Pandemonium (Deep Breath In)

My daughter is talking about her birthday. She’ll be 4 years old next month. I’m supposed to say that it all went by so fast and I can’t believe she’s not a baby anymore. It’s partly true, but kind of not. While it does feel sometimes that she was just born, mostly it’s totally believable that the time has passed and here we are. Because the truth is, it didn’t go by so fast. And it hasn’t only been 4 years. I’ve been a stay at home parent for 10.5 years now to 4 kids one right after the other. Fast? No. A decade doesn’t go by quickly. I am glad for that. Why would I want this time to speed away from me? Kids are small one time. Childhood is fleeting. Let them be little and let me enjoy it, please and thank you. No. I don’t need time to speed up. One day at a time is perfectly alright with me.

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Lord have mercy. I was so tired. So. So. Tired.

I’m supposed to be registering that baby for kindergarten today. She makes the cutoff date here, and would be 4.5 years old like her older brother Olivier was when he went. If I send her at all. I’ve got the birth certificate. I’ve got the registration form. I don’t have the will today.

There’s this mom. I see her going to and from the school with her gaggle of small children, as I do the very same with my crew of not-as-small-anymore children. Her oldest is in grade 1 like Olivier. Unless she has unseen older children, this must be her first year with a kid in school full time. I was that mom, only 4 years ago when Mateo was in grade 1 and I had 3 little ones at home. 3 little ones to suit up, loading the smaller two into a double stroller, going to and from the school, exhausted and wondering if a 15 minute walk was really supposed to take an hour to prepare for. Having a kid in school is a lot of freaking work for a mom with a house full still at home. Everything we did was all-consuming. There was nothing as simple as putting on shoes and walking out the door for many, many years. 1 in school and 3 at home. That was only 4 years ago. It felt like we would never, ever get past that stage of life which can only be described as pandemonium.

boys and rosie in swing

I remember trying to take this photo. Pandemonium indeed.

To be honest, the following year – when Andreas was in half time kindergarten and Mateo was in grade 2, while Olivier was still a 2.5 year old in diapers and Rosalie was still a baby – that year was the HARDEST year of parenting ever. I swear to God if parenting was going to kill me or get me locked up in a padded room, that would have been the year to have done me in. Because I had a hernia and an uncontrolled thyroid problem, so I was utterly exhausted and in pain. My daily ventures to the school increased to include an extra mid-day pick up thanks to kindergarten being half time here. 2 year olds still nap and babies need to eat, sleep, and be changed regularly. Everything my little ones did was scheduled around the school bell times. If they hadn’t woken from afternoon naps by the time we had to go back to school to collect Mateo, well, too bad for them. Wake up time it was. Our walks to pick up Mateo often included a lot of grumpiness and crying. In that year we had Andreas assessed for and later diagnosed with autism. We toilet trained Olivier. I got on meds for my thyroid. I had a hernia repair surgery. I weaned Rosalie. Olivier stopped napping. Rosalie started walking. And then at the end of that school year, to cap it all off, we moved. Pandemonium.

kids on log

4 Kids On A Log. One fell off and bumped her head. Mommy called the doctor and the doctor said stop taking your kids for walks in the woods and posing them for photos on logs. Duh.

It slowed down after that. The summer we moved, we gained a backyard. I could send my kids out to play in a safe, enclosed place. Deep breath in. Andreas and Mateo began grades 1 and 3 that fall – two in school full time. Olivier wasn’t a toddler anymore. Only Rosalie in a stroller and diapers. Deep breath in. That year went nicely by. Another summer came. Olivier went to kindergarten. The older two were in grades 2 and 4, and well settled into a school life routine. Yeah, I was doing the back and forth from school all day thing again – but it’s way different with just one kid at home. It was okay. I was sick again though. Tonsillitis from hell finally put me on the list for a tonsillectomy. Gallbladder attacks put me on the list for that to come out as well. But, by the end of that school year, the gallbladder was gone. Another summer. Deep breath in. Then it happened. This past fall Olivier was in school full time too. Finally, and just like that.

That’s when I noticed her. This mom with the 1 kid in school and 3 little ones at home. I want to tell her it gets better. But I don’t because I know it’s going to take a while. And I’m not sure how to say that in an encouraging way. A year is a long time when you have a house full of very small children. “Just wait til next year!” sounds like, “you only have an eternity ahead of you!” to a wiped out mom. From her vantage point, there’s no end in sight. And she’s not wrong. So I smile at her. I’m not even sure if she sees me. Her kids are fighting. Someone is trailing behind. Baby is crying. It’s cold outside. But I smile anyway. It gets better, I’m silently nodding in her direction, knowing she can’t hear that right now.

kids at school

A sign of things to come.

When we get home from school, my kids take off their own shoes. They get their own snacks. The front closet looks like a bomb filled with hats, mittens, snow pants, boots, and heavy jackets, just went off. There’s salt from the sidewalk all over the floor, and little puddles of snow and mud pooling under the boots. Backpacks have paper, books, and leftovers from lunch spilling out onto the floor. My boys have 153 things each to tell me about their day. Rosalie is running around hugging them all, telling them she loves them and forcing them to pay attention to her. I can’t hear anything anyone is saying. My previously clean kitchen is a mess of after school snack making. Pandemonium.

I think of that mom at her house. She’s taking her baby out of the carrier. Stripping snow suits and boots off of little kids. Checking who needs to potty or be changed. Making everyone a snack. Cleaning it all up. Is there anything in her son’s backpack that needs to be signed or read or cleaned? Someone is probably crying. The baby needs to be held. “Mommmmm come wipe my butt!” is not an unfamiliar sound emanating from her bathroom. Toys? Everywhere. Laundry? I promise you don’t even want to know. Pandemonium.

I take a deep breath in and yell at my little twerps to clean the mess they made in the kitchen. Put their boots on the mat and wipe up the snow. Get me whatever I need to see from their backpacks. Put away their hats and mitts and jackets for goodness sakes! Yes you can have screen time after you read. Someone turn on a show for Rosie while you play your games. I’m sitting at the table drinking a coffee. They don’t need me for everything anymore. They just need me. It’s a welcome change. The pandemonium is actually kind of nice these days. I can take a deep breath in and not feel like a loon in the midst of it all. Usually.

kids snack time

After school snack these days is smooth sailing.

I’m supposed to be registering Rosalie for kindergarten today. But she’s the last bit of little one I have in this house. She reminds me of the long, long days and years of mothering very small children. Those were some hard years. But they were our years, mine and these kids. Years of reading just one more story. Singing another song. More milk please. Pushing on the swing. Endless cuddles. Walks to the park. Sneaking cookies. Trains on the floor. Finding lost bears and kissing away tears. She’s here still, for now, reminding me of all those years that almost broke me, but also built me up into someone I never would have been otherwise.  So. It’s about to be pandemonium around here as the boys get home from school. I’m going to take a deep breath in. I made the lucky ducks some brownies. Signing Rosalie up for kindergarten is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I’m ready for it if she’s ready. Maybe tomorrow we’ll finally say hello to that mom with all her little kids if we happen to pass them by.

rosie sleeping baby

Fine. It *does* go by pretty fast when you look back at those baby faces.

copyright (c) 2016 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

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La Paix Pour Paris

It’s not often that I title my blog posts in French. My actual working knowledge of the language is not strong. French happens to be the first language of my mother, who was born in Quebec. Her family’s genealogy can be easily traced back to France on both sides. I do so love the French language despite my lack of understanding of it. I love listening to my mother and her family speak it. Two of my children, Olivier and Rosalie, have French names that show up in the family tree several generations back. The other two, Mateo and Andreas, have names with very close French equivalents. I want to keep the connection to the French side of my own history. I want my kids to be reminded of it when they hear their own names. Someday, I want to take them to visit both Quebec and France. I’m always kicking myself for not keeping up with the language or sharing it properly with my kids.

When I turned on the news tonight to watch as the terror attacks in Paris were being reported, my heart sank. This cannot be. What I was seeing is a war zone. Paris and terror are not words that go together. Paris is the city of love. Not hate, not fear, not violence. Certainly not terror.

Love.

And I wanted to pray, for Paris and it’s people, but I couldn’t even find the words. What do you pray? One word came to mind. Peace. And a prayer I was reminded of.

The Prayer of Saint Francis
Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

I decided to look up the prayer online tonight, as I wasn’t even totally sure of it’s history or authenticity. Sure enough, while the prayer was later attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi, it was first published in 1912 long after his death. Where? In Paris.

Of course in Paris. Here is the original French, which as usual, reads more beautifully than the English anyway.

Belle prière à faire pendant la Messe
Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix.

Là où il y a de la haine, que je mette l’amour.
Là où il y a l’offense, que je mette le pardon.
Là où il y a la discorde, que je mette l’union.
Là où il y a l’erreur, que je mette la vérité.
Là où il y a le doute, que je mette la foi.
Là où il y a le désespoir, que je mette l’espérance.
Là où il y a les ténèbres, que je mette votre lumière.
Là où il y a la tristesse, que je mette la joie.

Ô Maître, que je ne cherche pas tant à être consolé qu’à consoler, à être compris qu’à comprendre, à être aimé qu’à aimer, car c’est en donnant qu’on reçoit, c’est en s’oubliant qu’on trouve, c’est en pardonnant qu’on est pardonné, c’est en mourant qu’on ressuscite à l’éternelle vie.

“Faites de moi un instrument de votre paix” – my French is not strong but I do understand that statement. In a world where terror tries and fails to destroy democracy and freedom, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix. I may not be of any influence on a global scale, but in my small part of the world, where I may be but a breath in light of eternity, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix. At the grocery store, in my own home, among friends or in the company of strangers, at church, or the bookstore, or the playground – wherever and among whomever it is needed, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix.

The world is watching Paris tonight because Paris isn’t just any other city. Paris is a city that belongs to the world. A place people feel connected to through travel, film, literature, art, history, language, and even proud genealogy. An attack on Paris is a shot through the heart. Globally, I think.

So how do I pray? I just pray for peace. Peace for Paris. La paix pour Paris. That I would be an instrument of peace in a world where people strap actual bombs to themselves as instruments of terror. That the people of Paris and France as a whole, would find this peace, a peace that surpasses all understanding. How do you drive out terror with peace? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not possible. But it is, in my faith anyway. We – Christians I mean – call Jesus the Prince of Peace. When we pray for peace, we’re praying for Jesus. Jesus who was murdered by a government to whom He would not bow, and yet death had no victory over Him. The power of peace is the resurrection power of Christ; a power that death cannot defeat. We sing Peace on Earth, Goodwill To All Men – and when we sing it, it’s more than just a pretty carol. We mean it to the marrow in our bones. It’s a prayer. It’s a declaration. Peace and Goodwill.

Peace On Earth A candle beside one of the drawers from my Advent calendar, which is soon to be filled with treats for my kids, but serves at the moment a reminder of the need for continued prayer.

Peace On Earth
A candle beside one of the drawers from my Advent calendar, which is soon to be filled with treats for my kids, but serves at the moment a reminder of the need for continued prayer.

So that’s my impossible, ridiculous, small faith, sorrow and hope and agony filled prayer for Paris. Peace. In hearts and minds, and on the streets. La paix pour Paris. Not a peace that dismisses or ignores or passively sits down, but a peace that is confident and sure of a just, victorious end. Peace for leaders to make wise decisions and secure their city and people. Peace for children to be able to sleep at night. For peace to replace panic. For peace to bring healing, in time.

Faites de moi un instrument de votre paix. Fais de nous des instruments de votre paix.

Belle prière” indeed.

*link to the French prayer: http://www.franciscan-archive.org/franciscana/peace.html

copyright (c) 2015 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

Give Them Potatoes

My follow up post to the Halloween blog. Personally, I think this one gets my point across much better than the previous one, but people like the more contentious stuff better I supposed. Either way. If this helps, then I’m glad to share it once more. Happy Halloween. Or not. Whatever. It’s up to you!

Jenna Pelias

Congratulations, internet. You have rendered my loud mouth speechless.

When I started getting ‘likes’ on my TroubleFaceMom Facebook page over the weekend, I told my husband that something was wrong. Because my blog is normally a cozy little kumbaya for the friends and family who tolerate me talking too much about my kids. I hadn’t even posted anything in a few weeks. My friend thought I was about to be harassed by a gang of trolls. Then the likes kept coming so I decided to check what was going on around here. It told me that nearly 10,000 people had viewed my blog yesterday.

I died. Surely I must have posted something that angered the beast that is the internet. But what? Between my two blogs, I write about sex, marriage, autism, divorce, affairs, porn, the church, Jesus, demons, angels, faith, and parenting.

The internet is broken.

That was…

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On Halloween

It’s become an annual tradition to repost this blog from 2012. It got a lot of attention in 2013, which was simultaneously a lot of fun and mildly terrifying. I know that Halloween is hard for a lot of people for a lot of reasons. This blog was written with the intention of challenging people who are hiding from it for no good reason, not to make anyone feel worse for avoiding it for very good reasons. Be blessed, truly, and stay safe this Halloween!

Jenna Pelias

I think I may actually offend many of the church going people I know with this post. I’m not sorry. Just so we’re clear, you know – in advance.

(*Edited to add that when this post was written in 2012, the only people who read it were my church going friends who really know me, and they know that when I say I might offend them, that I’m saying so in a let’s-still-be-friends-even-if-we-disagree, kind of way. I did not expect this blog to blow up the way it did the following year in 2013. I did not intend to offend the church going people everywhere, all the time. Holy smokes. But that seems to be what happened, however unintentional.)

Every Halloween it’s the same silly thing.

People getting annoyed with the gore. The focus on death. The devil. The blood.

And you know, I’m not a huge fan of all…

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Boy Mom Problems

For Mel. Because you’ve arrived.

***

My friend’s kid broke his clavicle (collarbone) today. I was all, “OMG how did he do that?!?!” And she was all, “as if I know!” And I was all, “being a boy mom is like having Pinocchio: they’re cute and sweet and funny and sing songs and get into trouble – until they break their bones or sever their toes. Then HE’S A REAL BOY NOW! It’s all downhill from here.”

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails? NO. Broken bones, severed digits, stitches, casts, and slings. That’s what little boys are made of. I once had an EMT tell me my sons reminded him of himself and his brother as kids. Thank God because it was that or child services was going to make a visit. The conversation with my friend made me think though, about how boy moms have our own lovely set of problems that I never experienced growing up in a house full of girls.

1. You associate the “Cheers” them song with the ER, and quietly hum it to yourself every time you happen to be passing by a hospital. Sometimes you want to go, where everybody knows your name. Your friends also joke without being kidding at all that you should just get yourself a hospital parking space on reserve. Whatever. At least you know where the cash machine, empty outlets to plug in your phone, and vending machines can be found. When well meaning staff ask if you know where you’re going, you assume they must be new here.

2. You ration food like it’s war time. Because the ongoing conflict between your bank account and their appetites is never going to end. Sugar just disappears and makes it’s way onto the household black market as their currency with each other. The kitchen is either open or closed, and when it’s closed you keep watch over the surrounding area for insurgents trying to make sneak attacks so that you can intercept them while screaming, “fall back! Fall back! The kitchen is closed! This is not The Hunger Games! There is more food!” You’re considering raising chickens and planting a garden to cut down on food costs and give them something to do with all that energy.

3. Everything smells like pee. They’ve all been toilet trained and somehow that made it worse. Somebody peed the bed the other night and slept through it, didn’t tell anyone upon waking, and it didn’t go discovered until that somebody gave mom a big, urine-smelling hug later in the day. (True story) The bathroom was just thoroughly bathed in enough chemicals to start up a meth lab and it still smells like pee. The Elf On A Shelf *must* have paid a July visit. That’s the only reason the entire laundry pile smells like pee because everybody swears that nobody peed their pants, we promise mom. If you grew up with sisters in a home that smelled like scented candles and perfume, the pee smell is going to assault your senses terribly.

4. Violence is your love language. This one comes courtesy of my husband, because obviously he’s a boy. Man. Man-child. Whatever. If any of them came at me trying to flatten me with a power bomb, I’d call the police and have them arrested whether they were borne of my uterus or not. When they come at each other like that I turn around and walk away because at least they’re getting along and not fighting for once. When they need love from me, they ask me to hug them, chase them, or tickle them until they can’t breathe – a fine line indeed with asthmatics in the house. When they need love from my husband, they jump on his head, fart, and get mad if he doesn’t retaliate by pinning them to the ground and tickling them until I yell at all of them to stop because it sounds like someone is being murdered.

5. You are morally obligated to donate $1 to the Children’s Hospital, every time they ask you in the grocery store checkout line. You have long since learned not to joke that it’s because you “spend enough time there” or you “never know when you’ll be back!” (The cashiers give you the side eye when you say things like that.) If you said no, you’d feel like a traitor, because refer back to #1. Donate, donate, donate!

6. Everything is broken. Including your spirit. Ha! Kidding, honest. But seriously, the door knobs always need to be tightened, their brand new clothes are torn apart, you’re not even thinking about investing in nice, new furniture for at least another 5 years (because you’d be so sad when it started smelling like pee anyhow), and you gave up on trying to fix toys a long, long time ago. It’s a blessing really because you learn the necessity of quality and will pay for the high priced Legos if it means less overpriced broken action figures strewn all over the toy graveyard playroom floor.

7. Competitions can be made out of anything. Who has more bites of egg left? Who can drink their milk the fastest? Who knows the most about dinosaurs? Who knows the most about rocks? Who can build the highest tower? Who can finish their book first? Who can spell the hardest word? Who can fart the loudest? Who can hold their breath the longest? You want to make it stop but you can’t because they’d turn it into a contest over who can stop the fastest. Competitions that involve being the most quiet and listening to their mother first do not count but you don’t know why because you’d hand out medals for those.

8. Nothing is sacred… I mean, sure you’re teaching them respect and boundaries and all of that “raising a man, not a boy” stuff that you know is important. But they’re still going to think it’s hilarious every time you say “but” in a contextually appropriate way that has nothing to do with butts. Your husband is going to try to back you up unless you actually ask for him to back you up, in which case you may as well just throw up your hands and go read a book alone in the tub with bubbles. NOT fart bubbles, if any of the boys ask (they will ask).

9. …except for penises. Those are sacred. I think they come out of the womb feeling like they’ve won the jackpot just for being in possession of one. When my oldest was 2, he told his cousin to point her peepee down when she sat on the potty. I laughed and and told him girls don’t have penises. He was appalled. And then devastated – for girls. How do we live without one? Why don’t we have one? We manage and I think we’ve got the better deal anyhow. Just don’t tell the boys that. They don’t seem to have the coping skills for that kind of revelation.

10. Everything is enhanced with sound effects. They just don’t know how to not make noise. Even the quiet ones, who enjoy solitary, low stimulus environments and for whom you have purchased noise cancelling headphones. Noisy. Why cook dinner quietly when you could cook it with a real time voice over giving a play by play of your every move. Why go on a nice walk and enjoy nature when you could frighten away every living thing in close proximity with howling noises that sound like a cat dying and bird calls that sound suspiciously like the sound effects in their latest video game. You’re lucky if the park ranger doesn’t track you down because someone called in worried about a possible animal in distress.

BONUS
It’s not all bad. In fact, it’s mostly good. While I did end up being shocked with a girl baby in the end, I wouldn’t trade my boys for all the girls in the world. (Or her for a boy, for that matter.) Being a boy mom is something else, especially for someone who never got into babysitting, didn’t have brothers, and wasn’t boy crazy. Someone at church recently offered to help me carry my things out after the service. I told them I have 3 sons for that, and I meant it. They’re hard working, diligent, persistent, problem solving, tough, and always ready to step up for someone who needs or asks them. They love their sister and their mama and you better not give them a reason to prove it. That’s where the “raising men, not boys” part comes in. The truth is, if you’re a boy mom you’re going to want them to learn how to take risks, you’re going to be glad that they’re full of energy and always hungry, you’ll be proud that they want to be challenged, you know that material things can be replaced, and you will be relieved when they learn how to get back up when they get hurt. I can’t really help you with pee smell though. I’m told once they stop smelling like pee, they start smelling like rank teen boy b.o. so this problem might be hopeless. Scented candles help.

Superhero pose in the Alberta Badlands. Superheroes in the BADlands, get it? They were amused.

Superhero pose in the Alberta Badlands. Superheroes in the BADlands, get it? They were amused.

Anything else you’d add to this list, boy moms?

copyright (c) 2015 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

10 Years of Mothering (a reflection)

I wanted to write something when Mateo turned 10 this month, to somehow commemorate a decade of mothering by summarizing the lessons I’ve learned along the way into a cute, tidy, entertaining little snippet. I tried. But I couldn’t do it. Because I don’t know how to make mothering come out tidy in words or in real life. So that piece of writing had to die and instead I’m going to tell you the truth.

We are in a season of change around here. Our boys will all be in school full time this fall. For the first time in 10 whole years, there will be no little boys home for all or part of the day, at least until 2:45pm. Also, Rosalie is not a baby anymore. She and I are going to have a lot of girl time while the boys are in school. My heart is soaring and aching at the same time. I love watching the boys learn and grow and become more independent. I’m enjoying my time with the little girl I didn’t think I would have. But those years of them all being little one right after the other – those hard, intense, exhausting, demanding years – I sometimes miss them. I listened to all of the people who told me to enjoy it because it goes so fast. I don’t regret not holding them enough because I held them all the time. I didn’t miss a single thing. And it still went by too fast and too slow. I guess that’s just how it works no matter what.

Being a stay at home mom was not my plan. It was the opposite of my plan. I knew plenty of women who did plan to have a houseful of kids and be home with them and I thought those women were crazy. I thought I’d be bored or need more stimulating, meaningful things to do with my life, my time. I didn’t imagine I’d ever want to slow my ambition down for motherhood. Now, as I have started working part time from home and talking seriously about returning to work and/or school in the near future, I am wondering how I am ever going to slow down motherhood for my ambitions. Motherhood seemed small before I walked into it. To be honest, I felt small for a long time as a mother. I was constantly calculating how many years before my kids would be in school and I would return to my previous pursuits – not because I was wishing time away, but because I am a planner. I like to know what’s coming and when, as far in advance as I possibly can. I had this need to justify being home, by having a long term plan for what would come after. Because I felt like I *should* want to be studying or working or using my God-given talents and intellect for something loftier than mothering.

Now I’m just trying to hold on to this season for as long as I can. I have loved being a stay at home mom. Period. No qualifiers. No justifications. I did it because I wanted to. It made me happy (and also crazy) in a way that nothing else ever has. The last decade has been one big long run on sentence of a come to Jesus, aha-moment, wake up call in my life. All of the books, libraries, pens, paper, time to write, read, learn, draw, and study in this world – none of the things I love to do and be most, come close to giving me the kind of joy that mothering has. I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to admit that, even to myself. We aren’t supposed to lose ourselves in mothering. They say it’s not healthy. Except that I did get lost in it and I’m better for it.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” -Jesus

The truth? There are as many ways to be a good mother as there are mothers and children. We are all laying something down, losing ourselves, praying and hoping we’re making the right choices for us and our kids in the short and long term. I’ve never met a mother who isn’t sacrificing something. Why do we do it? Because mothering is the loftiest thing. Whatever kind of mothers we are, we are doing it for the good and best of our children and there is nothing small in that. How I can have nothing but respect for my mom friends of all kinds, but constantly second guess my own self is a bit ridiculous. Maybe it’s time to stop doing that. Maybe after 10 years it’s time to just let the pressure and expectations go.

I don’t know if I’ll end up back in school or back in the maternity ward having another baby. Or both. Or neither. I don’t know anything about the future. I do know that in 10 years I’ve learned that mothering is not what anybody thinks it’s going to be, and we are all probably doing better than we think. It really is this hard, we are all sacrificing something (I think that one bears repeating), and everybody has a good reason for her choices so we all need to be kind and lay off. Internet fights are not worth the time and effort. Internet friends are worth the time and effort, but you need people in real life, face to face, too. Nobody has it completely together. Nothing we face is really new under the sun: someone, somewhere has been there. Find those people. Hang on to them. Your mother was probably right about a lot of things but don’t tell her I said so. Oh, and read with your kids, often and about everything. This gig is always changing; the kids are always coming with new and diabolical ways to throw us off our game and life just will not stay the same no matter how hard we dig in our heels and try to make it stay stuck. That’s about the gist of what I’ve learned in 10 years. It hasn’t been a bad way to spend a decade, I’ll tell you that much.

As for us, yeah, we are in a season of change. I’m never going to be a brand new first time mom again. I’m never going to have 4 kids in 6.5 years again. I could (and might) have another baby but it will never be like these last 10 years have been. I’m thankful for this wild ride we’re on. I’m thankful that parts of it are slowing down to make room for new, different things. I’m thankful for the lessons learned and the gifts that are my children. I didn’t plan for or think I wanted this path in life but it’s good to be dead wrong every once in a while.

This is where the last 10 years of my life have been spent.

This is where the last 10 years of my life have been spent and it took me that whole time to realize there’s no place I’d rather have been.

copyright (c) 2015 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

Dry Bone Pain

He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
I said, “O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
-Ezekiel 37:3

Ezekiel 37:3

Ezekiel 37:3

It’s the day after Easter and maybe some of us aren’t feeling very resurrected. Maybe some of us are weary, sick, bended, grieving, breaking. Where is the resurrection power? Where is this new life, new dawn, new day? Someone turn the lights on and let some air in. The saints are suffocating and the sinners can’t find the door.

Ezekiel had a vision. A vision of a valley filled with very dry bones. God told Ezekiel to prophesy to those bones and as Ezekiel prophesied “there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.”

No breath in them.
No breath in me.
I’m just a bag of bones.

Away from home at a camp, I couldn’t get past the post-op pain of extracted, impacted wisdom teeth. Pain meds all gone and the nurse on the phone tells me what’s wrong. “You have dry bone pain.” I laugh, interrupting her. This isn’t about my teeth, I realized. But I let her finish because my laughing makes me sound unbalanced. This is obviously not a funny situation.

“The spaces where your teeth used to be, are full of nerves all firing looking for that tooth because the sockets are empty and dry. They don’t realize the source of the pain is gone so they are creating new pain. We’ll fax pain meds to the pharmacy out there but if it hasn’t stopped when you get back to the city, come in and the surgeon will dress the wounds for you while your mouth heals.”

There was a rattling in my spirit as the Spirit of God was shaking me back together in deep, dry, broken places.

But. Can these dry bones live?

I have learned not to ask God a question like that unless I want Him to answer. And like Ezekiel, but minus the wicked teleportation/vision to the valley, God showed me that the nurse was right. I had dry bone pain. Not in my teeth but in my heart, which was empty and dry right into the marrow of my actual bones. There were old wounds, past hurts, things that had caused pain once, but which didn’t have to anymore – still firing off and triggering pain anyway. My heart didn’t know any better. It is hard to let go of the past, phantom pain like a phantom limb, removed but still present. And it was time for God to show up and bind those old, open wounds so that they could heal.

Only the Sovereign Lord knew.

He told Ezekiel to prophesy to the breath and it came and those bones lived.

He used a situation with my teeth to open my eyes to the work that had to happen in my heart. He brought my bones back to life, too.

I will put my Spirit in you and you will live.
-Ezekiel 37:14a

Easter comes, the stone is rolled away, and Jesus is alive.

His Spirit in us and our dry bones live. Maybe it’s time for us to let Him come, bind up the wounds, and come alive again. Maybe.

copyright (c) 2015 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

He Knew

One Easter ago I wrote this. I wasn’t always a Jesus girl. Sometimes, like Peter, I find myself following at a distance until that damned rooster crows to remind me that I am undone, again. And again. And again. Easter is Jesus knowing and doing it anyway.

Glory.

-Jenna (aka TroubleFace Mom)

Jenna Pelias

“I have a question.”

I had come armed to youth group that night. My questions were a shield, a defense against the clarity of truth that I was earnestly trying to deflect. I’d been reading the Bible in an attempt to find a reason not believe in all the crazy things the Christians (aka freaky Jesus people) believed about Jesus. I was 17. I was angry. I didn’t want a God that called himself Father because if that was the case, then where the hell was He, I wondered? And what could Jesus really have to do with anything? I was walking the line with God and what a maddening, intoxicating time that was. Because I believed in something. I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do if it turned out to be this.

It was my little sister who started it. She went by a…

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Not My Will

Jesus prayed for a miracle that did not come, once. In his usual place, alone in the dark, with all but one of his closest friends nearby, Jesus knelt down and prayed,

Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.

There was no miracle that night. Or the next day. For all anybody knew, Jesus was betrayed, mocked, insulted, abused, abandoned, convicted, condemned to die, tortured, and crucified unto death. Not very miraculous. His friends, family, and followers were devastated. This was not an ending they had prepared for. This was not how the story was supposed to go. From Eden to Gethsemane, one garden to another, there was supposed to be a miracle. God meets with people on mountains.

Except for when He doesn’t.

Before dying, Jesus cried out asking why the Father had forsaken him.
And isn’t that the million dollar question in all of our lives?

Why me?
Why this?
What have I done?
What else can I do?
Where are you, God…

Why have you forsaken me.

If even Jesus could cry out in his suffering, I am beginning to think that it’s time for us to stop shaming others for doing the same. We are promised many things in Scripture, not the least of which would be a cross to bear and a world full of troubles. Following Jesus really IS for the faint of heart, as it turns out. Plastering a smile on our faces and calling a heaping pile o’ crap a pot of gold, isn’t going to make the cancer go away or the spouse come back or the money appear out of thin air. Which is good news if you ask me, because I need a faith that works in the real world. I need a God who shows up in the worst of it, at the funerals and bars and attempted stonings and hospitals and when the taxes are due. Where bad things are bad things and God is sovereign especially in the mess.

Jesus didn’t get his miracle that night or the next day. Instead, Jesus died the most gruesome death possible, right before their eyes. He actually…died. And in their grief his followers buried the broken body of a forsaken savior.

Your Kingdom come
Your will be done
On earth as it is in Heaven

He taught them to pray that. Then he showed them the way.

Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.

I know a lot of people waiting on miracles. People kneeling to pray in agony and in earnest, knowing what’s coming in place of a miracle. Death, loss, grief, failure, pain, abandonment. And I can hear Jesus urging us to stay awake and not fall into temptation in the midst of it. He’s there in our Gethsemane. He’s on that mountain. It’s his usual place, after all.

It’s just that the story doesn’t end there.

No, Jesus didn’t get a miracle in Gethsemane, but his death was not in vain either.

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
Isaiah 55:10-11

It wasn’t about a miracle. There was a bigger picture. Jesus was sent for a specific reason and he trusted the Father from start to finish, sweating blood for the agony of it. And I think mostly we know there’s a bigger picture in our own lives too. Even though in the worst of it, it hurts like hell and we may as well be sweating blood for the agony of wanting it to pass us by, feeling forsaken but trying to trust God from start to finish anyway.

The Good News though, is that Jesus did his best work under cover of death and darkness. It is there where 3 days after all hope seems lost, we find the stone rolled away, the tomb empty, and a Savior revealed to us in glory. It is there where we see that nothing is impossible with God. Not one thing.

Jesus prayed for a miracle that didn’t come, once. He kept going anyway. He trusted the Father from start to finish – and what a finish! I can’t begin to say that I’ve got that kind of faith and trust. But I’m working on it. Not my will, but His be done.

copyright (c) 2014 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved

What Christmas Taught Me

I used to tell God my full name, address, phone number, and birth date when I prayed. Because I knew enough things about what the Catholic school told me about God to think that there might be a God somewhere out there, but I didn’t consider in a million years that He would have time to know who I was. I was nine years old then, and I used to give myself headaches and a sense of panic when I tried to think about how infinitely big the universe was and how miniscule I was by comparison. Where did God fit into it all? I didn’t know and it scared me. So I covered my bases when I prayed and tried to sound as appropriately insignificant as I felt, in light of basically everything else.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well…How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!”
Psalm 139:13-14 & 17

Years later, I used to accuse and yell profanities at God when I prayed. Because I knew enough about what the rest of the world told me about this absentee “Father” the church called “God” to think that if He was out there, and if He was listening, that He should know exactly what I thought about Him. I was fifteen years old then, and I used to give myself headaches trying to figure out the meaning of this life. I believed in God, maybe. I believed in something anyway. But I was angry and didn’t think trust was a thing that happened between God and man. If He was really out there, I felt very much at the mercy of His seemingly unjust whim. So I covered my bases when I prayed and tried to sound as inappropriately pissed off as I felt, in light of basically all of the injustice in the entire world and it’s history.

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.
Luke 15:20-24 – Story of the Prodigal Son

I fell at an altar under the weight of revelation of God’s goodness, grace, and mercy on my life and wept in prayer as if my very life depended on it. Because I knew that I was wrong, so wrong, but more than that – I knew that I was loved. That I was His. All along I had been His. It didn’t matter what anyone else said or thought about Him. It was my choice, my decision, my inevitable conclusion and ordained first steps in one desperate moment where Heaven and earth really did come together in my life. I was about to turn eighteen and finally gave up giving myself headaches over God.  This Jesus story was suddenly my story and while I didn’t (and still don’t) have a neat and tidy theology for how to understand Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I just knew. I believed. So I covered my bases when I prayed and gave God all that I had to give.

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
John 4:13-14 – Jesus & the Samaritan Woman

I wasn’t much churched when I first began attending a youth group and read the Bible in earnest (earnestly looking for contradictions and falsehoods that is). But God and I certainly had some kind of history even though I was agnostic at best. When I prayed that night at that camp a year later, I didn’t know what would come next. I had a lot of questions. A lot of hurt, broken places in my heart that needed mending and answers.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. -Jesus
Matthew 11:28

My parents separated when I was eight until just before I turned 10. Their story is their own to tell, but that time left me with a lot of confusion and fear. For a long time, I was afraid of the rug being pulled out from under life, even when it was stable, because what did I know? At nine, I wondered if God even knew who I was in the middle of everything, because we had to move and what if God didn’t know that we’d moved? So I always told Him where I was just in case, not knowing that He was there too, all along. At fifteen I wondered if God even cared who I was or what I felt in the middle of everything because being a teenager is hard and confusing and semi-traumatic. Plus hormones. (Yay!) So I always told God off when I prayed because I felt desperately alone and couldn’t figure out why He remained unmoved, not knowing He was moving me closer to His heart and purposes for my life every day. At almost eighteen I wondered at the greatness and glory of this God who loved me and found me and changed my life. I haven’t stopped praying since – even when I feel small or alone, maybe especially when I feel small or alone.

Praise be to God, who has not rejected my prayer or withheld his love from me!
Psalm 66:20

It was the Christmas story where I prayed and found peace with God and my Mom & Dad’s story. When they separated we moved 3 hours away. As they began working on reconciling my Dad would come. Every weekend or every other weekend. He would drive through the mountains and come see us. He showed up. And my mom. Wow. She probably didn’t feel like it, but she was a rock. She did what she had to do and basically saved our family by standing her ground. When the time was right, we all moved back home. My parents are kind of amazing. Christmas is the story of how God shows up to reconcile us to Himself. He became flesh. He showed up. He stood His ground. When the time is right He will bring us back home. He is kind of amazing. When I saw my family’s story in light of the Jesus story, I was floored and humbled that God would use such brokenness to level with me and mend my heart.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Romans 8:28

In all things. That one is so damned hard. I didn’t love Him and I wasn’t called. God couldn’t possibly have had a purpose. There are just some things that God can’t redeem. Why should I love God? How can God be at work in this? So many questions and lies. I had to decide if He was God on paper or God in real life, in the flesh, at work for my good even in the bad. Was He? Could I possibly believe that? Yes. He was. And I do. I keep making that same decision, over and over, every day. God is for me. God is with me. God is good. Even when it burns me up inside and I feel like God has forgotten me and nothing is good, I pray against hell that God will prove me wrong, over and over again as many times as it takes. And He does. He always does.

Why do you complain, Jacob? Why do you say, Israel, “My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God?” Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40: 27-31

Every year this thing we call Christmas comes and I’m reminded whether I like it or not, whether I’m in hot pursuit or following at a distance, that God became flesh. He became vulnerable and dirty and weak and exposed. Born in some kind of wretched conditions to save a wretch like me. He showed up, born to die. For me. I was worth it. We were all worth it. Worth that much. I can hardly believe it. I’ve never been more glad to be wrong about anything ever in all of life. This what Christmas taught me.

A manger scene, by my oldest son Mateo (age 9)

A manger scene, by my oldest son Mateo (age 9)

Christmas is the Gospel.
The Good News.
Comfort and Joy (to the World).
The Lord has come.
Let earth receive her King.
Let every heart prepare Him room.
And Heaven and nature sing.
And Heaven and nature sing.

Amen.

***

copyright (c) 2014 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved