parenting | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

June

Keep Calm & Summer On, Moms.

Our best defense will be our sense of humor.

Campbell: I’m pretty tall for my age.

Carson: No you’re not.

Campbell: Carson, stop. I’m encouraging myself.

summer on

These people of mine bring the snort chortles on the regular. Mothering our girls, Carson (14) and Campbell (11), is one of the most fun things of my life. They cast barbs at each other daily, and they have a superhuman tolerance for disarray in their rooms and bathrooms. They poke along when I’m in a hurry, and they inform me of projects and baking assignments at the last minute (don’t worry about that baklava I spent all night assembling for International Field Day). They are your standard issue offspring who are often ungrateful and sassy and lazy. And they are fabulously unique and delightful all at once.

Not long ago, the girls asked what we were having for lunch, and I freed them to feed themselves (i.e., Fend for yourselves, chickadees). One announced she would have a hot dog, and the other assented. Pleased with their decisiveness and agreement, I left them to their preparations. Finding a sole bun in the pantry, the meal plan was quickly wrinkled and complicated. While the eldest set in to argue her valid claim on the bread, the youngest moved swiftly. She removed the bun and gave it a long lick, thereby sealing her procurement.

crazy hair

Campbell complains about school substitutes that smell like cabbage, and Carson tries to self-tan in a tea bath. Campbell claims sushi makes her gassy and tries to practice her recorder in the car while she and I run errands. Carson treats choosing a sauce at Chick-Fil-A like a major life decision, and I croon “Jesus, Jesus, Precious Jesus…” at the top of my lungs to numb my sensitivities and beg the immediate deliverance of my Savior.

Recently, I accompanied Campbell into her room to inspect her cleaning and found her bed-making performance to be substandard and wanting. I expressed my dissatisfaction, and she received it with uncharacteristic grace and restraint. As I turned to leave her to make repairs, she proudly contended, “You gotta admit; it’s pretty good for making it up with my feet.” I stared blankly as her confession registered. My chin dropped as my grin stretched for my ears, “I don’t even know…” I mumbled, wagging my head as laughter overflowed its banks.

This is my circus. These are my monkeys.

kid smile Motherhood is a serious business; I make no claim to the contrary. I have been so troubled, sitting alone in the wee hours of the morning writing and praying Scripture over one of my sleeping girls who was losing a fight with overwhelming anxiety. A choking mama fear hounds me when the media slices my consciousness and reminds me of rampant evil. It’s a paralyzing, unhealthy preoccupation. There is a countdown clock in my heart that alarms me with the urgency of now. I see their high school graduations across the way, and I clutch the present with hot tears blurring the view. I am genuinely afraid of the heartbreaks and hardships that transform little girls into young ladies of character and strength. They are inevitable, and I am not sure my heart can bear them.

But for now, we will belly laugh.

We will not allow our home to be so serious and rushed and busy that we miss the hilarity of it all. Motherhood is expensive in every way, so I intend to cash in on the comedy of living with rookie humans as they understand and experience life.

When Carson grouses, “C’mon, Mom! Hurry up! My fabulous is being wasted,” I will breathe and savor her wit. Allowing the hustle and self-absorption fueling it to fall like discarded crumbs this time. When Campbell responds to a request for a decreased volume with, “I can’t help it. I talk loud when I’m thirsty,” I’ll chuckle at the incongruity of that logic and commit myself to keeping her well-hydrated. I may also privately hum a hymn to stay my nerves and keep my mama soul open to whimsy. kid finger up nose

Not only that, I’ll laugh at myself. At the sight of bedhead me pumping gas in my fuzzy snowflake pajamas and slippers because I almost ran out of gas during the morning drive. At the teacher catching me belting out Adele while carting the oldest to middle school. At the ridicule of my progeny when I cry at EVERY event they’ve ever participated in. At their mockery when I throw around outdated slang and call their friends by the wrong names.

And when I have the next interaction that goes a little something like this one…

Campbell: You don’t do math during the summer.

Me: You do do math during the summer.

Campbell: You said doo-doo.

Me: [sigh] It’s going to be a long summer.

I’ll snicker like a middle school boy and shelve the math lesson for the day.

[Images: Toni Verdu Carbo, Hayden Beaumont, Aikawa Ke, & Scott Cresswell]

April

Dads, What We Hope You Teach Your Sons…

skating father son

“We did role plays in Health today, and they were hilarious, ” Carson shared at dinner.

“Aren’t you studying Sex Ed in Health?”

“Yeah.”

“WHAT!?!?! WHAT KIND OF ROLE PLAY DO YOU DO IN SEX ED?!?!?!”

She nonchalantly recounted the content while my eyes bugged out of my very head. These conversational role plays that still freaked me out.

“Well, we may homeschool Sex Ed.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Of course I can.”

“Mom, I know you’re not a fan but think about Thomas, whose parents will never teach him anything about sex.”

“Well, I have a teaching degree; I’ll volunteer to teach it.”

“Yeah, and I have a lot of experience having sex, so I’ll volunteer too! ” Chris pipes in.

Both girls scream, throw their hands over their ears, and run from the table.

_______________

I am a girl out of season.

Chris is a girl daddy.

I mama women-children.

We know girls.

Dads, one day your sons may be part of our family. We think of you often and hope things are going swimmingly on your end.

We want you to know we are giving it our concerted effort to teach our girls compassion and adventure and purity and boldness. Courage and love, responsibility and grace.

We teach them about the College Football Playoff Selection Committee (highlighting Condoleezza Rice’s participation, of course) and watch as a family as the top teams are announced each week during the season. Our girls can drive a boat, mow the grass, protect the seasoning on a cast iron frying pan, and bake a chocolate chip cookie just shy of done.

We teach them about sex and finances and injustice and hard work. We encourage their voice and questions, and we don’t airbrush our marriage to make reality more palatable. They know we squeaked through our hardest season, that we went to counseling, that I took “stable pills” (an anti-depressant) for a while (and they were glad for it, mind you!).

Most of all we’re pretty crazy about a well-known carpenter, and we hope they notice him building a messy masterpiece of our lives. And they allow him to do the same in theirs.

We’re trying, man. We know she may sit at your table for Thanksgiving dinner, and – if so – we want her to be a permanent fixture there, to be a rich blessing to your family.

If we were allowed to whisper into your ear during this formative time, we’d champion these ideals…

dad and son

Talk real talk about hard stuff. About failure. Your failures. Your struggles. The pressures of being the provider. The weight of being the leader. The ubiquitous measuring-stick that always asks, “Do I have what it takes?” Talk to him about man things. And share how you navigate those difficulties. He needs you to be a guide in his life, not a superhero in his mind.
Overtly teach him that sex is for marriage and worth the wait. Not because it’s a conservative mainstay or because it’s the responsible thing to say. But because you believe it. This is no hollow assertion based on a fairytale ideal. My past sexual indiscretions have borne lasting consequences in my marriage – emotional, mental, relational. That’s just how the thing works. Casual sex is not a rite of passage; it’s an expensive withdrawal from the marriage bed, and when we accept (or worse, promote) the “Boys will be boys” platitude, we act as enemies of their future marriages. It’s not unmanly to wait; it’s the most noble gift a man can give his bride. We want that for our daughters.
Be a man who values women. All women. Without ever articulating one word, you will teach your son 1) what you love, 2) what you think about women, 3) what you feel about marriage. If I could beg one thing of all men, it would be for you to take up the fight against the sexual abuse and exploitation of women. However, for the purposes of this conversation, I would just ask that you live the belief that EVERY woman and EVERY girl is valuable and to be respected. Sometimes the danger here is that your words and choices don’t match. Words that take the high road are proven fraudulent by choices that exploit and denigrate. And – as a bonus – if you want to insist he open doors and pull out chairs and give up his seat to a woman on a crowded subway, I won’t be mad about it. I’ll worry about making him an activist later… 🙂
Make him a lifelong adventurer. Do dangerous dude things that are exhilarating and challenging. We believe the desire to burn stuff and blow things up and climb stuff and shoot stuff is innate to man-ness. As much a cord of his makeup as the network of vessels that keep him alive. Responsibility can gradually tug on slack in that strand and over time completely unravel his sense of adventure. We don’t want that for him. Boredom in marriage is dangerous, so let’s instill in our people a wonder and a courage and an appreciation for adventuring together.
Demonstrate leadership as a posture not a position. A leader who believes his authority comes from his position as the leader is quite susceptible to tyranny. A leader who recognizes his position as an opportunity to serve and help and nurture and foster has influence over many glad followers.
Be certain he knows what you love most. This is the easiest of them all. Without a doubt he will know the answer. If a third party were to ask, “What does your dad love most?” he will have a response. We hope his reply is about that well-known carpenter who’s so important to us…

surfing

Thank you for doing the good work of dadding. What a weight to steward……parenting today affects marriages tomorrow! We feel ya, man. Rock the next decade of your father business, and we look forward to fighting over grandchildren and family holidays one day down the road.

Just kidding…

Or not so much.

[ Images: Filter Collective, Gil, and Steve Simmonds]

March

When Your Personality Is a Liability to Your Kids…

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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]

May

Four Reasons I Won’t Be Mom of the Millennium

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The fact that our youngest will turn ten in a matter of days is a display of God’s grace equal to Daniel surviving his slumber party with a lion pride. Same. In fact, just last night she crept into the kitchen, clutching her hand with parallel streamlets watering her cheeks, “Mama, I was doing something I wasn’t suppose to, and now I’m bleeding.” Turns out, that whole curiosity thing just may talk you into opening your padre’s pocket knife and slicing up two of your digits.

That’s only the latest installment of Campbell’s mishaps. Girlfriend is no stranger to bodily harm, and I haven’t always been the best at protecting her……from herself……or me, for that matter. I’m not expecting any Mother’s Day surprise awards ceremonies this weekend because I have a well-stocked library of mama missteps that will pretty much keep me out of the running for a thousand years.

I won’t be mom of the millennium…

1)…because my Woman-Baby was locked in the driver’s seat of a running car. After walking with a friend and her son, sixteen month-old Campbell and I returned to our car to find the back left tire flat. Chris was out of town, so we called a dude friend who installed the donut tire and gave me strict instructions to drive to the nearest tire shop. Sweet Thang and I ran in and explained our dilemma; tire specialist friend accompanied us out to inspect the situation. I cranked the car, blasted the a/c, parked Campbell in her seat, closed the door, and proceeded to formulate the plan with said tire friend. Without my notice, that precious dumpling of sweetness climbed into the front, stood in the driver’s seat and began to turn knobs; the windshield wipers slapped, and then I heard the click that immediately captured my attention. She had found the automatic locks and cackled at her electronic prowess. Locked-in baby swiftly railroaded flat tire plans, and I stood like a overzealous imbecile trying to coax my child to unlock the door. I defaulted to the American-yelling-at-a-person-who-doesn’t-understand-English-but-surely-volume-assists-comprehension card. Thankfully tire friend was also skilled in baby rescue. Never mind the fact that I had to phone Carson’s preschool director to explain why I would be late gathering my other child. I’m not sure she felt confident about releasing older nugget to my care.

2) …because I never gave thoughtful consideration to all that young ones can shove up their noses. Campbell was two. She and I were heading out for a few errands before my favorite time of day – carline with a toddler (I feel you, young mama). We stopped at the convenience store just outside our neighborhood (I will not tell you that I left her buckled, locked the car doors, ran in to grab a Diet Pepsi – I could see her at all times – and was out in less than two minutes; I am currently shaming myself for you. Feel better about it). As I backed out, Campbell began to cry the hurt cry, punctuated by mounting panic. I pulled back into the parking space and got out to survey the situation. A Honey Smack up the nose. Yup. Tiny enough not to be a choking hazard but just the right size to shove up your nostril. Our pediatrician’s office was closed for lunch, but the on-call nurse instructed me to be there when they re-opened if it had not dislodged by then. Living on the other side of town, we began to drive in that direction. I was frantically making arrangements for Carson to be scooped up by a friend when…………”At-choooooooooooooo!” I’ve never been so grateful to almost lose an eye to a Honey Smacks bullet.

3)…because I was party to Super Gluing my baby girl’s forehead shut. You actually read that correctly. My Women-Children and I were browsing the racks at Old Navy when Campbell tripped and caught the sharp edge of some shelving mid-way her forehead. The blood. The screaming. I dissolved into a mama puddle beside her three year-old little self. Thankfully, the Old Navy employees told me she probably needed stitches, so I didn’t have to determine a course of action out of my very own brain. It was almost 4:45, so we barely made it before our pediatrician’s office closed. We saw another doctor in the practice who confirmed that stitches would be in order; however, they did not stitch up injuries in the office. I would have to take her to the ER. And they aren’t known for the compassionate stitching of tiny people, he continued. It was after 5:00 by then. He contemplated a solution and then threw it out there. “In Vietnam,” he began, “it was not uncommon to use Super Glue to seal cuts out in the jungle.” I turned my head, lowered my chin, squinted my eye, and slowly processed his words. “……So if you want to run to Tommy’s Quick Mart just around the corner, buy some Super Glue, come back, I’ll clean the cut really well and glue it.” I laughed in disbelief as I hauled my two children to the car and headed to Tommy’s.

“Excuse me, do you carry Super Glue?”

Super nice Indian man said, “Let me look.” He searched behind the counter. “We have Crazy Glue.”

“Is that the same as Super Glue?”

“Well, what do you need it for?”

Giggling at the absurdity of my life, “You really don’t want to know.” He returned a questioning look. “My daughter’s doctor is going to glue her head shut.” He then returned bug-eyed terror. It’s all good though; it healed beautifully and she barely has a scar. The more you know.

And don’t think our Carson has made it her thirteen years unscathed.

4)…because I prayed the wrong prayer. Back in the day when my gals wore bows, a nauseous quantity of pink, smocking, whales and turtles and apples and frogs galore, I regularly prayed, “Lord, please make my girls wise and spiritually mature far beyond their years.” How noble of me. I failed to really think that prayer through. Have you ever had that experience? Where you rethink a prayer after you begin to see God answer it, and you’re like “Whooooooaaaaaaaa…this isn’t exactly what I had in mind….” Had I really thought about it, I would have known that spiritual maturity and wisdom do not come from the likes of the Tooth Fairy. A pink, sparkly figment of their imagination doesn’t swoop in, flying in loops, leaving a flight trail of fairy dust and endow them with spiritual maturity and wisdom while they dream of Reese’s eggs and more TV time. Wisdom and spiritual maturity beyond our years has an uncomfortable price tag. They are by-products of hardship. And to be super real, sometimes as parents we decide we want to protect our children from God. He is building my babies into fierce women but it’s painful and scary to watch. After thirteen years of parenting, I realize life will beat them up enough on its own; there’s no need to rush God’s purposes.

So, young mamas who still have a fighting chance, throw that babe on your hip while you chat strategy for your flat with tire friend, be vigilant protectors of your children’s nasal passages, stick a tube of Super Glue in the diaper bag (I totally should’ve glued Campbell’s fingers last night – dang it!), and pray an abundance of joy over your little people. Mamas, I love you; be celebrated this week [pounds heart with sideways fist and points at you]!

For more Mother’s day fare, read about one of my very worst days as a mom (and you thought the ones above were disastrous… :), the night my saint mom loved me through my own bad choices, and why banana pudding holds a special place in my heart.

[title image: Haylee Sherwood]

February

3 Ways to Fight – And Win!

brick-2-3Ways-to-Fight “…And that’s how you fight,” I concluded.

It all started when I began noticing my girl being bullied. She was anxious and fearful. Shaken. This is middle school…I thought – remembering the emotional, social, and hormonal trauma of bad hair, zits, and girl drama. It’s about that time, I guess. This is where life gets sticky.

Carson came to me at bedtime and asked if we could talk. Thankful for her desire to chat and sensing the cues of anxiety, I followed her and tucked her back in. She spilled her feelings, the ways she felt targeted, the destructive words, the role of social media, how it played out at school, the impact on her rest. I listened with a solid, reassuring face that did not betray my sadness or my troubled mama heart. I left her room, willing my tears to remain at bay.

I was heavy with fear.

I prayed as I crawled back under the covers and settled on my pillow, but sleep had hitched a ride on I-95 and wasn’t coming back any time soon. I tossed in my own marinade of disquiet until I finally moved to the couch to try something different. It dawned on me that I had to teach my girl to fight. And win. But how would I do that? There was no wisdom to glean from the one physical altercation I had been a party to; hair-pulling and colorful language wasn’t feeling like the course of action I should prescribe. It wouldn’t have worked anyway…because her fight wasn’t against another girl. Not even a boy. It was far more complex than that.

It was internal and it was spiritual. This may be where we depart on beliefs. I believe there are selfish desires inside us that are just part of being human AND there’s evil in the world around us; both attempt to keep us from being all we are intended to be. It is a very real battle that we all either cooperate with (reaping consequences we may fail to ascribe to anything other than misfortune) or we fight.

So at 1:30 a.m. I began to pray over and formulate a plan for teaching my girls to fight and win:

1) Truth. This type of internal blitzkrieg lobs lies inside the wall. Grenades that detonate the poisons of self-loathing, guilt, insecurity, self-destructive choices and behaviors. And the antidote to lies is Truth. Big T Truth that only comes from the Bible. In a time of such liquid veracity, WE ARE FAMISHED FOR ABSOLUTES – stakes we can drive in the ground and tie some weight to. So I began pecking out an email to my friend in the wee hours of the morning – explaining my weighty wakefulness and asking if she could take the verses I was attaching and make them graphically beautiful, matching the decor of my gals’ rooms. They needed an arsenal of their own, and I was about to put a round in their revolvers.

The girls loved decorating their living spaces with these cards, and now while they play, get dressed, work on homework, and over their heads while they sleep, they have Truth at their immediate disposal. They can pray Truth over the screech of a lie and fight back.

And if you’re that person who gets weirded out by people who post Bible verses all over their houses; I’ve been you. I feel you. But I have woken up in the mudhole of defeat of this kind too much in my life to not be aggressive for my children and myself. We like to win.

2) Honesty. This type of warfare murmurs, “If they only knew…knew what you thought…knew what you did when no one was looking…knew what you secretly desired, they would hate you. You are a worthless disappointment. You are a freak. You are crazy. Absolutely no one would love you if they only knew…” I have been arrogantly guilty of believing Jesus and I had no need for anyone else. I would openly boast, “I tell Jesus everything. He knows the whole picture and can give me perfect wisdom. Everybody else is just jacked-up too and have their own selfish motives and blind spots. What kind of advice can they give?” Did I mention my arrogance? All of those things are true of Jesus, but we also need flesh and blood and audible voices – used by Jesus – to fight the power of secret shame. Secrets breed isolation and isolation guarantees defeat. While it was difficult to hear my girl share her struggles, I gently asked probing questions to press her to voice what she deemed unspeakable. A spoken secret immediately loses a large measure of its power. Don’t vomit the depths of your soul to just anybody and certainly not on social media, but test the waters for trustworthiness in some of your relationships and find one or two people in your life that you can tell everything. I would have fought you on this one in the past, but it is absolutely a non-negotiable.

3) Community. This one is directly related to #2, but you have to have your people. Even beyond your one or two confidantes. We all need a din of voices that love us, that we can count on for sound wisdom, that we laugh with, that we cry with. We need to be intentional in surrounding ourselves with people we love and trust. I am thankful my girl has an open relationship with me and Chris; she has a best friend and a best cousin, a small group at church, a small group leader and several beautiful, godly young ladies who invest in her. She has a team she serves with at church and school friends. All different types of relationships that pour into her and create safe places to be real, to be challenged, to be loved. I, too – an introvert and loner – have sought out a dozen or so relationships to strengthen my fight. Nobody wins a war by fighting alone.

“So,” I outlined in a follow-up conversation,”you’re gonna…

pray truth
commit to complete honesty with me or someone else in your life you trust to give you godly wisdom
continue to surround yourself with people who will make you better

…And that’s how you fight,” I concluded.

PS – If you are interested in ordering Scripture cards or have other ideas about how you might incorporate Truth into your space, shoot my beautiful friend a design request at LindsayHaselden.com. Girlfriend brings the magic!