How Far Will You Go?

FaceTune. Pixtr. Perfect365. Photo Makeover. ModiFace Photo Editor. Beauty Booth Pro. Visage Lab. Beauty Camera. PicBeauty. Pimple Remover Photo ReTouch.

These are the top 10 apps for photo correcting that are being used these days. Some of their descriptions:

"does all the hard work for you by automatically detecting what needs to be corrected in your picture. It will eliminate skin blemishes and red eye to ensure a flawless, natural look, and it works even in group photos."

"The face detection feature of this phone makes it easy for you to remove dark circles under your eyes, remove unsightly blemishes from your skin, and even customize your face (think higher cheekbones, higher nose, firmer faces)."

"Make your ugly profile picture perfect."

"Turns ugly people, beautiful, in a matter of minutes!"

If your automatic response to the list above was "Oh wow! I didn't know about that one! I'm going to go download it!", we have a problem.

Are you one of the 4 million users? Have you paid the $3.99 to have "a magical, perfect touch" at the tip of your fingers?

Let me be real with you. 

I just sat here, 2 minutes ago, crying. Literal, actual tears. I saw an ad for FaceTune where they took a newborn baby with normal baby acne, and made it perfect. And for some reason, as I feel our 5th beautiful blessing kick me gently, as she's still forming inside me, I burst into tears. 

She has no idea what this world will try and do to her.

If we have to use a photo correcting app, because we're embarrassed that our baby has acne, this problem is more poisonous than even I realized.

I will take the time to admit that Ellyn had baby acne when she was first born. Bad baby acne. The kind that spread all across her face, and had puss coming out of it. Bless her heart, her brand new baby skin couldn't handle all the kisses from everyone who wore make up, had a greasy face, or wore perfume! It broke my heart. Any picture I posted of her I posted in Black and White, just so that I wasn't drawing attention to her sweet, raw cheeks. I cried out to God. I begged for help. My husband finally said "Let's put some dirt on her face." I was crying, and looked at him like he was an alien.

Uhh. Excuse?

"I'm serious, babe. When I was a little kid, and I'd get poison ivy really bad, I put mud on it, and let the mud become hard, then rinse it off. It dried up the poison ivy!"

No.

2 minutes later, he was in our bedroom, stirring up dirt from our backyard mixed with a little water. He kissed Elly's forehead, and said "This is your very first facial, sweetheart. It's an honor for Daddy to treat you to a spa day!"

I started laughing, and wiped away my tears. I held her tiny little fingers, watched as she cooed up at her Daddy, as he gently rubbed mud on her tiny cheeks. A friend had also recommended using Aveeno Baby Wash, because it was a more gentle formula than the regular Johnson's Baby Wash. So for the next 3 days, she got an Aveeno Bath, and a mud mask at the Chateau De Daddy. And you know what?

The baby acne went away.

Guess what wouldn't have helped my baby at all?

FaceTune.

Oh sure, the people that would see my baby's porcelain skin, would think "My, what a perfect baby." But then in person? I'd probably feel shame.

About my baby.

I haven't ever downloaded FaceTune or any other photo correcting app. I use filters, because I love that if I don't have good lighting in a picture, it'll brighten it up a bit to show what's happening. 

But I can scroll through my Instagram, and tell you exactly which photo a user has used FaceTune, or some other app, what they did to edit themselves, and the people in the picture, and why it's not real. 

Let me say that again.

It's not real.

The saddest part about having the "perfect" Instagram picture is that when you look in the mirror, he starts screaming at you:

Disgusting.

You look like a monster.

Your face is the ugliest thing I've ever seen.

She has flawless skin, look at all those bumps on you.

Your zits are revolting.

Your fat face takes you down to a 2.

Your freckles are disgusting.

Your bird nose is gross.

No guy will want you. 

You might as well wear a bag over your head.

Your teeth are a mess.

Your hair is nasty.

Your body is fat.

Your skin is pasty. 

You. Are. Ugly.

The "he" I'm referring to is obviously, the devil. The enemy. The one who wants you as far away from God, as humanly possible. How does he do it?

By lying to you.

By killing you. And making you desire to kill yourself.

By stealing any amount of beauty, by letting your mind wander and compare yourself to that person.

Even the world (Teen Vogue) has taken notice to the scary trends we have literally become obsessed with. Check that out here. (Side note: All I typed in the Google search bar was "Damage on using photo correction apps", and this article popped up.)

If the world can see it, why can't we?

I think that most people don't think it's that big of a deal. 

"What's the big deal? I don't like _____ about myself. So what if I just touch it up a little?"

"I just want to look good so that guys will notice me."

"Everybody does it. You literally don't know what pictures are real anymore. I don't want to be the only one posting real pictures."

Those are all lies.

The big deal is just because you don't like something about yourself, doesn't mean you get to just erase it. 

Just because you think every person is doing it to get attention, is that the kind of attention you want? "On the internet, I'm perfect, in real life, I'm a mess."

Is that really what you want? Perfection on the internet?

What about when you go to school the next day, and you have a zit that popped up overnight, because you've been so subconsciously stressed about what your face looks like? So the concealer, powder, and bronzer do their best to cover up the bulge on your cheek, but you can still see and feel it. 

Do you walk around with your head down?

Do you put your hand over your face the whole day?

Do you put a bag over your head?

No.

You don't. Mainly because you know you'd draw more attention to the zit if you did that, than if you just were normal.

Same goes for your body.

You go to your closet, get the size of jeans that fit you, put on the size of clothes that are actually your size, and you go to school.

Because no matter how much adding or subtracting you did on the app, that's the body you have. A normal one. 

The new normal is scary. People joke about not being able to trust whose pictures are real or not, and you know what's sad? 

It's true. 

Most older people wouldn't know that you use FaceTune. Except that for some reason, anytime you don't have makeup on, you treat yourself and those around you, like you look like a monster. 

Guess what?

You are not a monster.

You are beautiful.

"You don't understand, Sierra. I'm disgusting without makeup."

I do understand. I'm a girl. I struggle everyday when I look in the mirror in the morning. 

"I wish I could fix that snaggle tooth."

"I wish I could straighten my crooked teeth."

"I wish I didn't look so fat when I'm pregnant."

"I wish my hair wasn't grown out and scraggly looking."

"I wish _____."

"I wish _____."

"I wish _____."

I do it, too. 

I look in a department store window, and think "Suck it in, sister!"

I people watch, and think "Man, if I just had her lips, BAM!"

I do it, too.

But guess what I've learned? There is no Fairy Godmother. So as much as "I wish", it's not going to come true. 

Praise God.

I'm so glad that I'm different. I'm so glad that my size is what's normal for me. I'm so glad that the first thing I hear from my husband when I wake up is "You are beautiful."

All of those lies that I hear myself say, when I look at my reflection, disappear. 

Because that's what they are: lies.

FaceTune is a lie.

Satan is a lie.

You are lying to yourself when you look in a mirror with no makeup, and think "Gross."

You know what I do, when my mind starts to run wild with the "I wishes"? 

I pray.

God, please forgive me. You created me, and I'm just telling You I hate Your creation when "I wish.". Please reveal to me who You want me to be. Please show me, Lord, the beauty You see, when You look at me with no makeup on. Please let me be a light to a girl or woman struggling with thinking she's ugly. Let me not speak to her like the world does. Let me speak life. Let me show her how beautiful her personality is. Let me encourage her to be bold, let me teach her that she is a treasure. A gift. A blessing. To herself, to me, and to those around her. Let that be good enough. In her life, and in mine. Let Your love be good enough. Silence the enemy, and all of his lies, God. Let me hear Your voice. In Jesus' name. Amen. 

That's real.

I'll not sit on a pedestal and tell you to not wear makeup. I wear makeup. I use Bare Minerals, and I really like it, because it's light, and doesn't make my face feel "heavy". I had a girl ask me to do a makeup tutorial with her, because she couldn't figure out how to just use what God had given her, but not look plastic. I showed her easy, quick things I do. I spend 10 minutes MAX on my makeup. I have children, I am busy, and mainly, I've figured out what works. I don't have time to sit in front of my computer for 30 minutes watching a tutorial about contouring, to then sit at my mirror for another hour, to try and execute the "perfect" image. That perfection takes layers and layers and layers of gunk. I don't desire to have a face painted on, or have the time to paint myself. 

I pray that if this hit your heart, like it did mine, that you'd pray that same prayer. 

God, forgive us. Let us be real before You, so that we can be real before the world. Let us not join the masses, in thinking that the perfect image is what You desire. You want our heart, and all of it. 

Whether you're a teen, a college kid, an adult, a mom, single, or whatever, if you struggle with this, listen to His whispers when He says, 

I love you.

You are beautiful. I know, because I made you.

Love,

The Author and Creator of Life.

This image brought to you with no filter, no FaceTune, and no fake. Just one I found on my Camera Roll that I snapped really quick, and sent to my husband and a friend, in a text message.

Submission is an "icky" word.

"I will never be a submissive pushover. If my husband thinks that I'm going to bow down, and "respect" all the foolish decisions he'll make, he's got another thing coming. It's not in my personality. AT. ALL."



I drove to a coffee shop today. My beautiful Mom took all 4 of our blessings, so that I could have a Baby Moon with my Handsome Man, this weekend. We're about 5 weeks away from the arrival of our 5th child, and my house needed some organizational TLC. So, the kiddos went to Nanny and Grandpapa's, Mark is at work until this evening, and I'm by myself in our new house. It's quite exciting to have some alone time, even though I'm an extreme extrovert. So I woke up, kissed Mark goodbye, and drove down to the local coffee shop, ordered a coffee, and coffee cake, and plopped down on the squishiest chair I could find. As soon as I sat down, 2 women at a table 20 feet from me discussed the "icky" word of submission. The quote above was the dialogue I heard. It was in reference to a friend who had become "religious", and started "bowing down to her husband who decided to become a deacon in a church".

Submission.

This word easily draws 2 very different crowds.

1. The person who likes it.
2. The person who loathes it.

I was easily person #2, for a very long time.

Anyone who knew me in high school, knew me in my first (and only) year of college, knew this about me. Spunk, sass, and southern class. An easy illustration of my everyday happenings for over 3 years. I was out to prove to adults that I could adult (I couldn't.), to guys that I didn't need them, and to prove to myself that a wild heart was safest, because its perpetual motion couldn't be squashed, or broken.

I dated guys, and in a cat-mouse game challenged them to keep up with me. They couldn't, and would often easily bore me. I'd move on. I worked at a video store, when I met Mark. And he completely knocked me off my tracks. I was a freight train, moving at an alarming speed, and he simply threw a stick on the train tracks.

The way he did it?

He simply asked me about my theology. Not even necessarily my religious theology, but my where I stood on life issues. But that wasn't what knocked me off my tracks. That's an easy question to ask someone. He did something so profound, so quiet, so peaceful, so annoying, really.

He listened.

He sat for hours on the floor of that video store, and let me ramble on and on about God, life, hurt, etc. When I'd very pointedly say an opinion on a matter, almost baiting him to debate with me, he simply ask me a thought-provoking question, that caused me to actually think, and not just shoot from the hip.

I've always joked that he's the ice cold water that God used to pour on my firecracker attitude.

Even now, 7 years of marriage, 5 children later, he's still that to me.

But you want to know the difference between the 18 year old, hot-headed, know-it-all, and who I am now?

Submission.

He's not a challenge I try to break, anymore. I don't have to prove how strong I am, or how wise I am.

He knows I'm strong. And he still loves me. He lets his quiet strength weaken me, in a "Wow my heart is beating really fast, because of how attractive you are right now."

Thanks to my Daddy, and his amazing ability to build ANYTHING, I caught the mechanical bug, and even took a carpentry class in high school. I made it to a district competition for the school, and was the only girl. I loooooooooved it.

Mark, on a regular basis, tells people that I know more about how things operate, than most men.

"You wouldn't know this about her, because most people just think she can be a mom, and make pretty food, but she's incredibly gifted, mechanically."

I spent many nights at the carwash, with Mark, fixing parts, shortening chains, figuring out the inner workings of a water system, etc. AND I LOVED IT. But I loved it not because I was strong enough to do it, but because Mark was secure enough to say "Hey babe, how do you think this works? What should I do to fix it? Could you come up here, and help me figure this out?"

That is like taking a match, striking it, and setting my firecracker attitude on fire. It fills me up, to see a man strong enough to lead an entire family, but humble enough to ask for his wife's tiny hands to change the pin on a chain, in a carwash, because his hands are too big.

See, that's what I've learned about submission.

It's not about suppressing, belittling, destroying, tearing down, or weakening.

It's about tenderly guiding, whatever personality you may be dealing with.

For our marriage, it's the cold water to the firecracker.

In other marriages, the woman is the cool wave that washes over her hot-headed husband. Her driven, unwavering, staunch, hot-headed husband. It's her silent prayers, and her gentle words, that completely derail him. It's the strength of her arms, holding him, letting him know his strength isn't needed at the moment.

That's submission.

I learned very early in my marriage that throwing a tea cup, in anger, at our sink, and screaming at my husband wasn't going to work. You know what he didn't do? He didn't fight back. He didn't take the bait. He didn't yell back.

He stood, calmly, with his back leaned up against the wall, arms folded, one leg propped up against the wall. And he calmly said "I'm sorry you feel that way, but that's not true. I love you, and you know that." And he walked out the door, got in the car, drove for long enough to completely freak me out, convincing myself that he had left me. Then he'd show back up, let me run to his arms, pick me up, take a deep breath in, and whisper "We love each other. This is just an attack." He let me sob like a broken child healing from wounds, he'd let me use his t-shirt sleeve to wipe my tears, he'd rub the small of my back and whisper "It's okay. It's going to be okay, babe."

Even though I'm ashamed of those moments. The moments where I'd throw my rings at him, and say "I'M DONE." It's embarrassing to admit, but it's a beautiful representation of submission. Not me submitting, but rather, his submission to God.

See that's the catalyst that every domineering, overpowering control freak forgets, about submission. If it's a one way street, someone will get run over. If there is only a woman submitting to her husband, it could lead to an unhealthy, abusive relationship.

It's when the man submits to God, that there is balance, and order.

And if a man isn't submitting to God, it's the woman, going to God, crying out to him.

I've had many a moment where I yelled at God in my prayers "THIS ISN'T FAIR.", and He'd simply say:

I know.

I would wait, as if God was my body guard, for Him to strike Mark with a Heavenly bolt of wisdom, and it wouldn't come. "THIS ISN'T FAIR, GOD."

I know.

"Aren't you going to DO something, God?!?"

Aren't you?

"I am! I'm telling you this isn't fair. That I hate this. That I want him to change his mind!"

That's how I feel about my children that are lost.

"But God, can't you focus on me right now?"

Are you focusing on me?

"Well, yes. I mean, no, not really."

"God, would you forgive me of my selfishness? Would you break my pride? I want to respect Mark, but I'm struggling. I want to submit, but it literally makes my heart hurt, at the thought of not saying anything. I don't want to be kind. Can you give me Your strength? Can you show me how to be grace, and mercy?"

"Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

And so I do.

That's all the strength I can muster.

Then after a brief pause, where Mark and I seek Him, separately, and it usually plays out like this:

"I'm sorry. I was being selfish. Would you please forgive me?"

Tears well up in my eyes, and stream down my cheeks.

"You hurt my feelings."

"I know. Would you for give me?"

"You're forgiven."

"I love you, Sierra."

"I love you more, Mark."

He still scoops me in his lap, takes a deep breath in, and whispers "This is just an attack. I love you.", while rubbing the small of my back.

I still wipe my tears on his shirt sleeve, and whisper "I love you too."


Submission doesn't look like the world makes it out to be. Yes, in rare, unfortunate cases, submission on a one way street leads to a car wreck. A woman or man abused, and left feeling vulnerable, and unloved. That's not submission. That's suppression.

Submission is simply two broken people coming together, and finding wholeness in a God that loves them more than they could even love each other.

I've often told young couples, or singles that the way you find each other, or your future mate, is simply being on your knees at the foot of the Cross. Eyes closed, hands raised towards Heaven,  then when you open your eyes, and look beside you, there he is. A man, on his knees, eyes closed, hands raised towards Heaven. As your eyes lock, he reaches over, intertwines his hand in yours, and you both raise your free hand, eyes closed, and praise your Creator. Together, separately.

A man submitting to God, and the cautions of his wife. A woman submitting to God, and the steps her husband guides his family through.

Sometimes, submission is putting on my battle clothes, and fighting for our marriage, for our children, and for my husband, in his weakness.

Sometimes, submission is watching my husband suit up for battle, and keeping him fed, keeping my words towards heaven, crying out for strength for him.

But every time, it is good. It's not icky. It's hard. But it's worth it.

Just like our submission to Him.

It's good, hard, worth it. 

"I will trust you to guide us. I will trust that you won't lead us astray. I will trust that you know what is best for our family. I will trust you, Mark. I love you."

"I will trust you to guide us. I will trust that you won't lead us astray. I will trust that You know what is best for our family. I will trust You, Lord. I love you."


"Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is head of the wife, as also Christ is head of the church; and His is the Savior of the body. Therefore, just as the church is subject to Christ, so let the wife be to their own husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her, that He might sanctify and cleanse her with the washing of water by the word, that He might present her to Himself a glorious church, not having spot or wrinkle or any such thing, but that she should be holy and without blemish. So husbands out to love their own wives as their own bodies; he who loves his wife loves himself." Ephesians 5: 22-28



If you skipped over that verse, because you've read it a hundred times, read it 101 times.

My favorite part is the end. Talking about the husband presenting his family to Christ, and loving his wife like he loves himself.

Now that is what a true love story looks like.

Church.

Church.

In our house, it happens weekly, like clock-work.

Let me give you a brief synopsis of the time between 7:30 a.m. and 9:21 a.m.

Enjoy:

7:30 a.m.- Completely jerked out of whatever dream I was having. Allowing my eyes to adjust. I'm blind, because I have terrible vision, and my contacts aren't in. I can hear banging, and proceed to have an inner dialogue with myself, deciphering each noise my home makes.

Banging: The boys are playing at the train table, in the living room.

Gentle whir: My beloved box fan. Oh how I love thee.

Soft snoring: Husband. Good grief he is beautiful. 

Creaking door: Someone throws open our bedroom door. 

Then I feel the give and take of the mattress, as little bodies start piling onto their Daddy.

"Good morning, boys!"

"Good morning, Momma! Can we eat breakfast? Can you help me button my pants? Can you help me put this train track together?"

A symphony of requests. 

"Good morning, honey."

"Good morning!"

A brief, "I missed you." smile exchange.

Then the wrestling match begins between 3 boys and their Dad. I'm completely rolled over on the other side of the bed, eyes closed, still adjusting to morning. I know it happens daily, but it genuinely shocks my body every single day. Finding the "Joy that comes in the morning" has been my mission for the past 6 months. I used to wake up, and not talk. Mainly, for fear of biting someones head off, before my body had adjusted. Then I felt like maybe it wasn't my right to act like I wasn't excited about the day. All of my children wake up FULL OF LIFE. And my husband wakes up singing! SINGING.

So, I laid it at God's feet.

Lord, let me be joy in the morning. 

And you know what? It has worked. It's a flawed process, because I'm flawed. But submitting my frustration about how hard mornings are to God, has literally given me a fresh perspective.

I do not wake up singing. I am not Mary Poppins. But I wake up, listening to my boys chatter about whatever toys they're playing with, and it warms my heart that they play, fight, and love each other. Iron sharpening iron.  I wake up, and look at the strong man next to me, knowing I don't deserve him, at all. And yet? Every morning, there he is still. I wake up, and feel the life kicking in me. Our FIFTH beautiful blessing waking up, kicking me, reminding me to eat some breakfast.

"Okay, boys, head to the table, for some breakfast!"

"YEAH! WHOO HOO BREAKFAST!!! I'LL RACE YOU, PAPA!"

The door slams shut.

I breathe in deep.

"Good morning, God."

7:54 a.m.- I'm completely dressed. My hair is whatever is leftover from the day before. If it was curled yesterday, the curls are given a good shake, and we go with the "beach look". I think. No makeup is applied, because I utilize the 20 minute drive to church to put makeup on, while Mark drives. I shut the fan off, put shoes on, and head to the kitchen. I'm greeted by a smile, a kiss, and a plate of 2 cinnamon rolls, from my husband. I kick on a cup of coffee from my Keurig, and wait for it to finish brewing. I sit across from my 3 shirtless children, and listen to the chatter that hasn't stopped since 7:30.

"Momma, I really need a shirt!"

"I know sweetheart, we don't want cinnamon roll icing to get on it!"

"Hey Momma! Did you know I don't really care for scrumbled eggs? But Papa says they're good for me!"

"Good for you for staying joyful about your scrumbled eggs, Daylon!" (A small giggle rises in my throat at the word "scrumbled".)

"Hey, umm Momma, I yike mine aigs! Days yummy!"

"You like your eggs, Benji? I'm so glad!"

"Okay boys, no more talking, until we have happy bowls! Let's eat quick, because we need to get a bath before church!"

Then 3 brothers look over my shoulder, and with as much excitement as humanly possible, yell Good morning praises to their little sister, who is nestled in her Daddy's arms, who just woke her up.

"HI BATOOKIE!!!!!"

"GOOD MORNING ELLY JO JO!!!"

"HI MY BATOOTIE!!! I DID MISSDED YOU!!!"

And she looks at them with an adoration I didn't realize children could have for each other, until our family unit was introduced to a little sister.

She's placed in the high chair, given bites, and now the oldest has finished his meal.

"Head to the shower, buddy!"

I head there with him, to get the shower started, and make sure he knows where the soap is, etc.

"Daylon, eat your eggs, buddy. We're setting the timer for 10 minutes. We need to get ready for church!"

The 3rd born has finished his "aigs", and is put in the other bathroom, for a bath.

I head to their room to pick out three outfits, 3 pairs of church shoes, 2 pairs of underwear, and a fresh diaper. I stop by the girls room to pick out little sisters outfit and grab her a fresh diaper.

Mark is washing the one in the bathtub, I'm refilling little sister's sippy cup, and encouraging Daylon to finish his eggs.

Mark brings Asher out, wrapped in a towel, and I take over from here. Diaper, socks, pants, shirt, sweater vest, shoes.

DONE!

(This looks very similar to 2 cowboys trying to rope a baby cow, and get him tied up, at a roping competition.)

"Eat your eggs please!"

Mark comes out of our bathroom, looking a little disheveled.

"Khai can't take showers anymore. He was sitting on the drain, instead of letting the water drain, it filled up the shower, and leaked on the floor!"

And, SWITCH!

"Okay, I'll get him ready, you go check on Daylon."

I scoop up the 5 year old, and help him get dressed. Underwear, socks, pants, shirt, shoes.

DONE!

"Buddy, did you make a mess in the bathroom."

"Yeah, I wanted to make my toys be like boats in the shower."

"Okay, maybe next time we should just take a bath, instead."

"Yeah, probably."

"Okay, go play trains, until it's time to go to church."

Check the time.

"8:15!!! We have to leave in 20 minutes!" I yell across the house.

"Okay! Thanks, babe!"

I go to the kitchen, eggs are still in the bowl.

"Alright buddy. Time's up! Go jump in the shower!"

Shirtless boy #3 runs to my bathroom.

Handsome husband trails after to get the shower started.

I pass the shirtless one's clothes and shoes to him.

"You ready for a bath, Elly?"

"Yeah!"

I pick up my beautiful 1 year old who is covered in orange juice and cinnamon roll goodness.

Take her to the bathroom, do a quick bath, because she doesn't care for baths, wrap her up in a towel, and head to her designated pile of clothes.

Diaper, socks, leggings, dress, sweater.

DONE!

Where's her shoes? Where's her bow? I gotta grab a ponytail! What time is it?

8:27 a.m.

Run out to the car, grab a matching pair of shoes, dig under a pile of toys, wrappers, shoes, to find a cream colored bow!

Run back inside, scoop her up, from the train table, with a train clutched in her pudgy fingers. Scoop the mop of hair on her head into a ponytail, clip the bow on! Success!

"Asher? Where are your shoes?"

"Right here, Momma!"

"Okay, let's put them on, bud! And this time leave them on, please!"

"Otay, Momma, I will!"

"Momma, I don't like these shoes. I want to wear my running shoes."

"Khai Khai, we're wearing church shoes. Please be grateful that you have these shoes to wear, okay?"

"But.."

"Khai, remember, you show God how much you love Him, by obeying Momma and Papa."

"Okay. Can I have a drink of your coffee?"

(As I'm wrangling the baby calf, I mean Asher, to get his shoes put back on.)

"What? Uhh... no thank you buddy! You don't need coffee."

DONE!

"Okay, Asher, go play, and please do not take your shoes off!"

"Look how fancy I am, Momma!"

"Wow, Daylon!!! You look great! Papa did a great job helping you get dressed! Tell him thank you!"

"Thank you Papa!"

"Welcome, bud," Mark says through a mouth full of toothpaste and toothbrush.

"Okay, honey! I'm loading the kids up!" I say.

"Okay, I'm going to get a shower!"

A shower? Do we have time for that?

Hesitantly, "Okay!"

8:43 a.m.

"Hey! Momma wants to get a picture of y'all real quick!"

(Time. Haha.)

Shift the chair and a half away from the wall. Line up kids in birth order.

"But I want to be in da meedle!"

"Benji, you need to stand by Elly! You're her big buddy!"

Elly sits, gets ready to crawl away.

"Wait! Elly! Here! Here's a train! Here! Look look look! Boys, look at the camera!"

I'm crawling on the floor, 32 weeks pregnant, trying to get Elly to hold still.

"Boys look at the camera! Elly! Sit! Sit still! Boys! Look!"

Snap, snap snappity snap.

(Praise God for Iphones, and the ability to take multiple shots.)

"Okay, everybody load up in the car!"

I scoop up Elly, and the boys storm out the door. Someones finger gets squished in the door. Crying, consoling, and rushing to the car.

I grab my water bottle, fill it up, fill up Elly's sippy cup, and head to the door. I cross paths with a freshly showered man. Who smells fantastic.

"Ready, babe?"

"Yep!" I say, exasperated.

"Here, let me take Elly."

I grab the door, slam it shut, and head to the car.

"Guys get buckled!"

"Do you know where my blue train is?"

"No buddy, I don't."

"Asher, where's your shoe?"

"Right here, Momma!"

"Okay, let's put it on!"

The whir of my automatic Momma Rocket door shutting, as I hop into the front passenger seat.

We back out, head down the road, get on the highway, and head to church.

Church starts at 9:00 a.m.

It's 8:59.

I take a deep breath to calm my Type A personality anxiety about being late to church.

It's okay. It's okay. We're safe. We're clothed. We're headed there. 

Meanwhile, my very chill husband grabs my hand, intertwines his fingers into mine, and kisses the back of my hand.

9:15 a.m.

We get to church. My make up is done. Asher's shoes and socks are off.

Let's do this.

Shoes and socks are put on, again, and we have the boys hold hands, and walk to their class.

I settle comfortably next to my best friend. I take another big deep breath.

We made it.

                                        ___________________________________________



This dialogue is every. single. Sunday.

Some Sundays, we're more prepared, others we're less prepared.

I've heard it been said "I don't want to go to church. They're all judgmental there."

Take it from this growing family. We won't judge you. Look at the morning we have, before church! Good grief, people would just laugh themselves into hysterics if they were a fly on our wall! We don't go to church because we need to say "Look! Look how awesome we are!" Are you kidding me? Most Sundays, Dry Shampoo is my best friend, because I do not look anywhere near awesome without it! And I sure don't have time to shower! I've heard others say "It's not worth all the work." And you know what? Sometimes I battle that, in my heart! Why do we have to feel like a hamster running in a wheel, the 2 hours leading up to church? Can we just stay home, in our pjs, and watch movies? We could. And some days, we have a more relaxed Sunday. But I always miss the music. Not the music leader. The sound of 200 people singing Amazing Grace together. I miss the pastor, challenging me, calling a warrior out of this rebel heart.

"They're all fake."

"If I walked into a church, I'd immediately catch on fire."

"I hate how happy everyone is."

All of these are points that I've heard people try and make. You want to hear my heart?

I'm so broken, it's not even funny. I may seem like I have it all together. My "all together" is only by the grace of God. 

If you knew my sins, my past, my selfishness, my pride, my anger, you wouldn't feel so dirty. 

I am only walking into church with a smile, because I get to learn more about the Father that created me. 

I've also heard it been said "Expectations ruin relationships."

If you expect people to judge you, you'll ruin any potential relationship with those people.

Church is a sticky subject.

Because adults want to adult.

"I'm an adult. I don't have to go to church."

Yeah, that sounds real mature. 

I used to do that. Cross my arms, pout my lip, turn my nose up.

But I need church.

I need to know that there are others struggling. I need to hear the guest pastors testimony about battling pornography for years. My eyes burn with hot tears when I look over at his wife, as she looks at him, with a love and adoration that only a woman who has walked through hell, and back, can. I need to feel my husband's hand, on the small of my back, as my hands are lifted up, eyes closed, singing Amazing Grace. I need to know that this Church, this Bride, this calling that we have all heard is together.

Step outside the doors. The world offers division. Inside? Just a bunch of divided, selfish people gathering to say "We believe."

We believe in God, the Father. We believe in Jesus Christ. We believe in the Holy Spirit, and that He's given us new life. We believe.


I'm broken. At times, I'm fake. I struggle with anger, pride, and selfishness. I'm not a good wife, at all times. I'm not a good Mom, at times.

I'm a mess.

And He still says, "I want you."

Can you imagine if we treated our marriage, like our relationship to church? Don't we want to go on dates every week? Feel a smile from our spouse?

That's what that building represents. Our commitment to Him.

I will go worship you, with other sinners, BECAUSE we are all broken. I will go smile at them, BECAUSE I'm grateful that He loves me, and all my mess.

Grace.

That's the sweet aroma of grace. 

So, that picture at the top of this post? You know, the one of all 4 kids looking absolutely adorable?

Now, you know the rest of the story.

And yes, I'll do it a million more times, in my lifetime.

I'm so grateful for those children, and that man, and His grace. 





                                            ___________________________________________

Team Dojo BLOOPERS:

                 

(This is my knee. I'm assuming from when I was crawling all over the floor.)

See? Even in our world, there's beauty in the mess.