JANELLE DELAGRANGE

Gracious Space & Honest Thoughts

For the first time ever, I felt like I needed to do it all. And if I couldn’t do it all, then I should probably give up.

This time last year, I was excited about the headway I was making in my life. I set goals that I accomplished over time, which was exciting after a long season of pregnancy and babies. I found myself again, and I liked her a lot.

This year, I’m back on the pregnancy wagon. And I love this part: knowing that within the year, we’ll have something new and important to add to our life, the excitement of finding out if it’s a boy or girl, still being able to fit into my normal clothes (for now). This part feels easy. But I know the difficult parts are coming.

I’m not sure that anyone ever told me that I had to do everything. It’s more that I’m convinced that only I can do what needs to be done. Success starts to look like, Admire me in my crazed chaos.

So I stepped away for a moment.

I have a deep love for social media, but I also have a tiring striving for “posting well and with intention”. It starts to feel like a forced rhythm, and it hurts even worse when my kids start to notice. So I decided to let it go for a bit. I didn’t want to care about the way life appears, and rather dive in deep with playing soccer with my son and tickling my toddler until we’re both exhausted from laughing.

I also didn’t want to write. I didn’t want to deliver some kind of joyful sermon or word that would go out and make waves when all I wanted was for God to just be near. I’ve needed Him badly in recent weeks. Not because of hardship; simply because I longed to just rest in His goodness, like I snuggle up to my husband after a hard day.

Snuggling up to God meant not putting so much pressure on myself to be whoever I appear to everyone else, but just be His girl, the one who is tired at 2:30 PM every afternoon and asks for forgiveness from her kids and looks in the mirror everyday at her growing belly wondering whose actual crazy idea it was to have four kids (mine). I just want to be His. Not some perfect idea of a woman, because I’m not her. I like the me that isn’t so scared to be vulnerable with herself and the God who loves her.

It’s easy to think of life in terms of seasons, but I also think it becomes an easy out for participating in the life we’re given.

In years and pregnancies past, I nestled into gracious rest, which was good for me then. Good until I realized I wasn’t participating in my life outside of my house. So I “got back out there” and let God work in my life, willingly choosing to serve and love in ways that I had stifled.

And if I’m being honest, I’m scared of what gracious rest could do to me this time. I’m scared of losing whatever momentum I’ve gained thus far. Isn’t that for real? What woman hasn’t thought that?

But God. But God! He changes things. He changes my fearful idea of gracious rest into a principle that will protect me from stress. He changes my fear from needing to do everything to being humble and accepting of help. Pregnancy is a whole humbling 9 months + 3 months postpartum, at least. It is a glaring reminder of my important need for a God who always has room for me to snuggle close.

I don’t know exactly how the year will look, how my goals will change, how I will do anything of great magnitude, let alone mop my floor. But God. Stepping away doesn’t mean giving up, letting go of perfection doesn’t mean I’m unfit for whatever.

It just means I’m willing to let the world continue turning while I rest in a gracious space with the Father.

Candid Motherhood

I was one of those women who silently judged moms in grocery stores.

I would walk through the store with my cart and hear a child a few aisles over throwing a fit over something. And I vowed to myself that I would never have children like that. “Get your act together, Mom over there. What even is your deal,” said me, the woman without children who only had herself to worry about.

I was also one of those women who looked at big families and though to myself, “DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENS.” Yeah. I thought that in my head.

I was a naive girl back before marriage, children, and parenting.

Skip a few days from then to now, and I giggle at the thoughts that used to go through my head.

I am the mom with the kid who throws a fit because I can’t buy the freaking crackers with Captain America on them. I am the mom with three kids AND a pregnant belly. Younger me would be so appalled. (Not that I care.)

I like to speak candidly about motherhood because I think we don’t speak so candidly to ourselves. I’m often speaking to myself in my own head as if I’m the only who struggles, and look over there at that mom with her perfect children! You’re sucking today, Janelle! I am not so kind to myself.

I wanted to speak candidly to me and to you. Because I am quickly becoming the mom I made fun of in my head, and I want to be sure I’m setting the stage for the girls coming up behind me and doing proud the women who have made way before me.

When I found out I was pregnant for the fifth time, I was truly overjoyed. I sat on the toilet for about five minutes smiling my face off.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later when we started to share the news with people we loved that I got insecure. And dang it, I hate insecurity. It’s such a rude, unwelcome feeling. But it’s part of being human, and it’s been hitting me in waves.

I was picking up balloons at the store for our pregnancy photo, and the lady filling the balloons asked me what they were for.

“We’re doing a pregnancy announcement.”
“Oh, that’s so wonderful! Is this your first?”
“Nope! It’s not…”
“How many do you have?”
“Three boys. So this is our fourth.”
Pause. She looked at me, surprised.
“Oh!”

It wasn’t dramatic. She was so kind, and we talked for a long time about life and kids before I left. But I wonder sometimes what people think of us. Of me. If they look at my kids and think, “Girlfriend, someone needs to get fixed so you stop procreating.” (For the record, my kids are adorable, so I don’t know how anyone could look at them and think that.) I know that most people don’t think those things. But I irritatingly think that they do. I’m pretty sure you can consider it the downfall of being a woman: creating fake scenarios in your head.

I’m also not afraid to admit that I am all for faking it until you make it. I apply it to the fact that my hair is greasy and gross, but you know what? I can still rock nasty hair. It’s all about what’s going on in my own head.

This applies to my mothering. I don’t know what I’m doing. THERE! The secret is out. But I know I’m still good. I’m still worthy in the eyes of the Lord, and no opinion except God’s matters to me. He already tells me He loves me, He makes me whole, that my purpose is found in Him.

And I look at the photo we took of my three boys and that empty little chair, and I think, “Lord You have a mighty work to do.” And I trust Him to do it. I am fully aware that this looks crazy, that I’m going to struggle, and that I might not figure out motherhood from now until that baby arrives.

But it’s good. I’m good.

Virtual hugs all around, okay? Your kid will throw fits. Someone will look at you like you are legitimately a crazy person. And someone will think about how they might not want what you have. So what? God gave you these things. God gave me my people. I’m gonna steward them well.

One, Two, Three…

I had a moment this morning where I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “Uh yeah, girl. This is crazy.”

Maybe that should become my mantra.

It seems that much of my adult life has been filled with the “Uh, this is crazy” moments. The older I get, the slower I am to jump into crazy things. Looking back only a few years ago, I feel scared just thinking about what we decided to do with our life. Who willingly decides to do these things? Why are we insane? God, what have You done to us?

I mean it in the best way. Crazy means mentally deranged, but it also means wildly enthusiastic. And I am wildly enthusiastic about what God is capable of, even if it scares me. I’m only scared of what I don’t know. I’m not scared of what God can do; He is a reliable, steadfast foundation. He’s got me in His palm like the way a daddy holds his little girl’s hand. Little girl = me.

What has God done to us? What has He done in the past six years?

He has made us willing. He has taught us obedience that looks like foolishness from the outside. He has enlisted us to laughter and joy in the midst of trial. He has been a God who called us on waters and somehow, some way, we freakin’ walked on them.

I like what He has done.

This year, so far, has been one for the books already. There’s a lot of unknown in our future, but one thing we do know is that coming November, we’re going to add just one more little one.

We get to do this crazy thing called parenthood, and we get to add one more sweet baby to this team.

Here’s where you come in. Add me + Baby D 4.0 to your prayer list. I don’t keep secrets, so we’re letting the cat out of the bag early. This means I’m not in my second trimester yet, and I covet your prayers that we keep on keepin’ on, healthy and stable. Because of my ectopic pregnancy a few years ago, my body is notorious for producing low progesterone. We’re doing supplementation to keep levels up, but again, prayers here are essential.

Also, here’s the answers to all the inevitable questions:

Yes, we did this on purpose.
Yup, I still know how this happens, but please, if you feel the need to ask, don’t.
I’m due November 9.
Of course I’m hoping for a girl, but I also LOVE my boys. So give me a boy, give me a girl, but Lord do not give me both at once. (Don’t worry, no twins here.)
Yes, I do feel a little nauseous. Consider giving me some crackers to snack on while we talk about how I’m feeling so I don’t barf because I forgot to eat. Exhausted, yes, that too. Babysitting services always welcome so I can nap.
You’re right, I have done this a few times, but this time will probably be the hardest. I might go for a HoverRound once I hit 30 weeks because I know I’m going to hate walking/moving/standing.
Probably never a good idea to touch my belly, unless we’ve had a few conversations.

Praise God, yeah? We’re elated. We can’t wait for this baby to join us. Thanks for your prayers in this time. You all are the real MVP.

Contrary to Popular Belief

There was one summer when I was teenager when I loved roller coasters. It was on a trip to Holiday World to Santa Claus, Indiana when I rode roller coasters more in two days than I ever will for the rest of my life. I even rode with no hands because that’s the kind of rebel I was at the time.

Another time in my life, I rode the Gemini at Cedar Point and hated every second of it. I remember clutching my mom’s arm, screaming, squeezing my eyes shut as if to will the whole experience out of my mind.

Usually, I think of myself as a “safe” person. I don’t like taking risks, like riding roller coasters. That just seems like a chance to die, and I’d rather not. I don’t know what got into me those two days many years ago, but I’ll probably never willingly ride a roller coaster again. Experiences like those are reasons why I think I’m a safe player.

But…I’m also really, really not. At least, over the course of the past six years, “safe” has seemed to disappear from my vocabulary.

In the fall, I learned a “trick” that changed the way I thought about God’s role in my life. I had always been told that I can trust God because of what He has done for me before. What I never considered was actually going back and going through the times that God really was faithful. Not just quickly reminiscing, but actually thinking on them, writing them out, recalling exactly how fearful I was in those moments and just how faithful God has truly been up until this point.

Not only is this applicable in my own life, I’ve started doing this as I’m reading the Bible. Again, I’ve known for years that the Bible is so obviously connected, but I really didn’t know how. It was when I started looking back in all the stories in books previous on how God showed Himself a faithful God that I understood His majesty every more.

It sounds so simple. But it was something I only began practicing recently.

Contrary to my own belief, I’ve shown myself as risky. Sometimes irresponsibly so, other times, enabled by faith to jump without seeing the landing.

It stresses me out a little. What will happen next? What are ya gonna do, God, that’s going to flip my world upside down? It seems that the pattern of our life is such: know God is nudging us in a crazy, uncomfortable place, go to said place, feel like we’re free-falling, find solid footing on God’s promises. I’m always looking back with my mouth wide-open in awe.

You did all that, God? You did that for us?

Can I shine light on you for a moment? You don’t have to be risky, jumping always, or doing things that just seem crazy for God to be real in your life. You don’t have to be me. You don’t even have to add “risky” to your vocabulary. But I’m looking back at all the stories I know, in the Bible and in my own life, and it is true that God asks us to do things that do not have a solid path. The details seem to ornate, the path to the destination seems impossible. If I’ve learned anything, it just means that I jump with my eyes looking up. It means I look up to my Creator and know He’s not going to let me fall out of His hand. I might fall and hit my face, but He’s not going to laugh. He’s going to pull me back up.

Maybe, contrary to popular or your own belief, you can do what you pledged you wouldn’t.
Maybe if you look back on the stories of your own life, you’ll see just how much God has moved in ways you thought you couldn’t.

The Juggling Act

I open my eyes. If I’m lucky, I’m opening them to the half hour right before the thunderous noise of my almost two-year-old shaking his crib. The light snakes in through our window, but only enough for me to vaguely read the words on the thin pages. I sit up enough to see the Psalms in front of me, and I read to awaken my mind from a night of (hopefully) restful sleep.

(It seems that most nights, though, someone’s face is inches from my own, whispering, “Mom. Mom. I peed my pants.” or “Mom. Mom. I have a bloody nose.” or “Mom. Mom. I’m going to throw up.”)

But when I’m not so lucky, I awake to the sounds of two boys fighting over a Lego piece, and the chatter of said two-year-old. I muster the ability to lift my body out of bed, and I go out in my kitchen to feed my kids. After, of course, the beloved fight over taking off someone’s pee-filled PullUp. (Why does he think it’s the end of the world to take that thing off?)

I eat. I read more. I scan Facebook. I make coffee. I talk to my husband about the day ahead.

And we go.

Here’s where I confess something: I was never planning to work again, not while my boys were so young. I never considered being a writer when I didn’t have formal training.

Actually, no, that’s not quite right. I was outrageously afraid to do something besides be a mom. Mothering comes naturally. Juggling everything else on top of it was what scared me.

Some days I have deadlines to meet while my youngest has a fever. He needs me to hold him every moment he’s awake, and I cannot ignore him. There’s no one else here to do that job. That’s my job.

Some weeks I’m certain no one has cleaned my toilet for a month. And then I remember, oh yeah, that was me. I didn’t do it. Because that’s also my job.

Some days I easily say to my husband, “I don’t want to make dinner.” But, that’s always been my job, too. Who will do it if I don’t?

There’s groceries to buy, meals to plan, my hair to get in formation. All my job.

Another confession: I am not meant for juggling. No, really. I cannot juggle, literally and figuratively. I always drop a ball somewhere.

I don’t know about you. I know about me. And for me, juggling everything in my life is a sure sign I’ve only got my eyes on all my “things” and not on my Creator. I’m transfixed with the idea of keeping everything floating, keeping everything light and good and functional.

I gotta drop the ball. You know why? Because I can’t look at Christ when I’m focusing on juggling everything.

Maybe you can juggle well. Maybe it even comes naturally. Maybe for you, you can juggle five balls in the air while maintaining eye contact. Hey, that is not me. In general, I just prefer not to throw more than one ball above my head.

What if it’s less about juggling, about keeping everything going, and us being the hands doing it all? What if it’s less about how many balls we toss above us and more about the Person we’re doing all of this for? What if we simply stop trying to juggle and simply live with all our stuff in our hands, extended towards a God who tells us He does all things for our good?

It doesn’t mean I drop everything. It doesn’t mean I stop doing anything. It means I do what He gives me, allow others to do what I cannot, accept help, give myself grace, love myself better than expect myself to do everything.

My head will hit the pillow tonight, and I may start thinking about how I seriously dropped the ball. Or how I didn’t do all that I needed to do. But I know me. God knows me. And He knows I was never a juggler in the first place. I was always His daughter from the beginning. So I soak in grace, soak in truth that I am good because God says I am good, and He does what He sets out to do. He will complete the work. He can do more than these hands will ever see.

No juggling required.

Just Like Me

When I was 21, I had a little baby boy on my hip and friends who didn’t live in my city. I never celebrated my 21st birthday like everyone else; I was happy and doe-eyed in love with my husband and baby daddy, and I thought that was enough.

In the years up until that point, I was always at church or working and serving in ministry. I loved people. I loved serving with other people. But, then I had a baby boy, and I cut ties with commitments, serving, and letting other people pour into me.

Fast forward to yesterday. Yesterday I was driving home at 9:30 PM after a full day of walking alongside some amazing people, and I couldn’t even get the words of thanks to come out of my mouth. I drove with tears in my eyes. I kept laughing, because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was standing on top of the mountain, feeling that mountaintop breeze after enduring valleys and hills.

The year after my third son was born, I walked out in faith. It had been a few years since I connected with others beyond the forced, “Hi! How are you? I’m great!” I decided to live in a fullness I thought I couldn’t inhabit, because for once, I believed in what God had said about me.

I always knew that I lived within the parameters of Christ’s love, but I never really knew what that meant. I thought it only meant that I was forgiven, even when I repeatedly messed up. I didn’t know that I meant I could live differently.

I still remember the day I felt compelled to talk to a woman I didn’t know, and how I never reached out to her. I gave God some serious side-eye, because who was I to do something uncomfortable like that? I wasn’t anyone special. I didn’t have all the answers to what it means to be a woman of God.

I forgot that I was living in Christ’s fullness. I thought women who walked in a way I admired had something I didn’t, but I realize now that those women are just like me. They have different talents, sure, but I live in the same fullness, the same forgiveness and redemption.

I wish 21-year-old me knew that.

So, I’m telling you, in case you need the reminder I didn’t have.

Christ makes us different. He allows us to live different, better. He saves us from our mistakes and downfalls, and He does one better: Christ allows us to connect with others we feel scared to talk to. He allows us to do impossible things because there is nothing He can’t do. He allows us to be women who do things we never thought we could.

The best part? He does it all. We get to watch Him. When we say yes to His plan or when we decide to walk in the way He directs, we get the front-row seat. We get to watch Him, in all His glory, do what He whispered in our hearts.

And you’ll find yourself driving home one night with tears stinging your eyes. The thank you’s from your lips will only be laughter, and when the words finally escape, they’ll be thick with emotion and gratitude that God is who He says He always was.

PS – If you’re looking for somewhere to connect, some women to do life with, join us at Rally. We’re currently going through the book Uninvited by Lysa TerKeurst. Find us on Facebook by searching “Rally ministry”, or email me at janelle.delagrange@gmail.com. We would love to have you!

A Pep Talk for Your Bad Week

He was supreme in the beginning and—leading the resurrection parade—he is supreme in the end. From beginning to end he’s there, towering far above everything, everyone. So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—people and things, animals and atoms—get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the cross.
Colossians 1:18-20

GUYS. It’s been a week. One that I want to end, but it simultaneously feels like it’s lasted for an eternity. Know what I mean?

My kids gave me a run for my money this week. From an entire bottle of nail polish artfully splattering on my carpet and walls, to the puking fiasco, which involved me being vomited on two times, YOU GUYS. Ready for the weekend.

I’ve been working through some verses in Colossians for a teaching I’m giving in a few weeks, and I swear, almost every time I return to the passage, something new is waiting for me there. It’s not as though I haven’t read it many times already.

I read in Psalm 23 this morning, and that felt good and fresh and full. And then I flipped to Colossians and felt like my knees needed to get on the ground right now, because they were words that hit me in the gut.

So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding.

I’m telling you about my seemingly crap-filled week because it’s in these days of chaos, bodily fluids, and nail polish stains that I feel ill-equipped. Trying to be a mom and a writer and a woman all at the same time? What? Who the heck has time for that? This week has felt like a giant boulder of frustration, and I just want to get it off my chest. It’s times like these where I feel like I’m not in Him.

But, back to Colossians. Back to this verse.

So spacious is HE, so ROOMY, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. (All that emphasis, mine.)

I can go weeks without feeling weighted down. I feel light and capable, because that’s what His burden is. But there are weeks like these ones where I’m sure that I’m doing everything wrong, that I don’t belong, and that God is certainly going to chastise me soon.

But you know what? I’m of God. He called me mine when I believed in the power of His blood. And everything of God finds its proper place in Him. Even this place where everything is crap in the fan, this is my proper place right now. And even if the weight of responsibility and frustration seems overwhelming, squeezing me out, there’s enough space in Him for me. We’re not even crowded when we’re here. There’s so much room. So much space. So much good.

I got properly fixed and fit together when He died. Imagine that. Two thousand years ago, He did it, before my cells were even formed. He already put me back together.

I raise my glass to you, ladies. Moms. Working moms. Working women. Women who got things to do, women who have the ability to do it all, women who have time to kill.

It’s been a week, right? Good news: there’s enough room for us in Him. For all of us. No crowding, no bumping shoulders trying to do anything better. We all have a proper place in Him, because we are of Him.

Okay? Okay. Now go live like it: fixed and fit together.