Mani/Pedi My Way to Heaven

I've just decided that the perfect window into my soul, or my insanity, is my nail polish, or lack there of. Actually lack there of would be good, right now, my nails are a tattered mess of peeling lacquer. I seriously look as if my nails have been bleeding, the red nail polish is peeling and shredded, and remnants of my decals look like squished bugs permanently fossilized in a blood red mess.

They were pretty a week ago.

I'm doing this new thing with Madi, every week we're doing our nails together. Yup, I wanna be "that mom". I want her to feel pretty, I want her to know how to sit still while they dry and I want people to comment on how cute her little nails are, which they do regularly. *pat self on back*.

On the first day we do our nails, we feel beautiful, David looks at our nails and comments on how great they look, we dress better, we do our hair, we feel and look pretty. But as the days go on, and the dishes need to be washed, diapers need to be changed, and well for Madi, lizards need to be caught and mud pies need to be made, our polish starts wearing off, our beautifully filed nails start to snag, and pretty soon they just look, well horrible. I really should just take the polish off, but I suppose in a way I leave it there for a day or two to learn something about myself?

Okay maybe I'm just lazy.

I guess this is the point; it's nice to have our nails all pretty and done up, it feels great and elegant, but well, that's just not us. We do our nails knowing perfectly well that in a day they will be scraped, or bitten off, they will be scrubbed after a diaper explosion. We could never make it without doing these things, we would go insane. We need the activities that ruin our polish, for survival, for fun. And maybe that's why I leave the scraped nasty polish on for a few days too long. It's a record, a history. When I feel lazy, or I feel as though I haven't gotten anything accomplished being a stay at home mom- I can look at my nails and think "wow I've done a lot of stuff to mess up my nails!" and that feels good. You have to be working (or playing) pretty hard to accomplish our level of nail ugliness, and that is something for me to be proud of. I never want Madi to be one of "those girls"... "I can't do that! I'll mess up my manicure!" I want her to look at her torn up hands and think, "I've been busy!"

At the beginning of the post I wrote that my nails could be a representation of my soul, and well that's just it: when my soul feels like crap, worn out, scraped up, nasty, with fossilized bugs on it, I can count on God to let me feel it for as long as I need to, in order to grow, then He'll wipe it clean and put on a fresh coat...which I'll eventually screw up again, and He'll eventually fix up again. I know it sounds silly, elementary, and probably a little apathetic, but seriously God is that parent. The one who wants us to learn, to mess up, to have reality discipline. He's there watching, allowing us free will even though He knows we'll get hurt, and learn (hopefully), and every time we do it brings us closer to His understanding.

I know, "nail polish and God" how did she get there??? Sometimes the voices in my head get confused, what can I say?!

But seriously, I pray that I'll be more inclined to show people my tattered nails, be it, my actual manicure, my tired soul or my failures, please Lord help me to never allow my appearance to get in the way of your work.

Do you love me enough?

This past weekend I felt like I did at least of year’s worth of growing up. It was exhausting, humbling and an emotional roller coaster ride.

My Grandfather died, while I was in the room, talking to him. Right in front of my eyes he let go, I felt his soul leave; goose bumps covered my flesh, tears, panic and somewhere deep inside relief came over me.

I don’t do death, I haven’t for over 12 years, and sure death has come and been a part of my life, like everyone’s I suppose. But I have avoided it at all costs, due to my fear and an overwhelming need to protect myself.

On Thursday I got the call, Grandpa was sick, I told my mother that no, I wouldn’t be going to say goodbye. But sometime later that night I could hear my Grandfather’s voice asking, “Do you love me enough to be uncomfortable? Do you love me enough to let me go?” I course do, and so I drove, to what would be the most emotionally scary place in my life, to see my hero take his last breath, to tell my hero what he has meant to me, at first I didn’t think I was doing this for me, I told myself I was doing it for him, but now I understand that he was doing this for me. Him letting go in front of me was his last lesson for me: I was strong enough to get through it.

I’m still struggling with the visions of things I can’t un-see. I still have questions, but now I have a sense of peace, I know where my Grandpa is, and I know that death, while terrifying- is part of life, it is another birth into perhaps the greatest part of life.

I am honored that my Grandfather let go of his last grasp in this world while I was present, he was always so in control, a real patriarch. He would never want anyone to be uncomfortable in his presence, unless it was of course for their own good. And so I am humbled.

This is more of a diary entry than a blog, I suppose, somehow just writing these jumbled thoughts and emotions feels better than keeping them in my exhausted brain.

At this point I could be asking God why, but after that distinct moment I have my why. I know what myself and every other person in the room confirmed to me, he wasn’t gone; there was a very real presence of his soul, his being, with us. I guess a lot of people may think I’m crazy, or just trying to make myself feel better, but my faith has only grown stronger since this has happened. If I’m wrong and there is no God, then nothing will happen when I leave this earth, if I’m right then I know I will be in his presence and my grandfather’s, that’s an insurance policy I can’t refuse.

Grandpa, I’m so thankful for all of the lessons you taught me, most of all I’m so thankful for every single breath we shared.

“Life should not be measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”