Going For It

I’m in a season of life where margin is pretty thin. You know margin–that extra space that lined the perimeter of your old high school papers. The boundary that your thoughts were supposed to stay inside so your words didn’t go falling off the page.

The margin is intended to give some padding. Whether its your dissertation or your profit column, you want what it offers–space, wiggle room, where you can breathe, or reduce the tension. Margin is a necessary evil — it presents like you have some more room to fill, when the best use of margin is to leave it empty — no modifications, no tweaking to give yourself more room to write or spend.

Leave the margin alone. It’s there for a reason.

Let me explain.

Two days ago I left the house after my husband had left to take the kids to school and clearly someone had spilled an entire bowl(?) cup (?) jar (?) of salsa in a heaping clump on the ground. To say it looked as delightful as it does on a chip heading toward my mouth as it did spilled on the ground in a way in which it could also double as an unexpected throw up would be a lie. It looked awful and I rolled my eyes and wished it away, but had to go to work. I returned home that day to the pile of throw up, I mean salsa, and wondered if the neighbor minded seeing this heap of goodness in his comings and goings. But, again, I did nothing about it. I had to make dinner. Start the arctic pet project for my six year old and quiz my twin sons for their history test while running loads of laundry. I mean, after all, it was Monday. Who has time to clean up salsa vomit?

Another example. Yesterday morning, as I was pulling out to take the kids to school, I could tell I was running over something. Confirming it wasn’t any of my kids (all accounted for in their seats), I was forced to jump out, look around the car, the back tires, underneath it – all clear.

Got back in, started to back up and couldn’t.

My brain jumped to my husband being out of town. The car was stalling. I was going to have to have my car towed to my kids’ school to drop them off before taking it in for repairs.

I jumped back out. Nothing. Nowhere.

Tried again.

Stuck on something.

Turned out it was a soccerball smooshed under the front right tire. Maddened for my 3 minute inconvenience, we unlodged the culprit.

We were late to school, I needed to keep moving to get to work. The salsa vomit was still there and I just sighed loudly as we made our way out of the driveway.

No margin, means less room to adapt. To deal.

No margin means the salsa vomit remains. When pulling a hose out to wash it off seems like it might be the straw that breaks the camels back, you may ask how your margins are looking.

Where are you pushing out your margins?

Where can you tighten them back up?

For my entire childhood, I used to watch my mom with awe and wonder when she would peel her Florida naval orange with a butcher knife. With precision and confidence, she maintained a single flow of the peel curling around itself as she unveiled the orange’s insides. It was a work of art to watch. She could do it while chatting, doing a crossword puzzle, all at the kitchen table. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that you can also peel an orange with your fingers. It was the butcher knife that made it the most interesting. She never cut herself nor bled as far as I know.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that there are much less aggressive tools to use to peel an orange. Where if you slip, you won’t accidentally slice yourself. Or say, cut off a finger. And while neither option is right or wrong, I think the butcher knife on the orange peel is where my intense approach to life was birthed.

Unfortunately, I see my margins as an orange peel and I attack that free space with a butcher knife. I have the big boulders of my commitments in place (my husband, each child, my job, my home, my sanity) and then the margin is there to help me be my best at each one of those commitments. It’s when I fill the margin in with extra (as amazing as it may be) or when my margin is forced to be filled with unexpected things (sickness, other people’s health, extra needs) then my ability to adapt - say, spray off the salsa vomit - can start to feel impossible.

The margins are designed for our benefit. Our papers looked prettier, our bank accounts feel more secure, our hearts are more open to the Lord’s leading, when we don’t drown our margins with more.

How do you approach your margins?

Butcher knife, or no?

Way Past Bed Time for All Of Us (and I'm Writing Anyways)

I’ve always assumed that the person reading my blog was a lot like me. Someone looking for some insight somewhere out in the world, hoping that she (or he) wasn’t the only one feeling the way she did.

C.S. Lewis said it best when he said, and I paraphrase everything due to only having a minute before I’m interrupted by my six-year-old, who, on cue, just arrived. He should be in bed but he came begging for permission to go downstairs to get water.

Sure, no problem. 9:57pm is the perfect time to hydate.

Back to C.S. (also, if you aren’t a well-versed reader (like myself), than you probably only know him as C.S. Perhaps you didn’t even know that C.S. was a man. But, in the end, you’ll know you’ve arrived when your first and second initials are how people know you.), he said you know you have found your people when someone says something and you say, “me, too.”

“Me, too” is such an interesting phrase as even in that moment of connectedness, your “me, too” can be so exactly similar and yet, at the same exact time, so different than your friend’s “me, too.”

The Me, Too movement was powerful in my opinion. While Clive Staples probably didn’t think his memorable comment would transfer to a worldwide response to women being sexually abused, it served a powerful purpose. Women around the world found comfort as sad it was in knowing that other women (countless? women) had experienced some version of male-induced pressure that I personally figured was par for the course. Men are dominant. Women have to deal. That was kinda how I figured life was in my early years. But I also embraced the mentality that no man would ever control me. Until I married my husband, who proved that there are a few men who are good.

I digress.

You, reader, I’ve always figured was someone like me. Doing their best. Worried about their weight. Hoping to find a career that earned money while not having to compromise your values. I figured that you were exhausted by parenthood and broke from grocery bills. I figured you started your younger adulthood with some gusto, but now you snooze your alarm every eight minutes because you ain’t ready to get up.

But the older I get, the more I realize your “me, too” is simply a toss of a rope to a person who feels she’s floating out to sea. It’s not a one-to-one direct comparison where your life stage, age, number of children, and career perfectly align.

No. Your “me, too” is simply that whatever your weight is that bears down on you is heavy enough that you’re looking for someone who is willing to admit that this beautiful life - full of so many blessings and tiny red boats of waffle fries covered in chik-fil-a sauce - is just as equally difficult. And up until this point, the highs have outweighed the lows, but as we get older, this isn’t always true.

The highs are just as high, but the lows get tougher. Our parents get older, their problems get heavier as they inch closer to their finish line, all the while realizing that your finish line is starting to show up in the not so distant fog of the future.

This isn’t supposed to depress us, though. As my friend whose sole purpose is to encourage the women around her, or my doctor friend who fixes kids lungs, or my running friend who runs the power lines with her dog, or my older friend who tucks his dying wife into bed each night — I realize, that life is for the living — and we can’t be filled with wet sand. Dead weight has held too many of us back. We have to keep moving, every morning; take our fresh breath. Every goal scored, soccer game finished, History test failed, first taste of avocado, first family trip to Disney World, a sign that our kids are in the thick of their lives — and, as parents, as tired as we are, get to be there for it.

My six year old just showed up again to ask me if we had a stapler - which is my cue that it’s time to go.

But, for now, I’m clinging to God’s Word tonight. That every gift is from above, and with that, I think He means every breath. A gift.

Don't Pull The Plug: Twitch's Life, Your Life

**I shared this on Facebook on December 23, 2022.

I’m sure I’m not the only one slightly obsessed with the unexpected suicide of tWitch.

While I wasn’t a following fan, I always admired his bright smile and fun vibes as he could pull off any dance move w style.

He had talent, millions of dollars, millions of followers, a beautiful dancing smiling doting wife, gorgeous healthy children.

He had all the things we probably most all would call a huge success this side of heaven.

But he pulled the trigger.

He’s gone now.

No longer.

And just days after his anniversary and days before Christmas. His kids won’t have their dad anymore. A widow wraps presents signed, mom.

I don’t know Twitch. I don’t have a clue what led him to walk away from his life, his family, but most importantly from himself.

He pulled the trigger on himself.

——————————————-

There’s two days until Christmas.

I along with others are looking under the tree, counting the presents for fairness, trying to remember the out of town family and nearby neighbors. We’re baking, shopping, wrapping, toasting, smiling, screaming, yelling at the kids that if they don’t seem appreciative they could lose a gift here and there.

We keep trying to find meaning, make meaning of a holiday that has all but trampled the reason for it. Our (my) obsession with to-do lists and gifts, has all but removed Christ from Christmas, muting the original intent of the holiday — the celebrating and adoration for the newborn King.

———————————————

Like a yard full of deflated Christmas inflatables, removed is the air from our lungs to say the true meaning of Christmas is to celebrate the newborn King.

Like a yard full of deflated Christmas inflatables, I wonder if Twitch’s outer joy could only last so long before he pulled his own plug.

I don’t begin to act like I know what caused him to end his life — but I hope for those who are looking for meaning and not finding it can remember one very important truth:

You were created for a purpose.

by a very creative God.

If you are struggling to find meaning

Go spend time with someone who loves you.

If you don’t think anyone loves you

May I ask that you hold on?

Your story is not over just yet.

See, in two days we are going to celebrate the birth of a baby who was also born a King. If you want to read more about it — read Luke. He came to bring justice and peace. His story is not over just yet.

If you’re wondering why there’s no meaning this Christmas for you — or why the to-do lists keep growing even though the days keep shortening — try something fun.

Throw away the lists

And give away the gifts

And guess what?

Christ was still born

… and you will all be ok.

————————————————

May the peace of Christ cover your homes this Christmas.

May the peace of Christ be ever present to Twitch’s family.

If you feel like your life lacks meaning, tell someone.

Don’t go it alone. We need you.

—————————

Merry Christmas.

Xo

My 2023 Plan: Don't Survive This Year.

Anyone know what day it is? Me either. I heard yesterday was the first day of 2023. I was reminded by a friend’s text that she sent to me and another, “Walk today?”

And I more or less said, “No.”

Further explaining it was because I had just eaten a mountain of french toast casserole and was snuggling with my tween.

“But it’s tradition.”

Shoot. She was right. It was New Years Day and for the last few years we had taken our walk to hash out the holiday experience and offer up some form of hopes and dreams for 2023.

All that to say, like me, perhaps you missed the first day of the new year, shrugged your shoulders to starting new resolutions and vowed to simply survive another year.

Before you do, I had a novel idea:

WHAT IF WE DIDN’T JUST SURVIVE THIS YEAR.

The theme of “surviving not thriving” has been so ingrained into our culture that it’s become very good for our weary souls to not have hopes and dreams for the days before us. But it’s made sense. We were whacked in the face with a pandemic that required our fullest attention, and God knows, between face masks, fears and social distancing, the only thing we had left to offer was survival.

And survive, we did.

But what we’re still holding on to a dead weight of the years behind us as a crutch to not embrace the here and now.

LOOKING BACKWARDS TO CREATE A BETTER FORWARD

I’m 41 years old. How old are you? Do you describe yourself as a processor? Avoider? People pleaser? Instigator? Do you pride yourself in how well you walk through life? Do you wish you could just relax in social settings? Do you wonder how cheese is made?

However you answered any of those above questions, my next one may take a little longer for you to answer.

How long have you been this way?

We live in a world of personality tests and enneagram assessments that help you consider who you are and why you are that way.

But, sometimes I wonder if you could just take a few moments to plot your life on a line graph (yes, in the nerdiest sense ever), would you find that your plot line has remained very consistent since, say, you were eight years old?

View fullsize

this is not a line graph of someone’s actual life. just a visual, mmmkay?

Anyone else have memories of tearing through a forgotten closet in the basement just in case your lost homework had somehow made it in there?

Anxiety, for instance, has been on my plot line for as long as I remember.

No specific trigger, just ever-present. When I finally put a name to it — I was 23 years old. I was relieved to hear what that gnawing burst of fireworks that exploded them simmered in my gut was called.
But, that’s just me.

What’s your thing? Any memories from your teenage years that you can see still present in your adult years? I’m not trying to dig up old bones for you, just curious if you’re willing to be aware or open to the idea that some of the tough parts about you have been there for quite some time.

I do think that the point of looking backward is for the sake of a better forward. (Like I don’t WANT to look back to fourth grade when my friends called me from a sleepover that I wasn’t invited to, but it sadly helps me identify the trigger in my adult years when I know everyone’s getting together without me. Well, maybe not everyone. My husband’s home, too.)

The main person I hang with right here.

But, for you, looking back might mean that your OCD (maybe??) has made you always walk out the same door that you walked in — even if there’s a closer exit. Or made you brag to anyone who will listen about your accomplishments, financial status, or high level of education because you were raised in a home without a lot of money. Maybe you scan rooms and relationships like a hawk for the neediest person so you can help them — believing that your worth is only found in helping others.

I’m just saying — is there anything on your line graph that’s been consistent for years?

If so, great. If not, great.

NEW GOAL FOR 2023: DON’T SURVIVE

I only mention looking in the backseat of your life as a starting point for your 2023. It’s very easy to chalk life up to “survival mode” and set it on coast. It’s easy to stay busy, pack our calendars full of activities and events, because we don’t want to feel the sting of what life feels like with an empty schedule.

Maybe it's my easy morning read of Codependent No More talking, but what if you released the control of the new year -- the forcing of events and new activities into your schedule -- and released it all into the wild.

And made some space for the unknown.

For the world (or, for those of us who believe, God) to pursue you, meeting you right where you are -- doing whatever is best for you, your family, your sanity, your soul.

And maybe it's the Dude Perfect (that's been on repeat in my house for the last 967 hours) talking, but what if you attempted a new trick shot in 2023.

Went for something you never have.

Made space for nothing to happen.

Opened your eyes to your here and now (not your tomorrow or future).

Genuinely pursued the people in your life with grace, love, and hope. The few people around your table. The ones a phone call away.

The funny thing about Dude Perfect is that for every trick shot they make-- it would appear they miss just as many.

I don't know.

Maybe life isn't as long as we think it's going to be.

Maybe there's more to this year than losing weight or keeping up with the joneses.

Maybe, just maybe, this year, we opt not to survive.

But to make room to thrive.

Who knows. Might be better than we imagine.

——————————-
Disclaimers:

FOR ALL Y’ALL IN THE BACK WITH THE SMALL KIDS:
DO WHAT YOU GOT TO DO. You don’t have time to process just yet. Just get those diapers changed and meals cut up real small.

FOR EVERYONE ELSE:
Maybe this year, don’t try to survive.
Maybe this year, go for the ultimate trick shot — live life with everything you’ve got.

An Attention-Seeking Headline Goes Here

I went on an online search recently for the moms who are posting on a regular basis with bags in their eyes — from a messy dining room — from a home with a modest floor plan and a train running through the backyard.

Instead, I found mom blogs and bloggers who knew they were pretty enough to show their face and their backdrop was tidied enough that they wouldn’t feel judged (or be judged).

And then I had my A-HA moment. The one that Oprah coined as a phrase years ago to be used when one realizes something that was right in front of their face. It’s taken me a few years to realize the blogger I’m looking for is me and the content that I’m seeking to find is actually the content in my head.

So, I’m holding back no more. Shoot, I’m 41 years old nearly half dead. If I keep putting off writing what I want or asking the questions that I have, I will find myself looking back on seasons of regrets instead of flourishings. So, today I am going to start asking the questions to other moms that I always assume are just my issues. Once this series is over — I will take my findings to a counselor and we will tally up if i’m a) HUMAN or b) need more meds.

OK - QUESTION ONE. This one is a newer question. One that in my entire life (41 years) of living or in my entire life of raising children (11 years) I have never had to ask. But for the past 9 days, I often wondered but feel funny asking: how many moms out there have hermit crabs loose in their basements today?

Now, for those who have had hermit crabs loose in their basements — I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking — Oh Karen! You need to blah blah blah. You need to set a trap, get a dog, burn your house down, cry. But, honestly, this question is more for the moms who RIGHT NOW AS WE SPEAK have a 4-legged creature with a decorated shell from “down the shore” traipsing through the basement like it owns the place. And to that mom, and that mom only, I was also wondering — have you had trouble understanding how in the world it got out? I mean sure, the lid was cracked BUT the cap of food we had in there also fell out — crab food everywhere — but everything else was in tact inside the cage.

OK, FINE. We found the hermit crab alive! In the bottom of my daughter’s rain boot. But would go on to die a few days later apparently from inhaling a plant-based cleaning spray we used to clean near the cage. Who knows.

TO BE CONTINUED.

The Quiet Voices Don't Get Headlines

As I sit here writing my four year old is laying in my lap. He nuzzled himself in between my chest and my laptop and won’t stop shifting to find his comfiest spot.

The beautiful thing about this moment is that he has no clue that in some small way, he’s inconveniencing me. Every time his body shifts, I get a little elbow in the gut and my typing arm has to adjust. Do I tell him? Of course not. Why? Because I want him to want to snuggle with me.

That really has nothing to do with anything, but I felt it was worth mentioning.

Lately, I’ve had this deep feeling that the trajectory of our collective voice is growing grim. The “impact of social media” debate is no longer our concern. We’ve absorbed checking our newsfeed into our daily functioning like showering or brushing our teeth. (Or calling that car that picks you up an uber instead of a taxi. Uber was first just a funny word at first, then we grew to fear it because of the murderer drivers, but now it’s the way we go. How quickly we adapt.

In general, I wouldn’t call myself an early adopter. I don’t necessarily like change as much as I know it’s needed. I tend to question what was wrong with the old way. Why do we need a new way, anyways? Nine out of ten times, I’m wrong. We needed the new way. (I just hope that I remember to bring bags to my now bagless grocery store.)

But, I continue to question the impact of social media. I realize I’m a middle-aged mom who stands with one foot in the old and new, but still, I can’t figure out a scenario where hearing other people’s thoughts and watching them dance all the time is helpful.

Is social media as a whole a platform for good? OR is it putting voices into your head when you don’t really have a place or a space to absorb it? Were we created to WATCH people’s lives with no true interaction? Or were we designed for authentic relationships?

And what about the quiet voices? The post-less ones. Who shines a spotlight on them? The authentic do-gooders who aren’t making Tik Tok reels about how great they are or who they helped that day. Like, the Ukrainian woman who is going in and out of Ukraine (in the midst of war) (in the name of Jesus) to rescue people. Seems odd that she wouldn’t create a Tik Tok about that. I suppose we’re better off with the Kardashians’ perfect skin blanketing our feeds.

We feast our eyes all day on people who are trying to make a name for themselves. It’s all over my feed and yours. But, in many ways it’s also me. It’s also you. We’re all trying to get someone to listen. To buy into our company. To read our blog. Very few of us are the quiet voices who just go about our business.

It does make me worry though. Through the power of social media, bad news travels at lightning speed. And while I’m so glad that we have the capacity to communicate globally without having to send a message via a horse going uphill in the snow both ways, I fear that it continues to build cases for people who already are looking for more evidence to prove their case.

What do you think? What’s the long-term impact of this human-less platform where we watch people live their lives?

On A Hunt For Perfection

The first purchase Chris and I made as married people was our dining room table. We thought it was so fancy. A pub-high from Crate and Barrel that seated four but extended out to an enormous square for eight. It came with four vinyl-cushioned chairs and we purchased four more wooden stools with bright eyes ready to host all the things. We kept that thing in mint condition. Not really intentionally, but how much damage can two grown adults do to it? Well, the answer is nothing. Grown adults don’t ruin material things. Kids do.

Since then, we had to resurrect this original dining room table that sat dormant in our basement for years. The Katulka dining room space is awaiting the right timing to purchase a new table. So, the original table is back in our lives. And guess what? That vinyl that had been just fine for over ten years is no longer with us. It was ripped and shredded into a million tiny pieces. I mean, I’m not saying it was the highest quality vinyl, but still, a tiny little rip was all our little velociraptor toddler needed to get in there and tear it to shreds.

Oh, little velociraptor toddler, please stop.

Well, he never stops. Like any good, healthy two-year-old he sniffs out trouble in our home and attacks it with full force. He especially likes the holes in our plaster walls. We come downstairs to crumbles and dust all over the ground and look up to about toddler-height to find huge holes were he busied himself for a few short, but highly-productive, minutes.

I often wonder (after the fact) what did I think he was doing to give me time to blow dry my hair AND brush my teeth.

He was tearing apart my walls. That’s what he was doing.

Which is why on the days off from school when all the big kids are home we have to get out. Otherwise he’d tear my whole house apart!

It’s a great thing he is cute.

On our recent day off we had the fortune of spending a fortune, er, I mean spending quality time, at an apple-picking farm. Ok, don’t get me wrong. It is fun watching the kids run through pathways of apple trees, loading up paper bags to obscene weights they can’t carry. We always get awesome photos of them hunting for the right ones while I quietly add up how much we are about to spend and wonder how I can become a farmer. These kids moan about all the bruised apples, as though they’re toxic poison ivy that can’t be touched. Hundreds of great but bruised apples are stepped over to reach high for the ones who still have something left to offer. Trips to the farm also prove that moms make the best ladders. But, duh. What can’t moms do?

Of course there’s nothing wrong for reaching for the highest apples, we all want the best. Bruised usually means there was a little trauma, like falling off a tree or being thrown to the ground after it was picked (probably by a silly little two year old toddler).

Bruised means more work of having to cut around it or running the risk of taking a bite into something awful tasting. Who has time for that?

We see bruised and we step over it.

Of course it’s just an apple. Who cares. It’s a hayride and an experience for children. They scramble to find the best ones — they find them — we pay for them — then they leave them by the tether-ball game at the farm. (Hopefully someone else took them home to enjoy.)

But, that’s just it, right? We’re all little apples. Picked and picked over. Fresh and bruised. Sweet sides and rotten sides. There isn’t one of us who’s not.

Stick with me.

The older I get the more I realize that at every stage of our lives we are on a little apple-picking trip. We are hunting high for love, friends, material possessions, status, fitness, promotion, wealth, happiness. As children, we just wanted to have fun. As we grew, we started looking for academic or sports success. As we got older, we looked for scholarships and school-rankings. And now, as a late-thirty-something, we hunt for professional success and status. But at every age and life stage one thing never changes — none of us want to be overlooked — we all want to be the apple picked.

But as it turns out we all are a little bruised. A little bitter. A little broken. Like the chairs in my home, or the cracks in our plaster walls, a little tiny tear can open up a huge wound. Unfortunately, at every stage of life, as we hunted for the best that life had to offer we also were hurt. Life hurt us. Life picked you and then threw you to the ground. Maybe you were tossed out by a friend, a parent, a job or a spouse.

Maybe your bruise is forming right now.

My concern is that if we keep thinking perfection is something to find, we will keep rejecting the bruised apples who actually may be able to empathize with you or grow alongside you.

Even the apples where we hoisted heavy children with our aching mama backs to reach had their flaws. And surprisingly, not all the bruised apples on the ground tasted bad. Levi tasted a few to prove it.

People are hurting.

And while you may feel alone, the thing I love about all those bruised apples on the ground is that there are hundreds of them. They are all together. They probably didn’t know it (I mean, they’re apples and don’t have brains), but you do. You have a heart and a brain and an opportunity to accept that your bruises don’t mean you are rejected, they mean you are empowered to love on people who are the same.

Which is everyone.

There is no one without scars.

Maybe instead of stepping over the bruised ones, you pick it up, and compare stories. Maybe there’s a richness that you’ve been missing on the hunt to find a perfection that (shhhhh) doesn’t exist.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.1 Corinthians 13:4-7