Mothers, Daughters, and Sour Grapes

So.. I should be getting ready to go to a ladies retreat. 

I've packed already.

But my face is naked and my hair is wild.

And I want to write more than I want to look pretty.

For as long as I can remember I've been told how much I look like my mother. It's a two sided coin. Sometimes I take it as a compliment.. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see her face. 

And sometimes I see a picture of myself and groan because I see a classic facial expression she makes that I am now making. 

That right there: the tongue slightly protruding. That is my mother. And her mother.

I love the picture above. It looks like me. It reminds me of the mini diva since she used to always stick her tongue out. And I simultaneously hate it since that is my mother.

My mom is a beautiful lady. I have her nose and mouth and cheekbones. I'm pretty sure everything else is from my dad's side. The fact that I hate how much I favor her is ridiculous since I find her so beautiful. (Am I overusing that word? Probably. But it fits her.)

I remember when I was in my adolescent years I hated looking like my mom. She and I fought so much that when I saw her in the mirror I hated me. Even now I don't love that I look like her; but that's got nothing to do with what she actually looks like. Why do I do that? Why throw out the proverbial baby with the bath water? And I do it with more people than just my mother.

Things get hard and I get hardened. Someone says something offensive and I never want to talk to them again for as long as I live. I believe that the offender meant to hurt me and damage me. I know I'm not alone.

I was recently "unfriended" on Facebook by a lady. It's happened before and I'm sure it will happen again. I've been trying this new thing where I actually communicate with the people I have either offended or have offended me and try to reconcile the relationship. Or at least bring some kind of resolution.

Her reason for unfriending me? She was embarrassed by something she did. And I made too big of a deal of it by being hurt or asking her about it. That she often gets taken the wrong way. Then she asked what I wanted her to do about it. I'm not sure what I wanted: but I wanted a different response from what I got. The conversation ended with me just telling her to know that her actions affect other people because she is important to them.

I'm glad for the communication with her but it was like we were speaking two different languages. Entirely different languages. Opposite languages. The words just wouldn't mesh. And that's okay. It has to be since I can't change it. ;)

That's how I know I'm not alone: other people want to just erase all evidence of their hurts too. But that doesn't mean you act on it: it doesn't make it right to just rub people with an unfriend eraser like they never mattered to you at all.


My face is my mom to a T. Mini diva is her own and perfect and wonderful in every way. Little Larry was still baking in this picture.

... every man that eateth the sour grape, his teeth shall be set on edge.
Jeremiah 31:30

I'm afraid that my teeth will be set on edge because of someone else's mistakes. I take their foolishness as my own and instead of recognizing that that's not God's plan for me.. I eat the grapes. And I do my best to erase the memories by deleting the pictures that remind me of the person's grapes I choked down. By hiding the pictures that show how much I favor my mom and her mannerisms. By scolding myself when I sing the songs she used to sing to me to my kids. (I'm pretty sure they were all made up by her. I make songs up for my kids too.)

I fight that urge. And I've grown immensely in this area. I take risks like asking if my perceptions are true. I see that people are... people. People I can learn from and people that I can learn to love beyond their folly or bitterness. And it's okay to not write them off, it's a good thing to love them, and sometimes it's a good thing to love them with boundaries in place.


That's my mom and me at one of my bridal parties. I couldn't find one with her tongue stuck out.

My mom is funny. She is creative. She is smart. And yes, she is beautiful. I like to think that we can glean the good from our parents and leave the weeds. I like to think my kids will do that with me: take the good stuff, leave the waste. I like to think that's the way my mom believes. That she wants me to hold on to the good she had to offer and to feel okay with leaving the sour grapes.

I can do that with my unfriends, too. (Yes, I've been unfriended more than once. By people I loved a whole lot.) Take the good from it and leave the yuck.

... but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.
Philippians 3:13 NLT

The yuck stuff; the stuff that weighs you down? Forget it and look towards what lies ahead. Those unfriendships and those offenses? Take the good from it and move ahead to what's next for you. Keep moving forward. It's okay to look like your family: you aren't them. You are your own self; free to make your own mistakes, free to achieve your own successes. Even if you stick your tongue out while doing it.


I'm pretty sure this is all me.

If the Shoe Fits...

Just because the shoe fits don't mean you gotta wear it.

Let me show the picture I was tagged in by one of my most discerning and wise friends:

This is the script that came with the picture: 

"Sometimes she made life more difficult for herself than it was. She decided she didn’t want to live that way anymore. She had the power to choose happiness and so she did. – Queenisms™"

And she tagged me because she thought of me when she posted it. The shoe fits. Boo to making life difficult; yea for having the power to choose better.

Y'all, I've had a really trying month. Year. Life. I'm not unique in that and I know it. But the past month has definitely been difficult. Be prepared to read a few heavy lines coming up in the next paragraph.

My stepdad was found dead in the apartment he shared with my mom. My mom was in a psychiatric hospital for a month undergoing treatment. There was an implication by multiple sources including my mother that I was expected to find (read: fund) a place for her to live, to get her car out of the impound lot, and to deal with her legal issues. Yeaaahhh... 

Add to this a trip to the ER for Little Larry, stomach flu for each member of the family (in rounds-yea!), another strange sickness that skipped my husband, and the fact that being a work at home mom and wife is not a walk in the park (that's not a complaint; just reality).

In the midst of my weariness I found myself wearing old shoes. The old, worn, comfy boots of depression and anxiety. They fit: but only because I lived them so long. I don't like them. They don't suit me or the person I've become anymore. 

Can't move in these. Can't do anything in them.

Sadly they fit me from the time I was ten until I was nineteen. I was nineteen when I broke free from the bondage of suicide and depression. That was three years before I met Jesus and He saved me. A lot of that is contributed to the therapist I had the honor of being treated by: he invested in me and taught me more than I was able to grasp in the moment. It's hard work to stay alive when you have lived trying to die for half your life.

It would be an untruth to say I haven't struggled with my status as an over comer the past thirteen years. But I didn't put the shoes back on. I struggled, I wrestled, I battled, I cried. But I won. I kept the shoes off.

These are what I think I have to wear: protect my feet from the old familiar.

Then this past month with all of the blows I took... instead of keeping my combat boots on I started going bare foot. And in my weariness I hardly noticed that the old shoes went back on. And the laces were knotted. And tied together. Every time I started to get up I tripped on the laces and fell back down. 

Granted, I needed to rest. I needed to stop saying yes to so much and volunteering to take on more. But that doesn't mean I wear old stinky shoes. It means that I rest: in prayer, in worship, in peace. It means I rest physically, emotionally, and mentally. It means that if I volunteer for anything it is to life. It means if I say yes to anyone it is Jesus. It means if I am to put anything on my feet it will be peace.

Instead I put on the other shoes. I made life hard when it was an opportune time for me to learn to rest. That's been a pattern for me: I look so hard for the learning and those things that are difficult that I miss just enjoying life. I miss the roses. Because I taught myself that smelling the flowers and feeling the sun on my face is me being lazy. Me sleeping is me going back to depression and suicide. Me resting = old shoes. 

They're old and musty and heavy.

Y'all. That's not true. Peace doesn't look like anguish. And it doesn't look like constantly looking for the trial or test in the midst of enjoying life. It doesn't look like every unknown phone number being a dreaded telephone call.  And it certainly doesn't look like laying down and dying.

So how do you change shoes that are knotted and laced together once they're on your feet? 

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

Isaiah 53:5

I love the prophets. Major prophets, minor prophets: they are some of my favorite contributors to the Bible. How raw and real they were and still are. How they just broke open their lives and hearts in obedience to God. It's beautiful. 

For me. And you.

But their sacrifices do not compare to how Jesus was broken and wounded so that I would have life. And have it more abundantly. Freely. The onus is on me to receive it. I get to receive peace daily, hourly, 

minutely because He paid for it on the cross. My sins and wrongdoings: He paid for them with His body. The hurts and shame inflicted on me by others: He bought those too. Those stripe marks that covered the front and back of His body bought my healing. 

Before I was born He paid the way for me to live and enjoy my life. 

That's how the shoes go back to the pit of hell where they came from. That's how I put up the heavy combat boots and trade them for walking in the gospel of peace. I choose to let Him save me. I choose to simply obey Him. To take my rest in Him. I choose to be happy and content. It's as easy and hard as it sounds. 

And it's worth it.

P.S. He's not on the cross anymore.