The Stories I Write

Sitting across the cluttered kitchen table from my oldest daughter, 5-year-old Gemma, as she paints and hums “Go Tell It on a Mountain,” I am struck at the sheer magic of her. Of the magic that all children bring into the lives of their parents and those around them. And also the absolute agony they can bring by not being there... yet. Or ever. I’m at once excited and nervous to write this post.  My first post,  My Sunday Worst , was about being truly vulnerable. So here I am again, being inspired to share an old part of my story that is ugly. A part that I may mention to others casually on occasion, as though it was not perhaps the very hardest season in my life so far. But that’s what we do, right? When trying to mask our former sorrows? Down-play so as not to make others uncomfortable, or so we don’t have to “get into that,” right then. Because it’s messy, or embarrassing, or just too personal. But I know, as I sit here, that there are people all around me that need t...

“Gemma’s mom, can you open this?”  I smile and accept the proffered lunchable. I peel back  the film and return it to the gap-tooth smiling girl across the table from me. She immediately starts making tiny cracker sandwiches as the other kids start to fill in the benches around us. Today was the second time I have had lunch with my daughter, Gemma, this year. She is in kindergarten at a nearby elementary and, thank God, is happy and thriving there. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t have anxieties at the beginning of the year, like every other parent who has sent their child to school, especially public school, for the first time. And many of my fears centered around the cafeteria. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Gemma, just over 3 feet tall and tiny, struggling to carry this enormous thick, molded plastic cafeteria tray like the ones we had when we were kids (which, for the record, they don’t use anymore). Not knowing where to go or how to pay for her f...

So I’m sitting in my car in front of the church. The baby is asleep in the back, I’ve already dropped the 2-year-old at the nursery with a whispered “I love you” and an apologetic kiss on the cheek, and the five-year-old is in Sunday school. I have retreated back to the sanctuary of my minivan (do I see the irony here? Absolutely.) to catch my breath and prepare myself to head back into church. And I’m wearing a T-shirt, leggings, and flats. My hair is a frizzy mess, half of it pulled back with a too-tiny clip which was all I could find in the craziness of the morning.  Hi, I’m Jackie. The pastor’s wife. But wait, you say. Shouldn’t you be dressed nicer than anybody in the building? You ARE the First Lady of the church... where is your Sunday best? My “Sunday best” is laying in a heap on the bed, damp with sweat from wrestling said 2-year-old on the living room rug for 10 minutes to get him dressed. I was hit, kicked, nearly bitten, and almost completely lost my te...