Being a Creative Whenever I Want

So some weeks, if you’ve noticed, I can crank out writing like it’s my job. (And for the sake of it, let’s just say it is, because, why not?) And some weeks, like now, I just need a break. Not a bad job.

Right now, while I’m thinking about cranking out a bunch of my soul into what I write, I just wanted to take a creative break. And talk about creativity and writing and the whole smorgasbord of standards I set for myself.

I didn’t, and most times still don’t, consider myself a creative. That seems like the wrong word for me. That’s the word to describe my husband and his business, my friends who make things, entrepreneurs, people who actually make a living off of their creativity. But me? I’m just a writer. Creative all up in my head. Getting those words out can be a whole other story.

I’ve been keen on thinking that I’ll take myself more seriously when I’m not so seriously a mother of little children, but I think that’s also a whole bucket of denial being dumped on my own head. And you know what makes me feel like I can take myself seriously? By taking a break whenever I want. Letting writing come to me like a natural current. It doesn’t always. Sometimes I write things like this to get those juices flowing. More deep, spiritual things to follow. Sorry you’re missing out in this post.

I love the idea of “know who you are and who you are not”. Who am I? God’s. A wife. A mom. A writer. I need my list of priorities to pop up throughout my day, or else I’m trying to force a whole lot of writing on days when I need to be His first. I need God first. Otherwise, the writing is like molasses. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It reminds me that when I write for only my own benefit, the words come back empty. His, wife, mom, then writer.

Today, I am not an author of many books. I am not followed by thousands. I am not renowned by many. And that makes me smile. Tomorrow could be anything. I love that limitless factor of my God.

Know who you are. Know who you are not. Let it be. (Singing The Beatles?)

I’m Janelle. His, wife, mom, and a writer/occasional creative.

The Makings of a Great Mom

I walked over to the kitchen sink to get some water and saw all the dishes there. They rudely reminded me how crappy the day felt. How terrible I must be to not get the dishes done before my children were in bed. My children who were being loud in their bedroom while they should’ve been sound asleep. It’s the little things that make me feel terrible. In the big picture, I know I’m okay: my children are alive, no one is going hungry, and I haven’t lost my mind yet. It’s in the details, like hairline cracks in a vase, that make me feel like I’m crumbling little by little.

The truth is this, and I want you to hear it just like I need to hear it:

There is no comparison for me as the mother of my children. There is no one to compare myself to. There is only me. I am their mother. I am theirs. I was the one set to be fit for the job simply because I gave birth to them. In your case, it could be because you adopted them. Or because they are in your care, and there isn’t anyone else for them. Whatever the situation, we are the ones set for these children.

Comparing myself to the other mother I pass in Target serves no one. It serves the devil quite well, and he would do much to destroy me. But there is truth in that, too: I serve a God who already defeated the king of the world. I love a God who sentenced that king to a terrible death. I was bought by the King. So I have no reason to believe a liar because I was bought by the One who initiates Truth.

What makes a mom great, truly? Is it the home you make for them? The money you make while you’re away from them? The dinners you do or do not cook, the costumes you make, the playdates you have, the routines you establish? Friend, who established those standards for you?

The makings of a great mother…I don’t know what that means for you, because you aren’t me. Your children are not mine, my children are not yours. We cannot be the same because we have people at our feet who have different needs.

For me, it means hugging my 2-year-old when he throws a fit because I know scolding him only spirals him deeper into tears. It means correcting my 15-month-old for the millionth time because he needs to learn that remote controls are not toys. It means listening to the stories of my 4-year-old, because he will inevitably repeat himself until I listen. It means sometimes making PBJ for the third time in a week because of one simple fact: I know they will eat it. It means staying at my house all day because I cannot manage all three alone for too long in a public setting. It means writing on a blog or journaling when the day feels too long. It means cleaning so I can take my mind off of my frustrations. It means taking a moment to escape to my bedroom and shut the door so I can stop my own shouting. It means praying every chance I get that God will continue to be bigger, and I will only get better because of Him.

The makings of a great mother aren’t just in all the stuff, all the Pinterest-y things we believe, or the looks of our home, family and life. The makings of a great mother are what’s in her heart and soul. And if that’s it, then most, if not all, of us are among the greatest.

Love your kids. That’s what makes you great. Whatever comes next is a product of that love, and I pray it’s not coated with an angst to show off for other moms. You are good enough, just as you are, and there’s no one here to impress. God knows you’re good enough; He gave you these kids because He knew you were what they needed, just because you simply are. The hairline cracks may threaten your confidence in this, but here’s something you may have forgotten: we’re already broken. What’s better: we’re already covered in the blood of Jesus, and we’re already made whole. It’s good news. It’s the Good News. And if it’s your banner, then wave it wildly.

I am good enough. I don’t have to worry that something will threaten to break me, that all of the frustrating aspects of motherhood will pile up and crush me. The eternal God is our refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms (Deut. 33:27). How beautiful is that? He protects us and cradles us in His arms; we are never out of His reach, we are not out of His protection and comfort.

You are a good mom. I am a good mom. Every day is hard, every day I doubt it. But where there is doubt, I can overcome with truth. I’ve got everlasting arms to give me rest when I feel like I might cry because I can’t stand another minute of crying from someone else. I’ve got protection when I think that the devil is working too hard, and he seems to be winning. I’ve got a refuge when I only want to escape this call of motherhood, because some days, that’s just how it is.

It’s time we start believing the truth that God has already spoken over us. Sometimes the truth is simply found in the presence of our children. The children we have here, the children we have lost, whether here on earth or up in heaven. Their existence proves God’s belief in us:  children make mothers out of us. And sisters, that’s just what we are.

Like a Tree

Last night we were driving around our city looking at houses. We like to dream about what the future holds for us, and sometimes that involves looking at houses we can’t move into. I mean, why not, right? We had just finished up at Target, it was only 7:30, and we needed to kill time before our boys would go to bed (it was one of those days). We drove by a house that I remember being built when I was younger. Today there are trees tall enough to shield the house from the road, trees that were planted shortly after the house was erected.

Trees are slow growers. Some grow faster, but they don’t become mammoth-sized plants overnight. It takes a lot of rain, sunshine.

I was looking at those trees shielding that house and thought the owners probably didn’t notice right away how big they had gotten. As if one day they noticed the shade covering their windows, the view protected by the greenery. One day, those little trees were huge.

Last night I had a serious fit of fear. If you’ve been following this blog or our story for long enough, you’ve read about the struggle it is to have a small business with three children. I doubted God 100%. I felt certain this was just all wrong solely because I couldn’t see the fruit of it all. I couldn’t see how God was going to make this bigger.

Here’s what I know: God promised this to us from the beginning. He told me Evan would be freelance, and that He would provide. I’ve seen Him fulfill that. I also know that He is capable of growing it like a tree. And I am confident of His plans.

God doesn’t give me imagery for no reason. We drove by that house last night just so I could see those big, beautiful trees and think of what is to come. How only He can grow something so organically over time, that soon enough it will click, we will see just how big He has grown a business simply because He can. Sometimes I hope and expect an overnight transformation. But He didn’t promise me that.

I have to keep repeating truth, speak truth over fear, and give Him room to grow me. He always does. Our faith can be like a tree too. It doesn’t become monumental so quickly. It takes time. And that gives me hope, peace even. To know that it will come with time, that He will make a way for me to see Him better.

Thank You for all You give us, Papa.

Kindred Souls & Cheerleaders

My sweet and wonderful friend Sara finished her book within the past week. She also finished her master’s degree, announced her third pregnancy, and celebrated her 28th birthday. If she doesn’t toot her horn, I will, cause girlfriend is fierce. I love it.

Sara & I have known each other for a few years now, and I’ve been cheering her on from afar from day one. We’re kindred spirits in so many ways. I, for one, have always felt like a loner-creative with writing. I never had someone who got it just like me. And then I met Sara, who writes, blogs, dreams, and talks in ways that I get. Ways that make me exhale with a joyful nod, as if to say, “You get me!”

I love that God has delivered and brought me good, wise, intentional people. Sara is just one. Getting to cheer her on and knowing she does the same for me is like icing on the cake to being a follower of Jesus. It makes life so much sweeter.

While I was getting myself ice cream last night after conceding that I wasn’t going to do yoga (priorities), I was praying over this post. I’m gonna be straight: cheering on your friends is not always easy. We are prone to envy. It takes the important realization that God is sovereign, He is good, He is the most important, and I come second. All I kept hearing in my thoughts was, “Cheer for her. What’s for her could be different than what’s for you.” Her being all the other women I know. All the other moms I know. The other writers, the other twenty-somethings. I don’t put my needs to the side. It’s that I agree: others’ needs are equally as important as my own. One of the most powerful things I can do is advocate for their cause too.

I get to cheer on my sweet friend, most times from afar because we have five kids between the both of us and lives that do not slow down. The moments we do get to grab coffee and catch up are rich with talk about how good God is. What’s for her is good, worthy, important, and holy work. Equally as important as whatever He has for me. We cheer each other on because it defeats the temptation for envy. We advocate for people we love hard because we want God’s glory to rain down. We want God to get glory because He is a good God.

So, cheer for your women. Cheer for your men. Encourage those around you to do their thing, because God sure doesn’t give us gifts, promptings, callings for no reason. We give Him glory when we do His work. Let’s be a people who do that together.

 

Fingernails and Other Envies

I used to be envious of other people. Actually, I find myself still envious of people often. I just like to think I’ve improved.

I used to hate my fingernails. (Yeah, you read that right) The shape. The cuticles. Gosh, I would pick at my cuticles. It was such a self-conscious thing for me in school. I was always nervous someone was staring at my hands. I pined after the beautiful hands of my friends. (Yes, you really are reading this correctly.)

Sometimes I get those weird, aggravating thoughts in my head: Your _____ isn’t good enough. Look at what she has! Look at what they have! Look! Look! You just aren’t good enough!

These days my envy tends to fall around other people’s homes and just plain old stuff. And shoes. And occasionally my little fingernails.

Here’s my point: if I can get thrown off my path by my concern with my fingernails, why do I expect others to ever be perfect, if I am this imperfect? I can be sidetracked by the envy of everyone else and their stuff and fingernails, and it leaves me to know that I am not any better than anyone else. I am easily tripped up. I am not perfect. I do not have it all together.

And it should remind me:  it is okay. That all of the stuff and things and fingernail polish in the world will not make me happy. My joy does not come from accumulating stuff just because everyone else has it too. My joy comes from God, His sweet love, His devoted grace. My joy comes from knowing that I can come to Him just as I am. Imperfections and all. And He says, “My daughter. I love you. And those fingernails! I made those myself!”

He’s a God who never made a mistake. I don’t have to envy His love that He has for others. He’s got that same love for me.

Letters & Hope

My senior year of high school I spent a great deal of time writing letters. I wrote them on days of celebration, be it birthdays, holidays, or a 6 month anniversary with my boyfriend. I’ve always had a lot to say. It always came out best in writing.

So the last few weeks of my high school career, I spent time curating letters to people who had helped me reach this point in life: graduation. I wrote to as many people as I could. I couldn’t not do it.

I didn’t grow up in the Church. Going to church by myself as a teenager was a challenge. I was a slightly introverted girl who just wanted Jesus like I thirsted for water. I would drive myself, most times dreading the moments of being alone until someone I knew showed up. It wasn’t until the sounds of worship drowned out the opportunity for small talk did I feel comfortable.

Luckily…no, so blessedly, I found a lot of people. People who cared about me in so many different ways. I realized by the time I was 18 that I could never repay the many for what they had gifted me:  hope. So I wrote. I told these people, God’s people, that He had used them so I could see Him better. They changed my vision of Him forever.

Times are treacherous right now. I don’t want to watch the news. I want to pretend like the world is not as it is, but I cannot be such a fool. I cannot be hopeless. I cannot rain down fear onto the world, or litter it with doubt. A lot of people bet on me when I was young. A big, mighty God bet on me, too. They didn’t have to do that. They didn’t have to give me all the buckets of hope that they did. But they did.

Church. Church! We are not hopeless. This world is downfallen, but if that is news to you, you might have been reading the wrong Bible. Think of the kids in your communities, the teenagers who go to church alone, and pour all the hope and love you have into them. Pour it into each other. God is not limited in this; He has storehouses laden with snow and rain and the sun bows to His command. Just think of all the love and hope He has just waiting to be restored in those who need it. Church! Don’t forget how good God is. Don’t forget how much His people need you.

God’s love for me is like a spigot that has let loose, a flow that cannot be stopped, tampered with, or slowed down. What love! And I can give it away. I have that power. I can let loose on the people I know because He gives so generously to me. It’s what we need. We need to remind ourselves of His hope, His perfect grace. And He bet on me. He knew I could do whatever He called. He bets on me everyday my eyes open as the morning sun shines through.

He’s betting on you to do the needed, the impossible even. Let it flow, friends. Renew hope.

 

 

Blades of Grass

A thunderstorm rumbles above me. The ground is thirsty; the grass has turned a hard brown and crunches beneath your feet. It has been too long for the rain. I can only imagine how the blades will be revived in the morning in the morning dew.

In Indiana, the first sounds of a lawnmower signal the presence of spring and warmer weather. I’ve never mowed a lawn in my life, thanks to the existence of my two older brothers. I had never paid so much attention to the plant until I had a whole bunch of it to take care of. And by “take care of”, I mean, pester my husband to mow when it seems to be getting too long. I plan to keep my “never mowed a lawn” badge until I change my mind about actually doing it. (Which will probably be never. Why ruin a good thing?)

No matter how dead, brown, and crunchy it gets in the heat of July, the grass always comes back. Unless you kill it with too much fertilizer. Or something. (Remember, I’m no expert, the whole never-mowed-a-lawn thing.)

Here’s my deal right now: I am worried the heck out about a lot of stuff. Finishing a house you want to leave is expensive, time-consuming, and filled with the frequent question “so, what’s next?”. Getting school supplies for my oldest son’s first year of school (although, I’m definitely looking forward to buying and organizing said things) has really made me think that I’m reverting back to my teenage years with these weird breakouts on my skin. Stress-induced, I’m sure. Have I mentioned my husband is a small business owner? And I’m at home keeping three people alive, writing on a blog, killing time until his return from down the hall. I worry I’m not giving my time properly to the people who need it, whereas I fear I give too much of it to others. I am hoping for redemption for a lot of people. I am trying to throw fear out my windows, but really, I’m just letting it hide in the empty space under my bed. All while yelling, of course, probably when the windows are open.

Worried. Stressed out. Concerned that the world will crash if I’m not sitting at rapt attention at all times.

I’m going to sound ridiculous. But I need the humor.

I need to be like the grass. I feel dry, dead, brown, crunchy. Like I haven’t had a good drink of Living Water in weeks. It has its seasons, the grass does. It goes dormant in the winter. Revived in the spring. Thirsty in the summer. To be resilient isn’t to be at rapt attention all the time, greener than green, perky. Resilient is to let the seasons come and go, never dying, and welcoming the rain always.

Gotta be like the grass, you guys.

The rain comes. It always does. God isn’t withholding His goodness from me. He is always good. Always loving. Always available. Always raining down peace, mercy, grace, and joy. Because that’s what He does.

I’m going to aim better. Throw my fears, worries, stresses out my windows. Get them out from under the bed. And give myself room to soak in the rain.