The Places in Between

I have revamped and renamed my blog here at After several months of struggling with the nature of blogs and my reasons for blogging, I have settled (for now) on this being a place where I just write. It will be a mishmash of essays, the results of writing exercises, thoughts on the ordinary and reflections on faith.  Continue reading

I need to write. I feel like more of myself when I write. And I want to put some of what I write out there for others to read since a few people have told me they enjoy reading what I write. This is not a mommy blog. I have no desire to write about mothering and my kids all the time. Although I may write about mothering and my kids on occasion. This is not a Christian I-Need-To-Build-My-Tribe blog. I don’t think I can play that game.

So I’m just going to write.

The title of this website defines how I feel much of the time. At 39, I’m not old, but I’m no longer young. Although I am bipolar, I spend most of my life  in the space in the middle of being manic or depressed. My children are in their tween years and still need me, but they don’t need me as much as they used to. I’m moving forward on my journey, but I haven’t “arrived.” (Does anyone ever?) I’m content with being in the places in between and want to pay attention to the view and enjoy the ride.

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For Red Mountain Church’s Website: In Ordinary Time

I recently wrote something for my church’s website. Here’s an excerpt:

Yesterday I realized we are about half-way through Ordinary Time and I have barely noticed its passage. I have overlooked an unopened present that’s been in plain sight for weeks, unaware that a thing of great beauty might be inside it. In early June I purchased a devotional book about Ordinary Time that a friend recommended, intending to use it throughout this season until Advent. I read the introduction then promptly forgot about it. Because of my neglect, it has made its way to the bottom of the stack on my bedside table, now residing under books that seem more exciting or life-giving. Maybe because my experience of time lately has been rote I couldn’t consciously dive deeper into the ordinary. Maybe I already have enough.

To read the full post, please visit the Red Mountain Church website

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Writing, Revealing and Making Messes

In Old Friend from Far Away, Natalie Goldberg writes, “Writing needs raw truth, wants your suffering and darkness on the table, revels in a cutting mind that takes no prisoners, wants to hear about an abortion, a broken heart, a failed job, a lost opportunity.” Then she asks the reader to write for ten minutes about what you are not willing to reveal. I wrote a long list in that short period of time, and I could have kept going.

What struck me the most while doing this exercise is that the things I don’t want to admit to others are things I don’t want to admit to myself. I can write about some of my past suffering and raw truths–the experiences and disappointments that I have come to terms with over time. But I struggle with writing openly about things from my past that I haven’t made peace with yet or about my present suffering and raw truths. At times it’s difficult to be vulnerable and honest with myself, let alone with anyone else. I like to have more control over how others perceive me, and I guess over how I perceive myself, which makes me mostly unwilling to go there in a completely honest way. And I realize not everything needs to be written for the consumption of others. Perhaps knowing where that line exists is one of the keys to taking more risks in my writing. I need to practice coming closer to the line that separates the private from the public, but with attention and perception to make sure the line is not crossed.

But does this idea of making everything so tidy and rigid with a straight line that can’t be crossed bring me too close to an attempt at being perfect? Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life:

Clutter and mess show us that life is being lived…Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation… Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friend. What people somehow forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here.

So maybe the line is blurry, or a zigzag or even like a swirl of yarn that can’t be untangled. Making a mess of things with my writing would not be the end of the world. Stepping into the mess of exploring things I haven’t yet found any boxes for and crossing a perceived line might be the kind of risks I should be willing to take.

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Five Minutes Every Day

10:56 a.m.

Not much can happen in five minutes. I stare at the lines of my Moleskine and twirl my pencil for at least 30 or 45 seconds. Then I spit something out onto the paper–something horrible that will most likely go nowhere. But there are words. There are seeds of ideas forming. My mind and my heart and my hand and my pencil are all connected, doing the work of creating. Just for five minutes. Then I stop.

My goal is to write every day, so five minutes is very doable. I’ll increase the time by five minutes every two weeks until I hit the hour mark. Then I’ll allow myself to go over the allotted time. But for now I stop. It reminds me of when I read aloud with my kids (although it’s been a while since I’ve read aloud to them…) and whenever I stop at a really good part they beg me to keep reading. But I don’t because it’s so great to give them time to savor what they’ve heard and space to anticipate what will be coming in the future.

All week I’ve been writing late at night, right before I go to sleep. But today it’s 10:56 a.m., while my kids are home and there is laundry to do and dishes to clean and meals to plan and a grocery list to make. And I wish my goal was longer. But I know there will be more time tomorrow. And even more in the weeks to come. So I’ll wait in this space with anticipation, wondering what the future may hold.


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A Love Affair

It is George’s idea. I go along with his suggestion and feel like I’m crossing a threshold into adulthood.

After clearing away the lunch dishes, our server places two white ceramic saucers on the crisp, starched table cloth and crowns each one with a matching cup. He presents a silver pot and pours the coffee before leaving our table. I reach for the cream and sugar, but George stops me. “You should drink it black,” he says.

We have been friends for six years and are about to go our separate ways for college. He has taught me about music—primarily R.E.M. and Bob Dylan, with a mix tape of various jazz musicians thrown in there. He introduced me to sushi and sake. He took me to my first independent film at the Capri Theatre. And now he’s heading off to Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service. I’ll be at a small liberal arts school an hour and a half from our hometown. So I drink it black.

Except for the few curious sips out of my parents’ mugs as a child, this is my first coffee experience. I don’t particularly like the taste. It’s little more than colored, caffeinated water, but I finish it and allow our server to give me a refill.

During the fall of my sophomore year, one of my suite mates mentions how much she loves studying at O’Henry’s Coffee Shop. The next day I’m restless and need a change of scenery (or an excuse to put off my Organic Chemistry homework), so I look it up in the phone book, call for directions and make my way there. It’s situated in the quaint downtown area of Homewood, a city in the Birmingham metro area about 15 minutes from Birmingham-Southern College. It is on a street lined with boutiques, an upscale salon and restaurants. There is a record store next door. I’m immediately captivated with the atmosphere and vibe of the area. Continue reading

The bell on the door jingles when I open it, and I step out of the early afternoon sunshine into a whole new world. There is wall dedicated to rows and rows of glass cases filled with coffee beans from all over the world. Vibrant art is hung in prominent spots along the other walls and Van Morrison is coming out of the speakers overhead. Students are studying with mugs beside their textbooks, children are drinking hot chocolate while their moms chat over more sophisticated beverages and a couple of businessmen seem to be discussing something very important.

They have several types of brewed coffee, espresso drinks (I’ve never heard of espresso.) and a wide variety of decadent desserts, muffins and scones available for purchase. I order a medium cup of the bold blend—African Classic—and find a place at a small round table. I drink it black.

This is not anything like my first cup of coffee with George or the hundreds of others I’ve had during late night study sessions with classmates at the Denny’s a few blocks from campus. This is much more than colored, caffeinated water. I have discovered real coffee—coffee full of flavor and “floral overtones and citrus acidity.” Before leaving O’Henry’s and the neighborhood that seems to be pulling me into its magnetic field, I fill out an application to work there.

During every shift, I drink coffee, espresso and Americanos. At first I stay away from the flavored coffees and chocolate-y mochas, but I eventually try them only to discover I really do prefer the black options without sugar, milk or whipped cream. Whenever I leave, my hair and clothes reek of coffee. My car even smells like coffee. When I’m not working, I go there often to study or have coffee dates with friends. My love affair with coffee has begun. 

…to be continued

This is the result of a writing prompt from Old Friend from Far Away by Natalie Goldberg. It’s a first-ish draft, and there is a lot more to the story which I will most likely work on in the near future. I struggle here with the details about the first visit to O’Henry’s. I don’t remember what types of people were sitting at the tables or what kind of music was playing. I did order African Classic and drank it black. So is this piece truthful? Mostly. I might take those questionable tidbits out and try to reach for more that I really do remember. But now I need to go clean my house and do some laundry.


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A Writing Exercise: Why I Am Who I Am

“Little girls are to be seen and not heard.”

I remember the thick, lingering smell of sawdust when my dad was building a tool shed behind my childhood home. Whenever he was working, I would make my way to the saw horses, scoop up handfuls of the feathery fragments and breathe in the earthy, smoky aroma. Two decades later when I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband and I hired a contractor to renovate our kitchen and bathroom. I was suffering from terrible nausea, and the sawdust odor was especially repulsive to my first trimester sense of smell. Every night I would sink into our overstuffed moss green couch, watch Trading Spaces and wonder if I’d ever recover.

The Beatles    Chicago    Grandma Byrd’s jewelry box    cabbage rolls   Grandma Boyd’s Oil of Olay    Dallas    swing set    train tracks    peanuts   oranges    olives    my mom’s black eyeliner    tape recorder    roller skates rosin    blisters    bourbon    reel-to-reel    yellow shag carpet   “You Are My Sunshine”    nap time    Soul Train    Annie    root beer floats    red geraniums     Easter egg hunts    Aunt Carol’s wedding    Aunt Betty’s cigarettes    Fluffy     Stand by Me    Little House on the Prairie    pink leg warmers    Tang    

My daughter’s hair is thick and silky straight. It falls below her shoulders and is perfect for braiding. Except for the one golden streak near her face, it’s the color of chocolate. Those bleached strands are visible evidence of her independent, free spirit. And they prove I’m a mama who picks her battles.

*This post is the result of a writing exercise by Dinty W. Moore in Creative Writing Demystified, although I found the exercise on a random website after Googling “creative nonfiction prompts.” Moore says it’s “an experimental essay, in collage form…” and that I should “marvel at the unexpected connections and odd logic.” 


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An Abundant Life

When I became a Christian 18 years ago, one of the things I learned is that Christ came to give us an abundant life. In John 10:10 Jesus says:

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. (ESV)

When I am alive to my true desires, I long for the abundant life that he promises. When I allow my true desires to fade, I ignore the promise and look to cheap substitutions. But my idols and addictions never come through for me the way I think they will. They always fall short, and my true desires resurface. Their return is as sure as the continuous cycle of the seasons. It may take a while for spring to be ablaze in all its glory, but we know it’s coming. It never fails to arrive.

Not long ago, I was struck with the reality that I already have what I so desperately want.  The abundant life isn’t a life of constant happiness free from pain and discomfort. If that’s what Jesus was claiming to give us, he would have said that. The abundant life is a life full of life–with ups and downs, rest and struggle, sorrow and joy.

It ‘s having a thriving marriage, a wonderful family and dear friends. And knowing the heartache of broken relationships.

It’s being content as a wife, mother and neighbor. And having days, weeks, and months of feeling like I offer no valuable contribution to society.

It’s caring for others. And being depleted with no more time or energy to give.

It’s tasting and enjoying God’s presence and goodness. And experiencing periods of spiritual disconnection.

It’s being hopeful about the future. And wondering if this is as good as it gets.

It’s having a sane mind. And journeying through several seasons of depression, two episodes of hypermania and one week-long stay in a psychiatric ward.

It’s having a healthy body. And undergoing an emergency hysterectomy.

It’s feeling beautiful and confident. And knowing that I may never truly love what I see in the mirror.

I’m not the first woman who’s been tempted to think that God is holding out on her. When I’m back in the garden, questioning God’s goodness and battling with the thief whose job is to steal, kill and destroy, I can choose to believe that I already possess what my savior came to give me. This messy, mixed-up, fantastic, ordinary, extraordinary life is mine for the taking. Knowing that the  triune God is always with me and that my ultimate hope is in the eternal life Jesus obtained for me gives me the freedom to take hold of all that comes my way this side of heaven. And I pray for the grace and the faith to do so.



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Staying Power

This is my sixth post in Stealing Time magazine’s  Fortnight of Flash.

He swings the bat, makes contact and gets his first double. He experiences the thrill of catching two pop flies during one game to get opposing players out. His team makes it all the way to the league championship game. Watching March Madness with his dad ignites his interest in basketball, resulting in multiple trips to the gym to practice lay ups and free throws and playing countless games of Horse with the Nerf basketball hoop that hangs on the pantry door. The rules of football finally make sense.  He subscribes to Sports Illustrated Kids to keep up with this season’s news. He receives a special treat–a trip to New Orleans to attend a Saints game.

His passion for baseball, football and basketball knows no limit. Playing catch, shooting hoops, watching games, wearing his favorite team colors, reading Mike Lupica books, and talking stats—he can’t seem to get enough. He’s standing at the end of a fire hose of information, trying to drink it all in. He’s caught up in the stories of the teams, athletes and traditions. These stories are never ending and span across generations. There will always be more to see, more to learn and more opportunities to cheer or sulk.

During the spring and fall baseball seasons, he is a player in his own stories of triumph, loss and perseverance. He is a part of something larger than himself and feels the camaraderie of fellow teammates and coaches.  And more awaits him as he looks forward to the upcoming basketball season, a new round of spring baseball after that, sports camps in the summer and maybe even flag football next fall.

His past loves expired within months, but this one seems to have some staying power. He could only pretend to be a train conductor, dump truck driver, fireman and Luke Skywalker. He is already an athlete and a fan. He  experiences firsthand some of the elements of the stories that initially attracted him to the world of sports, and the ongoing and new stories continue to draw him in.


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Reaching for the Clouds

This is my fifth post in Stealing Time magazine’s  Fortnight of Flash.

“I want to touch the clouds!” my daughter screams with toddler joy as I push her on the red plastic swing in our backyard. It’s a glorious June morning, and we are soaking it all in while my infant son naps inside our house. I’m weary with the weariness that comes from caring for two small children, but her exclamation grabs my attention and awakens something deep within me. She wants more. She wants to go as high as she can comprehend, and she’s not afraid to ask for it. It’s another teachable moment, and I am the student.

I’m caught off guard by how much I’m learning from her. Before I entered motherhood, I expected to be the one with all the answers, to be in charge of doling out wisdom and knowledge. But I’m seeing that it is a shared responsibility. She’s a unique person with her own thoughts and desires, and she has much to offer.  She welcomes me into her world—to a place that I vaguely remember from my own childhood—and draws me into wonder and curiosity. As I take this journey with her, I realize that I am breaking through my own boundaries and exploring the far off places.

She’s content swinging for almost an hour. Maybe she believes she will eventually reach the clouds. I remember the “Dream Big” mosaic that I bought for her at an art show a few months ago. She can’t read the words yet, but she already knows what it means. And so do I.

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Sometimes I Wonder

This is my fourth post in Stealing Time magazine’s  Fortnight of Flash.

It’s been over two years since we talked, since our friendship came to a halt. My anger turned to grief a few months after we traded those last text messages where we were both so sure of our own righteousness. The sadness still lingers; I believe it always will.

We did not discuss our parting in person. Sometimes I wonder if that would have made a difference. You would have seen my tears; I would have seen yours. Perhaps another story would have unfolded even though the dominoes were already in place and the first one had fallen.  Maybe a face-to-face conversation would have made some room for hope and cleared some space for reconciliation.

I can’t deny that I long for this chapter of our lives to be different. I certainly wish it could be rewritten. But brokenness won. The cord of our relationship was severed, and we are both left with a frayed remnant of something that once was and will never be again.

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