Spoiler Alert: 2015 Will Suck Too

So every year, around this time, the complaints start rolling in.

"2014 was the worst year ever, 2015 please be good to me." Ew. Please stop.

I'm not even sure how a year is capable of being good to someone, because last I checked it was the measurement of time in which the Earth makes a rotation around the sun, but whatever, we get your point.

I'm sorry, but the year didn't suck, your view sucks.

I've had quite a few conversations about this topic as we embark on this new year, and every time, I walk away thinking, I haven't had the best year ever, but I'm not sad about it. Should I be sad? Should I get on the 'blame a 365 day rotation around the sun' bandwagon? Why don't I feel like I'm ready to say goodbye to this 'dreadful' year and hello to a new rotation around that glowing sphere, which will surely bring me better luck?

Because I like who I am more at the end of this year than at the beginning.

Throughout the 12 months of learning to raise kids without the support of a spouse, financial difficulties, parting ways with friends, breakups, grieving a son as well as a life I had envisioned, valued possessions stolen, physical ailments, countless tears, holidays spent alone, not having a home, and on and on...

I learned so much. I overcame. I can walk out of December 31st and into January 1st feeling excited, not because I have this delusional idea that in this 29th year of my life the stars will align and my dreams for owning a home, and being financially stable, publishing a book, working in the missions field, a husband, traveling with my children, bringing a baby boy into my life, and seeing Taylor Swift in concert (yes, you read that right, dreams aren't always mature, people) are going to fall into my lap.


I'm excited because I'm closer to achieving my dreams. I'm closer because I actually have a better grasp on how to get to said dreams. (No, not Tinder). I'm excited because I know what I do and don't want. I'm excited because God knows what I need. I'm excited because the more I have walked through these unexpected happenings in life, what I want is more in line with what God has for me. (God loves Taylor Swift too, I just know it.) I'm happy because this year hasn't been bad, although bad things have happened. I'm hopeful that I'll do better next year. I'll still faceplant once in awhile (hopefully not literally), but my rebound time is like a nanosecond compared to when I'd spend months replaying the "what ifs".


I take risks, and I have fun, and I work hard, and I 'mom' like me instead of what all the books tell me to do, and I know how to be terrible at relationships which hopefully means I know how to not be terrible. I know what to steer clear of when renting a home, and that arguing over matching socks is silly, and why paying off hospital bills is important.

And at the end of 2015, I'll know more than I do today.

Stop blaming the Earth's orbit around the sun for your inability to accept negativity with a positive attitude. 2015 won't be any better if you don't learn, change, trust, forgive, get back up, and then say thank you. It just won't.

Let it go & shake it off.

Like I could resist ending this end of 2014 post with lines from the two most beloved songs. Notta chance.



I love you Mama's Mans. Happy New Year!

#nofilter

Shiny gold paper. Perfectly tied bows. Stack all of the presents just right. Take a picture. Not perfect enough, edit. Ok, just the right amount of glow. Ready to post, need a catchy caption...something that says I'm humble but look how much I love my kids. Something that says Jesus really is more important to us than the gifts, but we just had thousands of dollars laying around to spend, so why not on them?

Matching outfits. Christmas dinner. Visit family. Click. Snap. Edit. Come up with caption. Post. Look at us. The perfect family. I proved you wrong. My life has meaning. My life is good. 

That was me. That was my Christmas. Fast forward. 

Christmas Eve dinner as a broken family of five. One of our chairs was a hamper turned over so we could all sit down. Reindeer food out and Santa tracked. Kids tucked in bed. Barely wrapped second hand gifts thrown under the tree. Staying up late with my ex husband. He hands me a gift. No, I want to wait. Just open it, he sighs. Butterflies, a shiny silver candle holder with butterflies engraved holding a blue candle inside. Hold back the tears. It's perfect. Phone call from someone who needed a friend. Finally get back to the house to find three wide eyed children awake at 4:15 am. Who says what time we have to open gifts? Let's do it. No pictures. No videos. Just us. Just myself and my ex husband and our three kids at 4:30 am enjoying the moment. Back to a half asleep state while I listen to them play. So they leave. Their family awaits for more Christmas to be had and I sit in a robe and watch The Price Is Right. And here I am. 

Alone. On Christmas. No family portraits or fancy dinner. Just the prospect of going on a run, or to the cemetery, or driving around or doing nothing at all. 

And I'm happy. A little lonely, a little feeling out of place, a little reminiscent of the Christmases where I felt I had it together. But it's just a season. Seasons change. People change. God does not. 

Throughout this great transformation of my life, He has continued to give me just enough. I never dreamed I'd be happy with a candle holder, presents opened at a ridiculous hour, in my ex husband's home, with no proof to be edited and posted, and the still, quiet moments for my heart to be able to recognize the abundance of the goodness in this season. 

Another season awaits. Winter can only last so long before once again my world transforms. May I be just as grateful for the blooms in the spring. May my heart still be able to recognize that the facade of perfection isn't as beautiful as the reality of what is deemed unconventional. 

Merry Christmas, Isaiah. Your life has brightened my winter. 

I Can't Go Back

Having good manners sometimes just means extending grace to those with bad manners.

That used to be an impossible feat for me to accomplish. If you know me, really know me, you'd probably till this day label me, in the nicest way possible, a feisty chick when it comes to rude behavior.

I would let you know just how I felt about the way you hastily threw my glass objects in the plastic bags, the tomatoes on my salad that I asked you to take off because "it's your job, not mine!" *eye roll*, and how your lack of customer service was going to get you fired. And sometimes I even got you fired.

Yuck.

Who was that girl? The one that met misery with misery. Who thought the world owed her something. Who felt entitled to everyone making sure she was happy. Why?

It hit me shortly after Isaiah died. I would go out in public and be at the mercy of other people's miserable attitudes. I was trying my best to hold it together and get through a store without hearing a baby cry or spotting something that reminded me of what I was missing, and no one noticed.

Everyone was so entangled in their own messy life, no one saw me drowning.

I needed patience. I needed compassion. I needed to remember what I even needed because the thoughts of what I was missing were taking me down.

But I was met with short glances, empty "how are yous" and cold silence.

I remember wanting to return something of Isaiah's, only to be met with exasperation and the "can't you do anything right?" look, when I explained I didn't have the receipt. I wanted to scream "MY BABY JUST DIED! HOW CAN YOU TREAT ME LIKE THIS?!"

But I kept quiet, I swallowed back the lump in my throat and I blinked away tears and I knew right then and there that I would never be the same woman.

I can't undo what his precious life & sudden death have allowed me to see so clearly. I can't unlearn how to meet adversity with love. I can't forget my darkest days of wishing someone extended grace. I can't go back to rushing through my life while I inadvertently shut out those desperate for a simple act of kindness.

Be the good you wish to see in the world. The people who seem the least deserving of your love are the ones who need it most. Cliché, maybe. Life changing? You bet.

Happiest Holiday season.

Thanks Mama's mans.

Not My Funeral

I have a problem with conforming. Listening to the advice of others, that part is easy. I nod and tell myself they're probably right...but then, I don't take it. That has earned me the title "thick-headed, stubborn, naive, ignorant" and probably other expletives at one point or another in my life. But I just can't. I have to know how it all plays out. I don't like "what ifs", I think either "I knows" or "you were rights" are more my style. 

I have been wanting to go back to the funeral home for a long time now. Specifically, THE room. The one where my tears were so plentiful, they eroded any hope for a normal future. Where I buried my soaked face in his casket and breathed in the smell of embalming fluid instead of four week old baby. Where his rubber like hand was held so tightly that I shuddered at the sight when I let go. It looked nothing like the hand that would flail past my face while he ate, somehow always finding my hair and grabbing hold. Where I read him scriptures and repeated "this is not goodbye. It's not." But that dimly lit room with dark red draperies and brown wood paneling taunted me. His funeral was over, but this was surely mine. I would never leave this cold, dark, uncertain space. If it wasn't for my then husband telling me it was time to leave, I might still be sitting there today. I would have waited an eternity because as long as his body was there, I reasoned there was hope. 

So despite the attempts of loving friends and family who told me I should never return when I would casually mention the idea of going back, I knew I would do it eventually. I couldn't ignore the curiosity within me. "Maybe it would help? Maybe I will feel him close to me. I'll never know unless I go." 

It was an insignificant Wednesday. I parked my car across the street from the funeral home, and I looked out the window, wondering how many more lives were being held captive in that place. I had only meant to walk into the sub shop across the street, but I looked at my passenger seat and saw his bag of things, all of the things the funeral home had given me. Every final memory was sitting next to me, and I knew it was time. I felt a little foolish, and wondered if I would even be allowed inside. From the outside I boldly walked across the street, on a mission to put my lingering curiosity to rest. But on the inside, I started to listen to those words of warning I'd been given. "What if I don't come out? What if walking into that room undoes two and a half years of hesitantly yet consistently putting one foot in front of the other. Even with nowhere to go, I knew I had to keep moving. What if I'm stuck?" 

"But what if I run?" 

I held my breath and opened the door, knowing the smell, that distinct smell of hopelessness and tragedy and heartache was about to punch me in the face. 

I scanned the entryway expecting to come undone as a flood of memories that room held came rushing back...but they didn't show up. It had changed.  

(Before I continue, if you don't know, you should know that Isaiah's "colors" worn to his funeral were brown and blue, which is an entirely different story in itself, as well as a blue butterfly holding so much significance in his short life, in the butterfly release at his funeral & in the years that have followed.) 

The place was like a dream. Brown and blue everywhere. I felt a bit like Belle on Beauty and the Beast, tiptoeing through silent halls, curious and filled with enchantment. I saw butterflies. Blue butterflies everywhere I looked. Sculptures and paintings, tissue boxes, and slideshows. My eyes started to fill with "God, why did I ever doubt you" tears when I saw a man walking towards me. The last time I saw his face I must have looked much different, as he didn't recognize me. "Glenn, it's me! It's Savannah! You know, um, you took care of Isaiah for me. I'm his mom." 

He happily obliged my requests to sit in that room, and so I nervously carried my son, a bag of his final memories, and a thankful heart towards that door. 

I laid his things out carefully on the floor and I sat down Indian style looking around, bracing myself for the flashback of pain. But instead I felt peace. 

I spoke to Isaiah like he was sitting on my lap. I whispered and I cried and I smiled and I laughed inside at the blatant metaphor. 

It's been two and a half years and everything has changed. That room didn't keep me there. It set me free.