witch himself (get it?), she bellowed:

“NO, NO, NO” all while pointing at Deb. 

I was mortified. But just had to keep pushing my child to the house. There was no point in saying “you have a time out when we get to Deb’s”, because she wouldn’t get why she had a time out by the time we  got there. 

When we reached the promised land of the house, My White Witch took off her fur cape and her crown, and Ronald McDonald got a bath to take off the red stuff in his hair. Eventually they were both just in diapers and t-shirts, running around willy nilly stuffing pizza in their faces. 

Us four adults sat exhausted, stuffing pizza in our faces. 

It was messy, it was icky, it was exhausting. But in the midst of all of it, I couldn’t get out of my mind, that sometimes church planting is like that. You can go days on end feeling like you are going around in a costume no one gets. With a vision that no one gets, with passions that no one seems to understand. And then when they do it doesn’t always look like you thought it would. It doesn’t always look clean and neat and pretty. Sometimes church planting is sitting exhausted with a piece of pizza in your hand, and a piece in your mouth with a cup of (here comes a confession) Coca-Cola (shudder), while your child runs around in a diaper and a borrowed t-shirt. 

And you choose joy in that moment. Because you’ve felt it before, and you know it’s there. You’ve heard it, the name of Aslan. And it is that name that causes you to keep going on the days that no one gets it, until someone gets it. Because they will, and oh what beauty that is. 

                                    ― C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe