Maybe That's Why...

My heart has been heavy this week. Other than simple bumps and scrapes, this has been my first experience with the heart-break of seeing my child in pain; the guilt of wondering if I could have prevented this. Every time I see her wince as she tries to get comfortable, I find myself asking, "why?"

We saw an orthopedic doctor on Tuesday, and it turns out that the bone is cracked halfway through. She needs to wear the brace for four to six weeks, 24 hours a day. Matt carried her out to the car and we headed home preparing ourselves for the reality that we will have both an injured toddler and a newborn baby in just 10 days.

Why did this have to happen so close to the end of our pregnancy?

Why did this have to happen at all?

Why does she have to experience this pain?

Why? The question tumbles from my lips in an automatic response to life’s not-so-pleasant surprises. From minor inconveniences to major catastrophes, I find myself looking toward the sky and demanding an immediate answer or an easy solution. Sometimes I just freeze for a minute as I wait for God to part the clouds and say, “Just kidding. This isn’t really happening.”

And as much as I wish that my situation weren’t real, my questions for God extend far beyond the walls of my own home this week. The list of people we love who have been hit by difficult circumstances and tough uncertainties is so long that our dinner is cold long before we finish saying our prayers.

Morning, noon, and night, I am in constant prayer, asking God to provide strength, comfort, and peace to my daughter, my family, and my endless list of loved ones searching for reasons of their own. As I pray, my phone beeps with constant emails, texts, and facebook messages - reminders of the many prayers flowing into my life as my prayers flow out to others. People offer to bring a meal or lend a hand in the same moment that I am sending that same offer to someone else.

As I sit in the middle of this outpouring of love, the questions begin to fade and I am surrounded by a rainbow of gratitude. Because without these challenges, without these questions, we might forget how to love this deeply, how to pray this desperately, how to reach out this easily. We might forget what it’s like to come to him on our knees and feel His embrace. We might forget to surrender to His hands and His plan. And we might miss the peace and the joy of knowing just how loved we truly are.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Melissa's place!

Lessons from a Broken Bone

I caught my oldest brother (who is both single and childless) eyeing my stomach from across the room, “What?” 

“So, pretty soon you’ll have two kids.” He said it as if no one had ever explained to him how this process works.

“Yeah… and?”

“Isn’t that gonna be a huge pain in the ass?”

Although he said it jokingly and I laughed out loud at the time, that really is one of my concerns. I don’t exactly voice it in those words, but I often think about how I will adjust to the added demands of a second child. Every day I have at least one moment where I wonder how this is all going to work. I have gone from being consistently punctual to chronically late; I have to sit and take a deep breath at least once a day; and I can barely function after 9:00pm. And I only have one kid!

Today I had one of those mornings. Everywhere I looked, another task begged for my attention and I couldn’t seem to make a dent in my mental to-do list. I bounced back and forth between my roles on the toddler entertainment committee and the cleaning crew, and I kept trying to picture a newborn in the mix. Maybe my brother had a point.

Just before lunch, Reese was playing on our bed while I separated laundry. I didn’t see her fall, but I heard the thud as her body hit the bedroom floor. I rushed to her side, trying to determine what was hurt. She pointed to her shoulder. I scooped her up and comforted her while I waited for the tears to stop. They didn’t.

I laid her on the bed and ask her to raise her arms. She only raised the right one. I asked if I could take her shirt off and she refused. From what I could see, nothing looked abnormal. There were no lumps, no swelling, and even though I felt like an overly paranoid parent, I decided to take her to Prompt Care anyway. I threw on a hat and a pair of flip flops, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out the door in my pajamas.

On the way I called Matt at work and he wanted to meet us there. Great. Now we’re both overly paranoid. When we got there, the doctor wanted to do x-rays. Standard procedure. Or maybe he’s an overly paranoid doctor. I was surprisingly calm the whole time because I kept waiting to hear, “It’s nothing. Go home, put some ice on it, and wait for the bill for this unnecessary visit.”

That’s not quite what he said.

Fractured collarbone. Brace. Sling. Pain meds. Orthopedic referral.

We brought her home and took turns sitting with her on the couch while she watched re-runs of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and snacked on grapes and cheese crackers. The remainder of our afternoon and evening revolved around her. We ordered a pizza for dinner and Matt got displaced to the guest room so Reese and I could sleep in our bed.

As I sit here typing in bed with the computer on my lap and a sleeping toddler at my side, there is a wet load of laundry still in the washer, a dried piece of green Play-doh ground into my living room rug, and a puddle of spilled salsa drying on the bottom of my refrigerator. The messes that somehow seemed so dire 12 hours ago suddenly don’t matter at all. My mental to-do list now contains only one item, take care of Reese. Everything else has either been completely forgotten or termed unnecessary.

I would have guessed that a situation like this might worsen my concerns about having another child. Instead, it eased them - totally. Reese has never had an injury or an illness worse than a cold, and I had forgotten the ease with which this mode of motherhood takes over – the mode that gives us added strength and patience, that blinds us to the rest of life’s demands, that lowers our standards for the condition of our homes and the frequency of our showers, that carries us from moment to moment without a single priority beyond loving and nurturing the children who need us.

That's how a newborn enters the mix. That's how we accept the responsibility of dressing an extra body and feeding an extra mouth. That's how we deal with a child who has the flu or a fractured collarbone. To people who aren't ready for children, I suppose it would seem like a huge pain in the ass. But to the women who already have them, it's life. It's motherhood. And we wouldn't have it any other way. 

The Best is Yet to Come

Slowing our bikes to a stop, we gathered in a giggly cluster on the front lawn of my childhood home. A white limousine sat in front of the house across the street next to a group of smiley teenagers. We watched in awe, whispering as quietly as young girls can whisper while we cast our votes for the prettiest dress and the cutest date. When the limo finally drove off, we returned to our bikes and I pedaled down the street behind my friends, fantasizing about my own prom night and the many promises of a bright and beautiful future.

That was eleven years before I actually attended my own prom, and here I sit eleven years after, having experienced so many of the days that once seemed so far away – high school, college, marriage, pregnancy, motherhood. Through the first three decades of my life I looked toward the years ahead with such hope and anticipation. Every year brought another exciting “first” and the future was full of mystery and adventure. I wanted to look older, feel older, be older. The best is yet to come.

Somewhere along the way, my feelings toward the future began shifting away from excitement and floating in the space between indifference and dread. With so many major events now in the past, I feared that life would become perpetually repetitive, boring even. No longer able to fantasize about where I might “end up,” I wondered if the adventure was over, if I would begin to spend less time daydreaming about what is to come and more time entertaining thoughts of what might have been “if only…”

Yesterday I celebrated my 30th birthday – not the way I celebrated my tenth with a slumber party filled with popcorn and late-night laughter; or the way I celebrated my eighteenth with a huge bonfire in my parents’ backyard; or the way I celebrated my twenty-first with an irresponsible number of shots and a very spotty memory. Instead, I spent the day at the pumpkin patch with Reese and my mom, and then I enjoyed a pedicure and dinner with friends. It was quiet, peaceful, and perfect, and I celebrated because the repetition I anticipated has become the comfort I seek and the boredom I feared has become the contentment I cherish.

With one decade closing and another about to begin, the future is filled with a different kind of adventure. The identity-seeking years of wild parties and tangible firsts are becoming the peacefully stable years of security, consistency, and continued spiritual growth. With a greater appreciation for simple joys and deeper gratitude for even the smallest blessings, I have a renewed sense of excitement for all that lies ahead.

As 21st birthdays become 40th birthdays, weddings become 50th anniversaries, and graduation parties become retirement parties, I will always remember that little girl on her purple bike pedaling toward the road ahead with the wind at her back and a heart full of hope and anticipation for the promises of a bright and beautiful future. 

The best is yet to come.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Jade's place!

Keep the Fire Burning

I poured my Saturday morning coffee and settled into the recliner. Reese was still asleep and Matt had already left to work on the farm. I stared out the window, watching the sun rise over the treetops. In the corner of our yard, two empty lawn chairs faced the stone fire ring. Tiny strands of smoke rose intermittently from the center of the circle, the final remnants of the previous night.

Just ten hours earlier, Matt went outside to light a fire while I put Reese to bed. I waited for the sound of rustling bed sheets to fade away before joining my husband beneath the stars for a much-needed night of reconnection. Pulling our chairs in close, we took turns tossing in empty pizza boxes and pieces of shredded mail. The warmth enveloped us, creating a shield against the chill of the night. The heat pressed into our cheeks, forcing us to inch our chairs backward as we fed the flames. 

Alone in the dark, we reunited with the couple we were seven years ago, before full-time jobs, children, and mortgage payments began chipping away at our time, energy, and patience for each other. With no clock to remind us of the hour, we rekindled past memories, laughing as if we didn't already know the end of each story. We talked late into the night, ignoring our bodies’ pleas for sleep as we fed the flames of our marriage with laughter and simple presence.

Knowing the morning would come all too soon, we finally made our way back to the house. Behind us, the fire began its slow death. We didn’t even bother to fully extinguish the remaining flames. The lack of attention would be enough to seal its fate. Crawling into bed, we snuggled a little closer, held each other a little tighter, kissed a little longer…

Sitting in the recliner just a few hours later, I wondered how I would possibly muster the energy for a full day of toddler mayhem. Regret began crowding my thoughts as I silently scolded myself, you should have gone to bed earlier…

My inner voice suddenly quieted as I watched the fire take its final breaths, completing its descent from a beautiful burning blaze into a lifeless pile of ashes.

Pondering a Miracle

People often ask me to compare pregnancies, which I appreciate because that's often the only time I stop to think about it. The demands of a toddler have kept the time moving forward at warp speed, and I haven't been following the progression of What to Expect fruits, but it sure feels like this baby went from fig to pumpkin overnight. Still, I have managed to find quite a few differences this time around. 

The morning sickness was much better, but the physical discomfort of the last few weeks has been worse. The bladder control issue is definitely new and I change my pants at least once a day. My cravings have switched from hash browns and fried foods to applesauce and fresh fruit (which has kept me about ten pounds lighter, quite the bonus). This baby is a lot more active, and I'll be shocked if I make it to my due date without some kind of internal injury.

Yesterday I was snuggling in bed with Reese when the baby started distorting my stomach into the oddest shapes. I took Reese's hand and pressed it against my belly. The baby pushed out against her little fingers. She smiled up at me, whispering, “Mommy, there’s a baby in there.”

Her hand lingered on my skin. The same hand that once pressed out from the inside now rested on the outside, perfectly formed and belonging to a flawless little body and a beautiful mind. Created by us and our love for each other. Created by God and His love for us. And soon we will be blessed with another child, equally perfect, equally reflective of the depths of unconditional love.

My gaze shifted from the intermittent protrusions from my abdomen to the toddler at my side. It's still so unreal. I can feel the baby's kicks and see it's movement. I can hear Reese's giggles and hold her in my arms. Yet a part of me still questions the possibility of it all.

I hear that no matter the gender, no matter the number, every pregnancy is completely different from any other. Judging by my experience thus far, I would be tempted to agree, but one thing always remains constant...


From the double line on the plastic stick to the bright lights of the delivery room.

From the very first flutter of life to the toddler running laps around the kitchen table.

From the feeling of a tiny hand pushing out from the inside to the sight of that same hand now resting on the outside.

The awe.

The wonder.

The miracle.

Of life.

Of love.

Of motherhood.





This is a Bigger Picture Moment.
Share with us today at Hyacynth's place.

My Kind of Budget

It’s Saturday morning. Two steaming mugs of coffee and an apple juice sippy cup rest on the patio table while a happy toddler chases bubbles. Matt and I pass the bottle back and forth, seeing who can blow the most bubbles with a single dip of the wand. We have no time limit, no agenda. I live for these mornings.

And I am beyond thankful that these days are not few and far between. This is a typical Saturday. This is our lifestyle – one of the many reasons I chose to stay home. The groceries are bought. The house is [relatively] clean. There are no errands to run, no bills to pay. My days are filled with diapers and coupons and bills (oh my!) so our evenings and weekends can be filled with snuggles and bubbles.    

At times, this life is not easy. We sacrifice a lot to have it this way. Our kids may never go to Disney World or have a fully paid college education. Christmases and birthdays are small and the gap between what we want and what can afford is often big.

All around me I see people taking vacations, refurnishing rooms, upsizing, upgrading. And it is tempting – oh, so tempting – to join the race.

Until Saturday comes again and I sip coffee with my husband and blow bubbles for my daughter with no time limit, no agenda. Because everything else is already done and there is nothing left to do but relax and be thankful that we may have to budget our money, but at least we're not short on time.

Through a Toddler's Eyes: Work

Reese and I walked hand-in-hand toward the playground. To our right, the tiny lake shimmered in the sunlight as a flock of Canadian geese waddled along the shore line looking for the perfect spot to enter the water. 

“Look, Mommy, those geese are working.”

Working? I asked if she meant to say “walking.” She corrected me, confirming that in her mind, those geese were hard at work. Trying to wrap my head around her logic, I challenged myself to answer the question - if they’re not working, what are they doing? Well, they’re just doing what geese do. They're just… being.

It took me a minute to fully process the beauty of her statement. Somehow, she had come to understand that to engage in your “work” is simply to be as you were meant to be, to fulfill your basic purpose.

That moment has completely changed the way I see my daily routine and the way I think about the “work” to be done in my life.

I walk the aisles of the grocery store like an eagle in flight.

I empty the dishwasher like a bumblebee gathering pollen.

I dust my furniture like a rosebud turning its face to the sun.

And I sit at my computer spilling the contents of my heart like a flock of geese waddling along the sandy shores of a shimmering lake.

Now, I can stir a pot on the stove, fold laundry, or pay bills without wishing I could stop and just simply be. And I can read a book, paint my nails, or write my heart out without feeling like I should get on with more important work. In every action I am working, fulfilling my purpose, turning my own tiny gear in the giant wheel of creation. I'm just doing what moms doing. I'm just being.

And when Reese is constructing her tallest block tower, splattering soap bubbles on the mirror as she washes her hands, or picking up her toys at the end of the day, she's just doing what toddlers do. She's just being. But she tells me she's working, and I just smile and agree because I've forgotten that there was ever a difference.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Corinne's.

Creative Soul

This is a departure from what I typically share in this space, but as a part of a journey so close to my heart, I felt compelled to share it today in the hopes that your dreams will not lie asleep below the surface of your life for even one more day… 

Last weekend I attended the Creative Soul event through Bigger Picture Blogs, my first-ever retreat for women with creative passion. It was my official first step toward the pursuit of my long-repressed dream to call myself a writer. I drove four hours into unfamiliar suburban territory only to enter an even less familiar setting full of people I didn’t know and a day full of activities with which I had no experience - writing on the spot, opening my work up to critical review, and holding a paintbrush for the first time since the paint by number canvases of my childhood. Needless to say, I was more than a bit nervous.

As I entered the coffee house, the quaint setting and soft music reined in my terror. The small, intimate meeting room with its circle of wooden chairs calmed me even more. Then, a familiar face - the unlikely person from my past who invited me. She welcomed me with a warm embrace and I no longer felt like an outsider. The last remaining fears melted away and I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

I spent the day surrounded by passionate women and the creative energy flowed freely, inspiring each of us toward a greater fulfillment of our own unique gifts. Bound by a desire to serve God by adding to the world’s beauty, it was easy to forget that many of us were strangers to each other just hours before. Giving voices to the stories within us and breathing life into our talents, we filled each other with encouragement.

That night I drove home with the fruits of my creativity lining the backseat of my car, proof that I am capable of more than I realize. Believing for the first time with every ounce of my being that I am chasing the right dream down the right path, I thanked God for bringing this group together and for His gentle nudges that sealed my decision to be a part of it.

Thank you, ladies, for a refreshing, inspiring, and life-changing day. I am blessed to have experienced it.

Below is the edited version of the piece I wrote during our twenty minute Writing Circles exercise....

The Awakening of a Dream

The Lord beckons me toward the edge. I back away, afraid of the fall. He calls me back, whispering softly, “Come closer.”

I can’t.

Instead, I run. I hide. I push Him away, refusing His call, closing my ears.

But the call of the Lord is relentless and even though He never yells, His whisper stirs my heart just the same. Ever so slowly, I step forward, hesitating with every move. The voices in my head overpower His gentle nudge as I issue myself a warning against the inevitable pain that will surely follow as I plummet into the unknown.

I stand frozen in place, heeding my warning. His whisper fades into the silence and He lets me stay there for as long as I need because He doesn’t shove; He only nudges. Instead, He wraps me in His patient embrace and He waits. As His love surrounds me, I begin to hear a new voice, quiet and weak. A hush falls over my mind as it asks, “What if I don't fall? What if I fly?"

This is my Genesis, the beginning of my voyage. This is my Exodus, the escape from my fear. This is my Revelation, the journey toward that to which He has called me. Finally, my ears are listening, my heart is accepting and I am ready to answer His call. I am ready to step over the edge, to let Him carry me on His wings, and to discover if I really can fly. 

Five Minute Friday: Wide

The glass tipped on its side, spilling sticky orange liquid all over my kitchen table. Reese’s cries erupted from the other room as I reached for a towel. Forgetting the mess, I headed for her room where I discovered a wet bed and an even wetter kid. I stripped her sheets and threw them in the wash, cleaned her up and changed her clothes.

I finally returned to the kitchen to pour her some cheerios and paused in front of the table. The small puddle of spilled juice now spanned the width of its surface, soaking into the fabric placemats, dripping over the edges and pooling on the floor. A mess that originally required a few paper towels had now become a much bigger project.

I reached for the cleaning supplies, wishing I had tackled the spill sooner. As I wiped the table clean, I thought about the other “spills” in life.

Bad habits.

Negative thoughts.

Repressed anger.

Each begins as a tiny puddle, a slow drip. Left unaddressed, the puddles spread, spanning the width of our being. Creeping closer to the edge, they threaten to mar the other still-clean surfaces of our lives.

Our messes in life are best cleaned as we go.

Because the longer they’re left, the wider they grow.

Five Minute Friday is a blog link-up where everyone writes for five minutes on the same prompt. This week's prompt is "wide" and this is the product of my five minutes.

A Dream in Disguise

I'm a terrible singer.

Ask my nieces who, upon hearing my "Rock Band" rendition of Taylor Swift, offered me a permanent seat at the drum set. Ask my daughter who yells from the back seat every time I chime in with the radio, "No, Mommy, don't sing!"

Seriously, I'm awful. Arguably the worst. Ever.

Still, I always wanted to be a singer despite the full knowledge that I am totally and completely tone deaf. Even the best of singing coaches would not have improved the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound resonating from my vocal chords. Even so, I signed up for chorus and sang off key in the back row of the alto section all through junior high and high school. I performed for screaming fans of stuffed animals with my hair brush microphone and gave acceptance speeches for imaginary Grammy awards. But deep down I always knew I would have to find a different dream.

Oh, how I envied the golden voices of Celine Dion and Whitney Houston. To have a voice that carries people to another world and to share it with a passion that tugs at the heartstrings of the deepest cynics is to truly be blessed with a gift. What I would have given for their gift to be my gift! But deep down I always knew I would have to make a different wish.

Even though I always accepted the reality of my limitations, I still felt that once-in-a-while sting in my heart when I witnessed a moving vocal performance or caught the sound of my own warbling in my ear at church. How I wish for a beautiful voice…

In all those years, it never occurred to me that my wish might come true through a different path; that maybe I was pursuing the right dream in the wrong way.

Eighteen months ago, I launched a blog in a desperate attempt to reclaim my identity and have something, anything to call my own after almost a year as a stay-at-home mom without any personal outlets. So I opened a blank page and I started to write.

And wouldn't ya know it? It turns out I do have a beautiful voice.

If you have a dream that hasn’t come true, step back and look around. Maybe it has and you just can't see it from where you're standing. Maybe you're pursuing the right dream in the wrong way. You, too, have a beautiful voice inside you. You just have to find it and set it free.

This is my 100th blog post. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for hearing my voice.

This is also a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Brook's place.

[Breaking] The Rules of Baby Talk

At our house, we eat mashed pee-toes for dinner

and bluebelly yogurt for breakfast.

Our favorite color is lellow

and our favorite animals are aff-lants.

We put checkup on our chicken nuggets

and we eat cereal with a foon.

A child development “expert” probably would have told me to cut the baby talk two years ago because infants begin to differentiate individual words in speech at six months of age (true) and the incoherent babbling and mispronunciation of words can inhibit language development (really?).

Well, if that’s the case, my kid should be way behind the curve because I am a baby talkin’ fool. I babbled like an idiot well into her second year (and I even still do it on occasion). Since the day she spoke her first word, I have absorbed her pronunciations into my own vocabulary, laughing every time I say one of my favorites.

People who subscribe to the “no baby talk” philosophy probably think I’m holding my kid back with my misuse of words and incorrect grammar. Well, today I have a fully conversational two-year-old and her language development hasn’t suffered one bit as a result of my unwillingness to stop saying “foon.”

In time, she picks up the right words and when she stops saying them, I stop too. Every now and then, we have one of these conversations:

“Do you need a foon?”

“No, Mommy, it’s a spoon.”

“You’re right, honey. It is a spoon.”

One by one, each word will take its place in my memory. But for the rest of my life, every time I pick up a foon, I will smile to myself and remember these times.

And some day when she’s all grown up, she will take a seat beside me in the kitchen and I’ll pour the coffee. She’ll ask for a foon and I’ll hold in the tears as the memories flood back. Then we’ll have the same silent exchange my mom and I have when I walk into her kitchen and ask for a sawamy sammich.

Don’t stop the baby talk. I promise their language development won’t suffer. Only the memories will.

Life is short. Grab a foon.

Five Minute Friday: Focus

So much to do. All the time. Everyday.

Wash this.

Dust that.

Pay bills.

Birthday gift for Mom.

Grab bread, milk, and stamps.

Make plans for dinner.

So often my head is in the future, my thoughts wrapped up in what is yet to come, what must be done, what can’t be forgotten.

Suddenly, forgotten is the present moment. Now lost forever in a whirlwind of future plans for future moments that will no doubt be equally wasted. Because the future never fully arrives.

Forget the list. Forget the plan. But never forget the moment.

Breathe in. Be still. And focus.

This is my first attempt at a new blog link-up. Everyone writes on the same prompt (this week is "Focus"), which given each Friday morning. The goal is to write a post in five minutes or less. No planning. No editing. Just five minutes straight from the heart. Click the icon above to read more Five Minute Friday posts from other bloggers.

Lessons from a Random Stranger

Sitting alone in a booth intended for four, I drizzled heavy white cream over my coffee. The spine of my new book creaked slightly as I opened its cover for the first time. I had one hour until I had to pick Reese up. One hour of total peace and quiet. One hour with the pastime I enjoy far too infrequently these days.

An old man shuffled past my table, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. A regular customer, I assumed from the waitress’ greeting. He settled into the corner booth and ordered a hamburger. I wondered how that would pan out since his tight sunken lips suggested the absence of even a single tooth.

I quickly returned my attention to my book. Old people make me uncomfortable.

Minutes later, I looked up just as the old man was lowering himself onto the padded seat across from me. My eyes searched the room, confused.

Is he lost? Does he think I’m someone else?

The uncomfortable-around-old-people part of my brain encouraged me to bolt. Quick! Excuse yourself and leave. Or at least tell him to leave. Or at the very least pretend you don’t see him.

He either failed to notice my discomfort or completely ignored it. After a long awkward silence he finally spoke, “My name is Bob Smith. Would it be alright if I joined you?”

I felt my face flush red. People at other tables were staring, expecting a scene. Suddenly the manager peeked around the corner, “Bob, are you bothering this lady?” Then, turning to me, “Everything alright, ma’am?”

Here’s your chance. No I’m not alright. Check, please!

The thoughts fizzled before reaching my lips. I could tell from the manager’s tone that this was a common routine, an unwelcomed addition to his job description – steering Bob away from annoyed customers. Customers like me who want to read their books and drink their coffee and not be bothered by lonely old men.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I surprised myself with my own response. The manager turned toward the kitchen with a shrug. Bob continued talking as if there had been no interruption. He said he was a hundred years old. His sunken cheeks and toothless grin gave me no reason to doubt it. He said he had been living alone for the past 15 years, walking here several times a week. I wondered how long it took him to shuffle himself over from his apartment. Even if it were next door, the trip would likely take most of his day. He had the slouched posture of a weary traveler. The heaviness in his eyes hinted at the depths of his loneliness.

Pretend you don’t see him. The guilt threatened to swallow me whole as I wondered how often he gets that reaction, how often people brush him off as if he has aged out of the rights to dignity and respect. What makes my agenda so important that I can’t take an hour to validate the existence of another human being?

Closing my book, I cradled my coffee mug with both hands and forced myself to make eye contact with the stranger at my table. Bob continued to talk. I started to listen - not the way I often “listen” when Reese shows me the same toy for the tenth time, or the way I “listen” when Matt interrupts a writing session to get my opinion on a landscaping idea – but really listen with the kind of intent that whispers its message through the silence, “your story matters.”

He talked about the many decades of changes to the local landscape and how “none of this was here 50 years ago.” He bragged about his swing dancing skills and offered to take me for a spin around the diner. I said I wasn’t sure I’d be a very good partner, standing to reveal my baby bump. We shared a laugh as he asked what my husband would think about his pregnant wife’s impromptu date with this strange old man. I promised to keep it between us. We laughed again.

Suddenly I realized I was no longer nervous; no longer annoyed; no longer counting down the minutes. Eventually, I did have to excuse myself. I told Bob it was nice talking to him, and I meant it.

Twenty minutes later, with Reese now buckled in behind me, I listened to her talk about everything she did at Nana’s house. My fascination was genuine, my responses were more enthusiastic. Your story matters.

At home, I greeted Matt. He immediately started telling me about his crazy afternoon with an out-of-control student. My interest was sincere, my reaction was more concerned. Your story matters.

The significance of my random encounter suddenly started to make more sense. I hadn’t simply done a favor for a stranger. We were two souls brought together in a perfectly orchestrated universe, each possessing exactly what the other needed for the moment. I had been searching for peace and quiet with a closed mind and an open book. Instead, I found it through a closed mouth and opened ears. For one hour, my thoughts were quiet, my soul was at peace, and I remembered what it’s like to truly listen and let people know that their stories matter.

Thanks, Bob, for letting me listen.

This is a Bigger Picture moment. 

Join us today at Alita's place.

Just Another Monday Morning

I snuggled in bed with my pregnant belly draped over my body pillow. Tiny ribbons of sunlight peeked through the curtains. Next to my bed, a rooster crowed. Matt’s alarm. I felt his weight lift off the spot next to me. Drifting in and out of sleep, I listened to the running water of the shower.

Savoring the silence, I welcomed the gratitude that overwhelms me every morning when I wake up with nowhere else to be but here. I wondered what it’s like for Matt to go to work every day while I stay home and build Lego towers in my pajamas. I wondered if he envies my freedom to take walks in the park and meet friends for lunch. I thought about how hard he works to give us this life and how stressful it must be to serve as the sole financial provider for a household. Sometimes I even feel a little guilty.

Is this fair? Are we even?

Thinking I was still asleep, he snuck quietly out the door. Just as the garage door began to close, my alarm sounded on the night stand - a tiny voice over the monitor.

“Mommy? Mommy, I peed in my bed and I’m all wet.”

Nevermind. We’re totally even.

Lessons from a Rotten Apple

It was supposed to be a fun evening.

Matt put Reese to bed while I turned our kitchen into a makeshift applesauce factory complete with peeling, cooking, cooling, and bagging stations. Rinsing the first batch, I imagined how we would turn up the music and sing and dance while we peeled and chopped. We would make “someday” plans for our unfinished basement, retirement vacations, and imaginary lottery winnings. We’d throw skins at each other and make a sticky mess and when the last bag was in the freezer, he would chase me back to the bedroom and we’d deal with the pots and pans and floors tomorrow...

His voice brought me back from my fantasy life-before-children evening.

“Do you toss the bad ones?” He asked as he took up his post at the peeling station. He held up an apple that had definitely seen better days.

“Just take out the bad parts. The rest is still good."

Just two batches in, our fun was interrupted by a faint cry down the hall. The hoarseness in Reese’s voice told me to brace myself for a long night as I washed my hands and headed for her room.

Making my way through the dark, I clipped my toe on her miniature rocking chair. I crumpled into a ball at the foot of her bed and tried to take deep breaths between stabs of pain. I forced myself to turn my attention back to my child. Snot ran down her face; her skin was warm to the touch. I scooped her up and carried her out to the living room.

“She’s sick,” I said. Matt stopped the peeler mid-apple.

“You’re bleeding,” he answered, looking at my foot.

I plopped down on the couch, unsure of which problem to solve first. Sick toddler. Bloody foot. Sticky kitchen. This was so far from the kind of evening I had anticipated.

Well, this night is ruined, I thought as the joy of the last hour began to give way to disappointment. But the thought died before it reached my lips and I resisted the urge to grumble about all that had suddenly gone wrong. Those things determined the course of my evening, not the quality.

Just take out the bad parts.

I turned my focus toward making things as right as possible. I wrapped Reese in a blanket, gave her some Tylenol, and handed her over to Matt. Then I hobbled to the bathroom to find a bandaid.

Limping back to the kitchen, I started peeling again where he left off. On the other side of the counter, he rocked in the recliner and she drifted off to sleep against his chest. I peeled. He rocked. She slept. Our eyes locked and we smiled at each other, our hearts speaking through the silence. 

The rest is still good.

Suddenly, the joy returned to the moment. Not the fun, giggly, lighthearted kind of joy I had anticipated, but joy just the same - a quiet, content, peaceful kind of joy.

Just take out the bad parts. The rest is still good.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.
Join us today at Sarah's place.

My Only Sunshine

My day with Reese always ends with bedtime snuggles. I crawl into her big girl bed and lie beside her, rubbing her back and running my fingers through her hair. We read a book or two and she says her prayers and then I lay my head down on her pillow. She turns her face toward mine and we sing, our voices barely above a whisper:

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. 

You make me happy when skies are gray.
You'll never know, Dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away."

I usually leave with a smile. 

She is my only sunshine…

But lately I leave with a tear.

…for just eight more weeks.

Sometimes the tears come before I even to the last line.

Please don't take my sunshine away.

People often ask me how I think Reese will adjust to the baby - if she will struggle or get jealous. No one has ever asked about my adjustment, my struggle, my... jealousy? Is that what this is?

These are thoughts I haven’t voiced, emotions I haven’t shared.

Because I wonder, Am I crazy? Is this normal?

But the truth? The truth is a part of me is already mourning the impending loss of my only sunshine. For two years she has consumed my days, my life, my heart. I don’t want to divide my attention, split my focus, share my time. Our precious little moments suddenly seem so limited. I keep thinking about how much I’m going to miss her. It’s as if I forget that she isn’t going anywhere.

Still, I can’t help wondering how our relationship will change. Will we ever be the same again? Will we still have those just-you-and-me moments that I enjoy so much? Will I be able to divide my affection, time, and attention equally? Is there even room in my heart for another love like this? Can I possibly have two sunshines?

Then I look at my husband – my original sunshine. I remember how I experienced these same emotions about him before Reese was born. With just a few weeks to go, I cried on his shoulder as I thought about how much I would miss the alone time we had so recently learned to cherish. I couldn’t help wondering how our relationship would change. Would we ever be the same again?

The minute she was born I knew the answer. No, we would never be the same again, but we would never wish to be the same. Filling a void in our hearts we didn’t know we had, she made our family more complete and deepened our love on every level.

 When I lie next to Reese at night and the sadness starts to take hold, I have to remind myself that I won’t ever have to make room for another sunshine. I will always have just one. My family is my sunshine, my only sunshine. And rather than taking my sunshine away, each new addition will brighten its rays, further completing the circle of my life, and I will never wish to be the same again.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Join us today at Melissa's place.

How to Fail at Potty Training

I’ve tried everything – timers, ice cream, stickers, underpants, no pants, begging, pleading, bribing. I’ve given demonstrations and explanations and reasoned from as many possible angles as a two-year-old might grasp. Big girl. Big sister. All your friends are doing it. (Yeah, I’m sure I’ll regret that one in 10 years). We’ve shopped together for Minnie Mouse underwear and called grandparents to share the excitement of small successes.

She’s ready. I know she’s ready. I can tell by the way she talks that her mind understands. I can tell by the way she closes herself in the pantry to poop that her body understands. Yet, she refuses to surrender to the potty. She turns down my bribes and reacts to my enthusiasm with a blank stare. She holds her pee for hours waiting for my next distracted moment so she can sneak behind the recliner or under the kitchen table.

Potty days are some of my worst days. The excitement of the morning (Today is the day!) quickly fades away as the frustration builds and turns into tears. Sometimes they are hers. More often, they are mine. And when I find myself ducking in the other room to take a deep breath and cry, I don’t know what else to do but give up and give in and reach for the diapers. I’ve lost another battle and I criticize myself as I rinse her clothes and disinfect the floor and think about all the other kids who are already trained. What am I doing wrong?

With today’s disastrous attempt still weighing on my mind and ruining my day, I can’t help wondering why I put myself through this. Because I don’t want to have two kids in diapers for a few months? Because the cost of diapers is really that unbearable? Because I feel some invisible self-created social pressure to make sure she isn’t “behind” the other kids? I’m still searching for a reason that justifies this much aggravation.

If she got as upset as I do, I would never force her through this process. I would recognize that she’s not ready and wait for another sign that the time is right. Shouldn’t I grant myself that same leeway? I’ve followed all the signs that point to her readiness, but I’ve ignored the ones pointing away from mine. Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. I’ve been waiting for her to surrender instead of surrendering myself.

So this is it. I’m not just waiting a week or two like I have every other time. No more denying that I will have two kids in diapers for a while. No more hoping that each box I buy will be the last. No more forcing. No more crying. No more potty. For at least four months.

It’s all going to be ok. We’ll get there. Someday. Until then, I can focus on enjoying the last two months of my pregnancy and the precious remaining days of one-on-one time with Reese. I won't have to worry about running her to the bathroom while nursing a newborn. And finally, she and I can both be at peace when she goes in the pantry and closes the door.

Just Nine More Weeks...

My weekly pregnancy countdown has finally hit single digits and with my third trimester now in full swing, I have decided that I am definitely more uncomfortable this time around: round-the-clock trips to the bathroom; waddling like a penguin; trouble sleeping; roundhouse kicks to my rib cage; karate chops to my bladder; restless leg syndrome (which I assure you is a real thing); acid reflux; exhaustion; constant hunger; shortness of breath; the summer heat (which I narrowly escaped last time with a September to May pregnancy) turned out to be every bit as brutal as I've heard; and here's the latest one...

Sneeze. Squirt.

What was that?! Yikes! Am I leaking fluid?

I ran to the bathroom. False alarm. It's definitely not fluid. It's pee. Wonderful. I'm peeing my pants now too. Add it to the list. Surely, my first pregnancy was not like this.

Just nine more weeks, I reminded myself as I headed to the bedroom to change my pants.

On my way out, I stopped to make the bed. I moved Shamu out of the way (Shamu is Matt's name for my body pillow) and brushed a few stray granola bar crumbs into my hand. So much for my "ok, maybe I do crinkle my wrappers, but I don't leave crumbs" argument. I suppose Matt's request that I eat my midnight snacks in the kitchen is valid.

Just nine more weeks.

I returned to the kitchen where I struggled to empty the bottom rack of the dishwasher and couldn't reach the back of our lower cabinets.

Just nine more weeks.

The baby stirred inside me, probably trying to tell me to stop all the bending and reaching. With one hand on my belly, I stood completely still. Another kick. Then another. There is a person growing inside me.

Maybe that's why I don't remember being this uncomfortable last time. I never got far enough past the awe of the miracle taking place inside my body to notice anything negative. The kicks weren't annoying. They were amazing. The discomfort didn't seem terrible because I welcomed it as a part of this magical process.

Somewhere during the last few weeks, the tone of my countdown changed. I stopped counting the way I did toward my wedding day and started counting like I was heading for my last day at an awful job. I got so caught up in the discomfort and inconvenience that my focus shifted away from the bigger picture of this process and its end result.

There is a person growing inside me. A real, live person with his or her own unique features, personality traits, and gifts for the world. A person I will get to hold in my arms and call my son or daughter. A person who will pry open another hidden chamber of my heart and remind me that love at first sight is absolutely real...

... in just nine more weeks. 

This is a bigger picture moment.

Join us today at Jade's place.

Simple Ways to Stay Connected

This week, I'm joining the Hearts at Home blog hop again. On the third Thursday of every month, all of the Hearts bloggers share their thoughts on the same topic. With the start of the new school year upon us, the topic this month is: staying connected during the busy seasons of life.

I may not have kids in school yet, but as the wife of a high school administrator I am all too familiar with the back-to-school routine - shopping for new clothes, stocking up on lunch snacks, filling the calendar with the dates of every football game, tailgate, and parent-teacher night. After enjoying two amazing months of freedom, Matt is back at work and our quality time together has already taken a nose dive.

In this phase of our lives, finding time to connect with our toddler doesn't seem to be a problem. She is pretty good at making herself seen and heard. We spend our evenings sorting plastic shapes, playing with Little People animals, and reading about hungry caterpillars. Add in my daily routine of household chores and Matt's full workday, and we are both zapped of patience and energy by bedtime (hers, not ours). At my house, the back-to-school challenge isn't as much about nurturing our family bonds as much as it is about nurturing our marital ones. These are just a few of the practices we've adopted to help us stay connected through the busy times...

1. Take technology breaks. Now that we both have smart phones, I'm amazed at how easy it is to ignore each other when we're both checking sports stats and reading blog updates (guess who does which). We keep our attention on each other by turning the TV off and leaving phones out of reach during certain activities - eating our meals, drinking our morning coffee, and playing with Reese.

2. Go to bed together. We almost always go to bed at the same time. When one of us is ready for bed, the other follows suit. And if the other person isn't quite tired yet, well, let's just say this tip is also on my list for finding time for intimacy.

3. Share about your day. Every day when Matt gets home, I stop what I'm doing and we grab some cold drinks and sit on the patio or in the living room and share the details of our separate days. It makes us feel like we're still together even when we're apart.

4. Notice Mini-moments. Our quality time doesn't just come in the form of an occasional kidless date night or after bedtime hours. It comes instead in simple subtle moments - stopping everything to dance when our wedding song comes on the radio, stealing kisses while we take turns pushing Reese in her swing, holding hands in the car.

5. Take Sunday back. We rarely do anything on Sunday that isn't fun or relaxing. Weeds don't get pulled. Yards don't get mowed. Blogs don't get written. We also don't talk about issues that can wait until Monday. For one day every week, we are reunited with the blissful quiet of summer and the peace of a restful day.

Read more tips for staying connected by the other Hearts bloggers.

It's Different When It's Your Kid

After lunch I rinsed and stacked dishes while Reese finished eating her sandwich. Behind me I could hear her start to gag so I walked over and put my hand under her chin - she knows the drill. Suddenly, a slimy half-chewed wad of bread fell into my open palm. If any other person on the planet did that to me, I would vomit on the spot. Instead, I walked it to the garbage can with a smile thinking that it’s absolutely true what they say… it’s just different when it’s your kid. 

I’m sure we all remember hearing that phrase before we had children. Whenever I made comments about a public tantrum, a stinky diaper, or a messy chocolate face, there would always be a parent nearby to say, “Yeah, but it’s different when it’s your kid.” Since everyone says it, I always assumed it was true. But I had no idea just how true it was until the first time she spit up down the front of my shirt and disgust registered far below amusement on the list of immediate responses. After more than two years of hardly noticing the bouts of public crying, barely smelling the countless stinky diapers, and smiling at her chewed up bread wad, I know I've developed the mysterious immunity that all moms have toward the seemingly unpleasant parts of our jobs.

I used to wonder how there were moms out there with the strength and patience for twins, behavioral struggles, special needs, or medical issues. I would think, “God help me if I’m ever in any of those situations.” But I’ve learned that the request for help isn’t really necessary because God’s gifts are automatic. Just as He grants the blessing of a beautifully unique child, He also provides the strength necessary to handle the unique needs of that child and the maternal love that carries us through exhaustion and aggravation with patience and grace. There’s no need to look at anyone else’s situation and wonder how she does it, and there’s no reason to fear that if you were in that situation you couldn’t handle it. Just remember that no matter the situation, it's always different when it’s your kid.

Dinner Can Wait

I dumped the box of Play Doh onto the table, my saving grace on napless days. This will buy me some time, I thought foolishly as she snapped the lid off the first container. 

I took one step toward the kitchen. Not so fast. 

"Mommy will play with me?" 

I sank into the chair next to her, disappointed that my escape plan failed. I rolled the dough between my palms and pressed the ball into the plastic tube. She pulled the lever and brown "ice cream" swirled into the plastic cone. She was amazed. I was bored.  

"Look, Mommy! An ice cream cone!"

"I see," I responded, feigning equal fascination.

I was looking, but I didn't really see. All I could see was the dust on the window sill; crumbs on the floor; dishes on the counter. Behind me, the oven timer counted down. Five minutes and eleven seconds. Ten. Nine. 

My mind tempted me with "shoulds." Grab a dust rag. Get the broom. Fill the dishwasher. Check the casserole. 

I backed my chair away from the table, preparing to make my exit. As I rose to my feet, a single leaf drifted toward the ground outside, dead from the consistent lack of it's greatest need. I looked into my daughter's face, and saw the desire in her eyes. The desire for my presence, full and undivided - her greatest need. Suddenly, the "shoulds" faded from my focus, the dishes vanished, the crumbs disappeared, the dust dissolved.

Ignoring the steady Beeeep Beeeep of the over timer, I returned to my seat and made another dough ball. She filled the tube. I turned the crank. Pink "sprinkles" rained on her little fingers. Her giggles filled the room. Her smile filled my heart.

"Look, Mommy! Splinkles!"

"I see," I responded again, this time with genuine fascination, and I realize that I'm no longer just looking. I really do see. 

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Join us at Corinne's place today.

Finding Your Inner Child

We unloaded the wooden rocking chair from my mom’s van - the chair she and my dad stained from naked wood before I was born; the chair that rocked newborn babies, entertained climbing toddlers, and smashed a few toes in its thirty years of service to our family. With my mom finally ready to part with it, I gave it a new home beside my bedroom window.

I ran my fingers over the nicks and dents from falling objects, flying toys, and rambunctious pets. I noticed places where the stain has been thinned by years of friction. Despite its scars, it remains mostly unchanged, a pillar of consistency through a life full of transformation. 

I sat in the very seat where my little toddler feet stood almost three decades ago and felt my earliest childhood memory begin to resurface. Facing backward toward the living room window with my little hands clasped around the dark wood, I would rock to the rhythm of the blinking light on the electrical tower in the distance, captivated by the red ball in the sky and completely convinced that my motion controlled its steady flash. 

That was before the reality of divorce, death, and taxes taught me that control is an illusion. That was before I became weighted with memories of the past and worries for the future. That was before I experienced emotions like grief and disappointment. That was before life disrupted the peaceful innocence of a toddler lost in a simple moment of joy. 

I have often longed for the return of that innocence and for years I wondered if the memory of it was the closest I would ever come to experiencing it again. Sitting in that chair, I felt the thirty year gap begin to close. I may have lost sight of that innocence, but the innocence itself was never really lost. I am still that toddler. Somewhere along the unstoppable river of time, that toddler is still rocking in that chair, still fascinated by the light in the distance, still peacefully lost in a simple moment of joy. 

I turned myself around in the seat and knelt on the faded wood. Facing backward toward the bedroom window, I held on to the back of the chair and rocked to the rhythm of the swaying trees.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment.

Join us today at Brook's place.

Searching for Serenity: The Road Ahead

I could already feel the anxiety rising through my body as I approached the sign: Road Closed Ahead. I was out in the country in unfamiliar territory. Even my GPS was confused. With absolutely no inherent sense of direction, getting lost seemed inevitable. I tried not to panic and continued on knowing I would soon have to make a decision. Left or right? Another sign appeared near the road block: Follow Marked Detour. I breathed a sigh of relief and followed the giant orange arrow. The answer to my question - left.

Cruising along the alternate route, I silently scolded myself for those few minutes of unnecessary concern. Still, I wasn't the least bit surprised by my overreaction. Thick fog, blinding rain, road blocks - the nature of the obstacle doesn't matter. Once the road ahead is no longer predictable, my emotions settle somewhere between subtle uneasiness and total panic. I begin straining to see the road ahead rather than focusing on what is clearly visible right now. I push forward, jump to conclusions, and anticipate disaster until I find myself reacting to an imaginary future instead of what is actually happening at the present moment.

Too often, I forget that uncertainty can only be successfully navigated by embracing patience and presence - by slowing down rather than rushing ahead. If I stop worrying about what is beyond my grasp, I realize that everything I need for the moment is well within reach. As I progress forward with the natural flow of time, the road ahead opens little by little and the destination becomes clear.

I guess that's what people mean by one day at a time.


See Related Posts:
Searching for Serenity

A Lesson in Giving

I approached the doors of Walmart, trying to look invisible as I passed the table outside. A woman’s voice said, “We’re collecting school supplies today.” I assumed she was talking to me, but I avoided eye contact. I muttered a noncommittal response and continued inside, trying to ignore the guilt mounting inside me. I tried to consoled myself, leaning on the excuse that as a one-income family, we are limited in the amount we can give.

Moments later, I stood in the bedding aisle holding a bed skirt - a completely nonfunctional item serving only to add to the aesthetics of my daughter’s bedroom. I pulled my shopping list from my purse. Few things were actual necessities. Instantly, my mind suddenly left the store, floating away and resting on a memory I had long since forgotten…

I was in my college dorm room, flipping through the TV channels when I came to an episode of MTV Cribs. The celebrity, whose name isn’t important (and I don’t remember anyway), paraded the cameras through his custom-built garage. At the end of a long line of motorcycles of varying models and colors sat a motorcycle molded out of solid gold. I thought of all the people who could be helped with the money that was now sitting idly in the form of a solid gold motorcycle. How sad that people are so greedy, I thought as I changed the channel.

The memory evaporated as quickly it came, leaving behind the sticky residue of the bubble of denial that had burst in my face. I was suddenly aware of my own abundance: the 55 inch TV mounted to my living room wall, the Android in my pocket, the appliances, decorations, clothes – everything in my life that is so far beyond the realm of true necessity – my own golden motorcycle.

I started to wonder what might happen if I stopped placing the responsibility on those with obvious, excessive wealth and started focusing on sharing my own abundance as much as possible.

I reached up and put the bed skirt back on the shelf and headed for the school supplies.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Share with us at Alita's Place today.

50 Shades of Judgment

Recently, I’ve been reading some blog posts, mostly by other Christian women about 50 Shades of Grey and the reasons for which people should not be reading it (nor exposing themselves to other sexually explicit material through books, movies, etc). The main reason is tied to the belief that it goes against God’s plan for marriage by glorifying pre-marital sex and raising the risk for marital dissatisfaction and infidelity.

After reading one such post, I had quite the string of comments brewing in my mind. I then made the mistake of reading the comments by readers, most of whom touted their opinions in an obviously disrespectful tone, placing the word Christian in quotation marks (an act I find remarkably offensive), and stating that anyone who read the books had basically committed adultery and was likely not involved in a healthy marriage.

Who do these women think they are? I was angry and offended, but I held my tongue and resisted the overwhelming urge to retaliate. Instead, I backed away from my computer and chose to reflect on my own feelings rather than unleash my disapproving views of theirs. I found that my choice brought me greater peace and satisfaction than anything I could have said to them.

I asked myself, Why do those views strike a nerve with me? Well, because as someone who has enjoyed books and movies with sexual content, I felt personally attacked and offended, as if the writers of these comments had reached through the screen, pointed their fingers in my face and shouted, “your marriage is doomed, you filth-watching non-Christian!”

Personally attacked. That’s the answer. I felt personally attacked. Why? Another’s belief that marriages like mine are doomed does not doom my marriage. Another’s belief that women like me are not real Christians does not make me any less of a Christian. Their realities are separate from mine. I’m the one who combined them.

These women didn’t offend me. I allowed myself to feel offended. My anger arose from a place of ego-induced pride, a desire to defend myself and my beliefs, to shout back at them, “My view is right and yours is wrong. You should believe what I believe!” Yikes. Isn’t that exactly what I hear them saying to me? Did I just judge them for judging me? How does that make me any different?

Actually, I am not different at all. I carry strong views and judgments of my own on this and other issues involving issues like lifestyle, parenting, marriage, politics. Other people would likely react to some of my opinions with the very same anger I feel rising in myself right now. Does that make me less entitled to my opinion? Does it make others less entitled to theirs? Isn’t it possible for us to have our own separate convictions? Isn’t it possible that we are all right in own realities?

I issue myself a silent warning.

Be careful when you say “don’t judge,” for you are judging as you say it. Nobody is entirely nonjudgmental. The less judgmental you are, the more harshly you judge the judgmental. Rare is a situation where a true moral high ground exists. Two people might disagree, but neither's view need be labeled "bad."

I close my computer screen. No response is necessary. I am at peace.