Everyday Observations | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

March

When Your Personality Is a Liability to Your Kids…

8244983235_60d2cf717e_k

It was Monday, April 14, 2014. The first official day of Spring Break, and I did what any ambitious, sanity-valuing mama would have done. I made peace with reality (aka, if-we-tarry-in-this-place-we-will-be-homicidal-by-2:00), stuck one eyeball through a slat in the blinds and saw sunshine. “We’re going to the beach!” I chirped.

I welcomed a smile into my soul and grabbed the beach bag from the closet, shaking last year’s sunscreen to assess our supply. I confirmed that our baby powder – in its cloudy Ziploc – was still in place and haphazardly grabbed snacks and juice boxes and beach towels and made haste for our departure.

// Time Out: Baby powder is the supreme sand removal agent at the end of a beach day. Carry on with your lives, people. //

The girls’ lukewarm response could not diminish my internal horn-tootin’. Their shortsightedness could not see the harrowing pitfalls of staying at home. My seasoned sensibilities knew the danger. “This is brilliant!” I self-congratulated.

Not wanting to lose momentum, I enlisted Chris’ help clothing the people, loading and gassing the Jeep.

“You want me to put the top up?”

“What kind of question is that? Absolutely not. We want the top down for the beach…” I replied with one eyebrow raised in indignation. I pursed my lips and shook my head at the thought as I entered the closet for a cover-up.

In record time for a morning-averse family, we were in reverse down the driveway. We stopped for an absurd length of time to capture this special moment (and seventeen other very similar special moments just before this one)…

family Jeep pic

Cookie, you are the real MVP of parenting, I gushed as I released the clutch and sped away.

As we crested the overpass just outside our neighborhood, Campbell belted over the gale, “Mama, I’m cold.” As the roofline of our house grew faint in the distance, I cranked the heater and assured her it was all part of the fun.

I repeatedly punched the radio button, insistent on dialing up some vintage country for the occasion. “Mom, do we have to listen to this?” Carson groused.

Unfazed I was.

If I lead with positivity, they will eventually succumb to the merriment of the day, I rallied with a mental fist bump.

About the time we passed the bank, I noticed a down comforter of complete cloud cover. I dared not state the unfortunate and obvious but felt certain the sun was working its magic on the coast. Regardless of how it treats us inland folks, it’s obligated to play nice at the beach….especially during Spring Break.

As we headed east, I nailed the accelerator to the floor as the wind buffeted us for our hour and a half drive. Campbell, with no protection from the battering, regularly registered her displeasure.

“We’ll be there soon, and you can ride in the front on the way home, ” I leveraged.

Once I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw her flapping behind us from the roll bar. She appeared to have a tight grasp, so I kept driving. Press on, sister. Perseverance is a virtue.

When we arrived I cruised the strip in search of a public access with parking, rejecting a dozen or so for one deficiency or another. Too crowded. No available parking. Sketchy surroundings. I finally chose one.

No restroom. 4231347208_c0f2e98461_o

No shower.

No restaurants or stores in sight.

Obviously, I was winning the day.

A dense meringue concealed the sun, but there was still the sand and the surf. There was still fun to be had.

And what fun we had!

For seven and a half minutes.

“We’re bored. We want to go home.”

I had no hearing for such nonsense. “We just got here. Go make some friends; build a sand castle and moat. Jump the waves with your sister. Collect cool shells in one of our buckets.” I was full of ideas.

“Mom, this is ridiculous. The sun’s not even shining, and we’re cold.”

“We’re not leaving,” I resolutely announced as I tilted my chin skyward, leaning my head against the chair. Eyes closed behind my shades, basking in the dingy cloudiness. You can still get a tan on an overcast day, you know.

I was committed to the mission. Fun was no longer a consideration; it was all about completion.

An hour and a half later, the heavy grey rolled in, and fat raindrops peppered the sand. “Grab everything quickly and run to the Jeep; if we hurry we can probably get ahead of the rain,” I yelled.

Have I failed to mention that I had NO IDEA how to put the top up on the Jeep? My plan was to outrun the afternoon storm. We layered any source of dry warmth, rolled the windows up, blared the heat, and tore westward. Racing the rain. We were golden.

For seven and a half miles.

Traffic stopped. We were gridlocked in the center lane. People to our right stared. People to our left stared. I smiled at them as though we were not stranded inside a mobile aquarium. The girls……..they did not smile at them. Carson looked over at a disturbed passerby and mouthed, “Adopt me.”

Ride or die, ladies.

YOLO.

No pain, no gain.

Life is like a box of chocolates.

All about that Jeep life.

You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

I mean, how many clichés could we live in one day?

I didn’t pull off to find shelter. I didn’t stop at a gas station to find someone to pull the top up. I didn’t take us to a mall or a movie until the rain passed. I gave no moment’s thought to formulating Plan B. That’s not what I do. I get a thing in my head and all else becomes background noise.

Hyper-focus gone crooked.

I did allow the girls to persuade me to stop at my parents’ – about halfway through our disastrous return – for dry clothes and Papa’s Jeep expertise.

Once we were home, a dry though sour Campbell commented on my Instagram post of the picture above:

“Werst trip ever.”

Carson was probably in her room trying to call DHEC or the Department of Social Security (as she frequently threatens) for my dogged inflexibility.

I have a problem.

And the worst part………I have replicated myself.

Screen Shot 2016-03-16 at 10.35.03 AM

Reproduce responsibly, people.

silly girl edit

[Images: Brittni Gee Photography, Vanessa Myers, and Ame Rainey]

March

The Plot Twist of Chapter 42…

Kristen on the Mountain

I’m pretty sure there comes a time we have to make peace with our mortality. Not in a morbid, fearful way. But in a richness that seasons how we spend our breath.

I am there.

———-

The morning was early. The sky was black with sleep and quiet. We sped down the ramp onto an I-385 awash in fluorescent lamplight. The windows down; the music deafening. Our smiles as wide as the road was long.

“WE ARE INVINCIBLE!” we bellowed to the irritated night.

Two university girls inoculated with independence and youth. Because death lived a million miles away.

My claims at invincibility have long been disproven. The prosecutor of time has won his case. After enduring the evidence debunking my assertion, I was sentenced to adulthood. It’s been a pretty civil gig; some of the guards (aka, Metabolism, Wrinkles, Gray, and Mammograms) can have a prickle about their way but they keep me in line. They smirk wryly and whisper, “Time is short.”

The years may have altered what they can see, but I’ve kept a rebel’s fire lit in my soul. Their grim declaration is but an invitation to live. To really live. To drive-the-car-30-miles-past-empty live.

———-

At best, I’m probably half way done. And, you know what? I like it here. During the era of invincibility, I thought little of wasting time and opportunity. They were abundant commodities; you remember the law of supply and demand from economics class.

As the supply of time decreases, its value increases.

So I made a list of things I’d like to do before I cash in my chips:

Milk a cow
Live downtown in a major city
Spend at least one night at a cool place in each state
Ride in a hot air balloon
Have long hair again
Attend the Kentucky Derby
Visit a synagogue
Speak in the auditorium at North Greenville University (the room where I gave my life to Jesus)
Publish a book
Pay off a house
Get my CWP
Open a transition home for formerly incarcerated women
Have a piece published in Southern Living
Lead a ministry that lasts longer than I do
Run 5 half marathons before I am 50
Leave someone a $100 tip
Take a silent retreat at a convent
Vacation on a dude ranch
Get a Bible degree

And I remembered that one of my favorite things in all of the Bible happens in a Chapter 42. Check it out.

I’m 42, and I want that.

I started training for a half marathon even though I had packed on 20 pounds during a bout with depression.

89407E4F-2986-4A68-82B3-CA4556CA44ED

It wasn’t pretty, friends. No, siree.

The new year rolled around about a month or so into my training, and I committed to a theme for the year.

#TakingItAllBack. You see, I believe there is an enemy of my soul. And all of my life, he’s worked to sideline me for good. Being molested as a five year-old was part of that plan. For a good chunk of time, I put up no fight as his tactics looked a lot like fun. His most aggressive assault was three years ago. He’s taken a lot from me, and to be quite frank, I’ve willingly given him a lot too. But this year, I’m reclaiming ground the Lord has already won. Taking it all back. Chapter 42.

Race training was brutal. My mind game was usually off. I abhor winter. And….let’s just say, I’m not very aerodynamic. I couldn’t complete my 7 or 8 mile runs on the first attempts. And the longest distance I ever ran was 9.2 (my training schedule called for at least 10).

The race was this past Saturday. It wasn’t pretty friends. No, sirree.

438773_222473133_XLarge

I trained at a 10 min/mile pace but clocked an 11 min/mile race pace. I’m not jazzed about the time (2:23:40), and the last two miles were miserable. The leg muscles weren’t keen on having continuously repeated the same movement for two solid hours.

Ugly.

But, you know what? I finished. I didn’t walk one step of it. I ran my race.

438773_222462410_XLarge 438773_222499286_XLarge 438773_222486542_XLarge

———-

And I had my own cheering section.

I am a blubbering mess right here in my swivel desk chair.

Weeping.

Y’all. My people will never know how they put fight in me. What a depiction of how life should be – doing the hard thing while people who love you cheer you on.

Still weeping.

I don’t care if you’re 13 or 31 or 73; today is a beautiful gift. Breath is a treasure. Time is in short supply.

LIVE.

#TakeItAllBack

Run your race. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Or perfect. Or even close to that.

Because. Chapter 42.

Roll down your windows, blare the music, smile crazy big, and bellow to the irritated night, “THIS IS LIVING!”

PS – My CWP class is next weekend.

[Feature Image: Jake Bellucci]

March

Leading Lady: Can A Woman Be A Leader?

woman in leadership

You better believe it.

This isn’t a statement about the presidential candidates, so no worries. Though I just want to offer that I would have no business being in charge of the mythical red phone or red button that could launch complete annihilation. My hormonal imbalance could not handle such responsibility. Just keeping it candid right here.

I mean to dig into the messaging – particularly in church culture – that tacitly suggests women aren’t designed to lead. That we aren’t wired to be leaders.

I take issue with that.

I remember all too well one of my early leadership gaffes. I was hosting my first event as the Discipleship Director at my church, and I did not have the database code I needed to check people into the class as they arrived. I had rehearsed every detail, thought about pens and drinks and ice and napkins and chairs and volunteers and trash cans and sound and decor and tablecloths. But I couldn’t admit people. The line began to back up at the four computers, and I officially freaked. Wholly spazzed out right there. The attendees were getting fidgety as the line spilled out the door onto the sidewalk. I am currently sweating and shaking my hands, recounting the debacle. I was running to and fro between computers, calling and messaging people three hours away all at once.

A colleague was assisting me, and I was quite peeved by his apparent nonchalance about the FREAKING MAYHEM OF THE MOMENT! He eventually solved the issue and the class rolled on, starting a bit later than scheduled.

I was devastated.

female leaders

I later apologized to my co-worker for my oversight, and in his response he taught me one of the most valuable leadership lessons. He said, “Everybody picked up on your panic and they responded accordingly. Your volunteers panicked with you. Your guests registered restlessness and concern in response to you. As the leader you have a lot of influence over how others around you react to the environment and the circumstances.”

I’ve never forgotten his wisdom from that mistake.

While I had a lot to learn about leading well, I fell in love with building a team and making magic happen. We all hunger to be part of something larger than ourselves and leading allows that. When we can assemble gifted people, rally them around a vision, and empower them to do what they do best, MAGIC HAPPENS. It’s exhilarating.

The last fifteen years as an educator, a mom, and a ministry leader have awarded their own education in leadership, and many of those lessons have been specific to leading as a woman. I recently had the opportunity to share many of those lessons in an article entitled, “The Challenges of Leading as a Woman.”

Click here to check it out.

[Images: Military Health, Kompentenzzentrum Frau und Beruf]

February

If I Were Homeless…

homeless

I do this thing where I search for places to sleep if I were homeless. My children are less disturbed than when I initially began sharing “If I were homeless…” plots. Last week I ran under an overpass and caught myself inspecting its potential for shelter from the rain and cold.

This preoccupation with my own imagined homelessness began when I was driving a minor road in a shopping area of town. The road was bordered by a dense swath of trees, thick with foliage and brush. I peered in, hoping to be treated to some trinket of nature. A woodpecker. A lone wildflower. A cautious rabbit.

Instead I saw a tent.

My mind clothes-pinned the image to my consciousness. Who lives there? Where did he get the tent? Why is he homeless? But, more than anything, I was moved by his choice of location. These were woods in the heart of our commercial district, hemmed in by the interstate. Maybe he thought the site insured people nearby and was too urban for animals of a ferocious bent. That would have been my line of thought too. Something about that fabrication left me feeling connected to the unseen inhabitant of that khaki canvas.

Now I sometimes imagine what I would look like a month unshowered. I see dirt caked under my nails and my long, thick hair heavy with oil. I run my tongue across my teeth, hairy with a warm film of bacteria, coated by the thick saliva of dehydration. I take the rancid stench of a hard run and multiply it by thirty and apply it to me and my brownish clothes baggy with constant wear.

And I imagine what that would do to me.

Interestingly, I am always homeless alone. My imagination cannot allow homeless children…

homeless mom

—————

I sit across from a female inmate, and her story is heavy with us. Even though I don’t know it. I don’t ask. We are both aware of its effect, even if the specifics remain unnamed.

To be honest, I don’t ask because I am afraid that knowing will break me.

So we live in that hour. That present. Where all I know to do is smile and hug and love and encourage and share Truth and hope and most of all Jesus. And many of them smile and hug and love and encourage back which makes it amazing grace.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to be born to a young mama addicted to heroin.

Or to have her boyfriend amuse himself by holding lit cigarettes to my tender skin.

To have no memory of ever being pure.

To awaken to gunshots.

To grow up with a hollowed out soul.

And I imagine what that would do to me.

meth addict

—————

“Why NOT me?”

I did nothing to deserve the advantage of my birth. Of my circumstances.

Nothing.

Sometimes I think we congratulate ourselves on living a wholesome middle-class life. But, really, to what credit is that to us?

Bless us, we’ll call having basic cable a deprivation and consignment shopping a brush with humility.

I’m not trying to bang the guilt drum; I’m really not. And if I were, I’d be the greatest offender.

But there is something I’m after.

Can we all acknowledge that a high school diploma in one child’s life, given his circumstances, may be a greater achievement than three college degrees earned by a child of affluence?
Can we grasp that the child whose only meals happen at school may not legitimately care about the order of operations in math class?
Can we understand that children who grow up with addict parents may not exhibit the same behavior we deem acceptable?

We are not all born into equal circumstances.

We don’t all have the same chance for success.

But the playing field of grace should be level, Church. Disparity has no place here.

We know little of fighting for a future.

But the pathway of judgment and complacency is well-worn.

We want our homeless people clean and happy, educated and with nice manners. We want children without functioning parents to know appropriate behavior and how to make responsible choices. We want people who live in abject poverty to see the value of working a minimum wage job instead of turning a quick trick or sale. Honesty doesn’t always feed a growling stomach or put shoes on a little boy’s feet.

If we can’t give anything, we can give grace.

I am not making excuses. I think crimes should be punished. I don’t have the answers. But I believe God is clear about His heart here, and it involves a lot of love and a lot of compassion and a lot of help. And it begins when we unzip the insulation of privilege around our own hearts…

For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’

“Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’ – Matthew 25:35-40

…and dispense a lot of grace.

A dogged, tenacious grace.

[Images: Karim Corban, Wayne S. Grazio, Thomas Hawk]

February

Why Women Don’t Like Each Other

woman on call

I love women. And sometimes dislike them at the same moment.

That’s not a terribly uncommon sentiment among my ilk. Affection and disdain can accessorize the world of women like an infinity scarf. They’re made of the same cloth.

“Girls have never liked me……I had more guy friends in school than girls…..women are exclusive and critical and catty; friendship is difficult,” people of my kind will say.

And they are often correct.

But, after years as a woman (42 to be exact) interacting with other women, I’ve discovered a commonality that has the potential to dramatically unite us for the long haul, or at the very least, color us in a favorable disposition towards each other.

100% of the women I’ve ever met smuggle around a life hurt that has threatened to extinguish them. If I haven’t met you and you would take issue with my proclamation either a) you’re fibbing; b) you’re a unicorn, or c) you’re in store for a doozie.

Hurt. It’s as universal as our affinity for chocolate. But, it is born as varying personalities…

woman reading

The Victim. She has allowed her pain to seep into her DNA. It replicates itself and permeates her cells. She white-knuckles her hurt and dares anyone to take it from her. She’s entitled to it. It has become the fabric of her identity, the dominant color of her life. She often unwittingly propagates more hurt and loneliness because she feels due our pity and we have very little stomach for that.

The Mean Girl. She sees the world through anger. It’s her default emotion. Her life leaks venom, and her people are always on guard against a barb aimed in their direction. She is entirely predictable and anxiety-inducing. She thinks little of publicly sawing people off at the shins. Red is her favorite color; nails are her favorite snack, and high blood pressure is her trademark. She is impartial, cursing a sunny day with the same vigor as a rainy mess.

The Controller. She needs to feel she is capable of warding off everything undesirable if only she is vigilant enough, bossy enough, well-informed enough, assertive enough, in-charge enough, together enough. She is possessive and terribly, terribly afraid. She is often paralyzed by fear which further nourishes her attempts to keep all aspects of her life within the bounds of her reach. Rest does not come easily because something may stray beyond her if she relaxes her grasp.

The Unconvinced. See also The Career Woman. The Party Girl. The Domineering Mom. The Scantily-Clad Girl. The Material Girl. The Promiscuous Woman. The Comedienne. The Workout Obsessed. She believes her value is external. She operates under the assumption she has little to offer intrinsically, so she must add to who she is to establish her worth. She is defined by what she does. She is tired and her happiness is extremely volatile because it is completely circumstantial.

women

The Fortress. Her composition is one part tender, four parts steel. Her softness is about an inch deep; after that you hit an impenetrable bunker. A no-man’s land. She can smile easily. She can be gentle and kind easily because everything of any importance to her is behind lock and key. Gaining clearance is unlikely, and she can sit across from you in a coffee shop, chatting life, and sipping a Salted Caramel Mocha, and inhabit a land a million miles away all at once. She is always alone because she doesn’t know how to let people in.

The Disappearing Act. She often pretends she is invisible. Feeling that way is her favorite. She approaches life as a transparent spectator, assuring herself, “If I’m quiet and nondescript and cooperate with the mandates of the universe, maybe I can escape the notice of pain or loss.” She believes by averting her eyes she exempts herself from all that life requires. She acquiesces, disappointed and protected by her own resignation. She wants more but feels incapable of it.

The Pretender. She doesn’t even let her own self know that her life isn’t perfect. She’s got the ugly locked in the gun safe. While she sunbathes in a hurricane. If you were to stare into her eyes, you would find a tumultuous longing for disclosure. If there were only a safe place for her. A place or a person who could know her pain without her ever having to give words to it. She is absolutely convinced the syllables would kill her. She moves quickly so the truth can’t catch up.

The Strong & Tender. The Steel Magnolia. She is friends with her brokenness. She has processed her hurt in a way that leaves her open without leaving her weak. She is free to love without being shackled by fear. She is certain hurt will come again, and she is confident she will survive it. The strength in her is not of her. This juxtaposed assimilation of hurt and hope is otherworldly. There is no other explanation.

Only Jesus.

woman in field

I’ll come clean. I can be all of these. I have been all of these. I naturally veer towards The Unconvinced and The Fortress, but I can suit up in Mean Girl with the best of them….

It’s little wonder we struggle to love each other well, is it? Our defense mechanisms are rarely compatible.

A whole bunch of masked hurt bullying our interactions.

We can fight to be whole instead.

To be healed.

To revere our scars as beauty marks.

We are free to champion our kind as we do the hard work of rehabbing our hearts.

Wanna?

[Images: Uncalno Tekno, Mickael MENARD, Jason Meredith, Michal Koralewski]