For months, the striped duvet and shams in the Pottery Barn catalog wowed me and called me. When it comes to decorating, our master bedroom is at the bottom of the barrel. The dining room, living room, powder room, kid’s bathroom and kids’ bedrooms have always taken priority over ours. It’s just the way we’ve operated. So there wasn’t any chance I was getting that Pottery Barn duvet until Chrismas Eve 2008 when I opened a surprise package from my mama. Somehow, she’d gotten whiff that I wanted that duvet. She bought it and packaged it up pretty with my name on top. It seems silly now, but I shed a few tears over that surprise. Because somebody noticed what I loved, somebody cared, somebody bought me something beautiful. Just for me.

Within a couple weeks, I’d ordered shams and pillows. In no time flat, the set was up. Bright and beautiful, comfortable and classy, just the way I envisioned it.

Now all we needed was fresh paint.

We just so happened to be working with an interior decorator on window treatments for our living room, kitchen, entryway, and two kids’ bedrooms, so when he came over for the consultation, we brought him upstairs to look at paint colors for our master bedroom.

I had a plan. I had a vision. I’m telling you now, I knew what I wanted before the interior decorator even stepped in the room. I wanted green, one of the shades of green in the duvet. Either shade, any complementary shade of green would do. That’s all I wanted. GREEN. Just make it green, please.

I told him straight up. “I want green. I was thinking green. Like this shade or this shade.”

He pulled out his big ring, flipped through all the blessed colors of green, and by golly, green just didn’t seem to settle right with him. (To this day, I still wonder if he didn’t have a true paint match, or whether he just downright hated green. The world will never know.)

“How about tan?” asked the interior decorator as he flipped through his color ring in search of the perfect tan to match my beloved duvet.

“I’d really love a dark brown wall,” my husband added. “Maybe on this wall, behind our bed.”

Honestly, I don’t even know how green turned to tan and dark brown, but it did. Before I knew it, this wall was going to be dark brown, this wall was going to be tan, so forth and so forth. Right before my eyes, the whole room had been revised. Tan and dark brown. And oh yes, let’s add a dark red stripe on the top AND on the bottom for good measure. Maybe it sounded like a good idea at the time. Yes, that would pull the color and pull the stripe up from the duvet onto the wall. A pop of color. Yes, indeed. I reasoned with myself, I convinced myself that’s just what we needed.

So up it went. Up went the paint. We hired the interior decorator’s suggested painter to come and do it. Because TAN plus DARK BROWN plus a DARK RED stripe not only on the top, but the bottom, too, was going to be a lot of work and there was no way I was doing this myself.

I liked it at first. It was good.

I had my duvet. I had my shams. I’d even met the interior decorator at the discount fabric store and found the crazy floral fabric for our window treatments (all by myself, mind you…without his help, but with his approval).

But as each day passed, I grew to hate the tan, the dark brown, and especially the red stripes on the top and bottom of our walls.

I never wanted tan.

I never wanted dark brown.

I never wanted dark red. And I never wanted stripes.

I loved the striped duvet.

I loved the striped shams.

But I wanted GREEN on the walls. GREEN.

Every morning since the winter of 2009, I’ve woken up next to my beloved husband, snuggled up in my striped duvet. I look over on my dresser where I keep a family photo and all my Kenya, Haiti & Dominican treasures, and I’m grateful for the life and opportunities God has given me. But then I look up at the Target tan and red walls, I look over to our beautifully framed wedding photo and the big red stripe right above it, and I’m reminded that I LOST. MY. VOICE. I didn’t know how to assert myself in a moment that counted. Sure, paint color WAS and IS a simple thing, a superficial thing. Honestly, paint color doesn’t matter one iota in the scheme of much-more-important life things. But my voice DOES matter. My opinion DOES matter. What I THINK, what I HOPE for, what I WANT, what I DREAM of, and what I LOVE DOES matter. I must not deny that. I must not deny my voice. Even when it comes to superficial things, like green walls.

Not now, but sometime in the next year or two, we’re hoping to buy new furniture and bedding for our master bedroom. As two first borns, it takes us a bazillion years to agree on pretty much anything, so we’re already starting to look and dream and talk a bit about what that new bedroom furniture and bedding might look like.

This week, we received a Pottery Barn catalog in the mail. I’ve been throwing them straight away for months because we’re not in the position to buy furniture, bedding or anything from Pottery Barn right now. But this time, we did take a peek. My husband wants this page…neutrals, grays, dark browns with a light neutral on the walls. I want something more like that page…creams, linens, with more color in the quilt. And I won’t say what color I’d like on the walls until I know what bedding we’d get.

Yes, I reminded my husband that I won’t be promising anything this time.

Because I’ve learned my lesson.

I will not surrender my voice to paint colors. I will not surrender my voice to the colors on a quilt. I will not surrender my voice to the type of wood we have or the type of light fixtures that hang from our wall, or anything of the sort.

Never again will I stare at a wall for 9 years, letting it remind me that I not only surrendered, but LOST my voice for no good reason.

Just in case you wondered where all the passion comes over paint colors…this losing my voice for no good reason? It isn’t a first, you know. This isn’t about green paint. This isn’t about tan or dark brown. This isn’t about red stripes. This isn’t about my beloved duvet. This isn’t about me being married to another first born or us taking a bazillion years to choose things together. This isn’t about our interior decorator. This isn’t a debate about superficial things vs. things that really matter. This isn’t about me being a bratty baby and needing to “suck it up buttercup” because paint color doesn’t matter in light of hurricanes and fires, nuclear bombs and starving children. This is about me OWNING my VOICE, being able to express myself and standing strong and steady in that space. This is about me seeing that I matter, that my thoughts and opinions count for something, that I was created for a reason and that I should feel free to release my voice and gifts into the world just as much as anyone else.

Bet your bottom dollar, I’m saving my beautiful, beloved duvet for a guest room. Maybe this time, I’ll paint the walls green.

We were sure.

So sure.

We were certain God was writing a tailor-made story.

Each one of us had reasons – 2 1/2 months of reasons, a lifetime of reasons – as to why this made complete sense, why this particular opportunity HAD to be from God.

I can tell you with certainty that in the 22 years I’ve been with my husband, this was the first time I could see, could sense, could pinpoint a crystal-clear calling on his life. All the pieces leading up to this point made complete sense. Yes, I can say for sure, even in hindsight, that the calling on his life was clear in a way it had never been before.

What is a calling, you ask? How in the world do you define calling? It sounds so mysterious, doesn’t it? So religious. Something reserved for pastors and missionaries, perhaps. How do you know when God is calling you to do something, calling you to go somewhere, calling you to be the specific someone He intended you to be?

A few of us have 100% certainty as to what we’re supposed to do, where we’re supposed to go and who we’re supposed to be. But most of us guess, sense, study, pray and simply BELIEVE there HAS to be a greater reason, a greater purpose for our life, for our story.

That’s a calling, I guess. Going where God wants us to go. Following His lead. Listening for a still small voice. Taking chances when we don’t know the outcome. Being present in ordinary and difficult circumstances. Waiting for His whisper to tell us where and how we’ll have the most extraordinary impact in this world. Quieting ourselves until God tells us yes, or no. Trusting He’ll guide us towards what’s best. Becoming more like Him, day in and day out.

Calling.

It’s not the word I once thought it was. (At least for right now, that is.)

Perhaps I’m a bit confused.

Perhaps I’ve been a bit misguided.

Perhaps my definition of calling has been too dreamy, too wishful, too worldly.

Perhaps my definition of calling has been too specific, too narrow, too logical.

Perhaps I’ve overthought the concept of calling.

Perhaps I’ve had it all wrong.

I’m okay saying “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Only God.

Only God truly knows.

So 2 1/2 months. Yes, 2 1/2 months we invested in this thing we thought was a calling.

As I watch the leaves blow in the breeze, I’m still a bit jaded, a bit disappointed, thrown off and uncertain as to why 2 1/2 months of step by step, waiting and waiting some more, answers then more answers, action and even more action – all seemingly from God – ultimately led to NOTHING.

Could it be that an outcome we perceive as absolutely NOTHING is actually SOMETHING? That God works even in the midst of NOTHING?

I know the truth. Yet, I don’t know. You know what I mean?

Only God.

Only God truly knows.

My husband was prompt. The minute he learned of the opportunity, he did his part. He did everything right, staying on track ’till late that first night.

Days passed.

Nothing. Nada. Nope.

Finally, an answer. A ray of hope that the door hadn’t closed.

More days passed.

Nothing. Nada. Nope.

We’d all but given up.

Should we reach out, take action? Should we suggest we could do this, do that?

Nope. The answer was WAIT. Wait some more. So we waited.

When we were reaching our end in the patience department, in despair over the lack of results of any kind, I reached out to Hope*Writers friends for prayer. Nothing specific. Just a big, honest prayer request. Later that afternoon, the Hope*Writers hearty dose of prayers resulted in a delightful and surprising response.

YES! The answer was YES!

My husband was moving on to the next step.

How could this be? After weeks of waiting, we finally had an answer. The door hadn’t closed! God had answered our prayers.

Several days later, an awesome 1-hour 30-minute phone call was followed by more weeks of waiting.

Then there was a 1-hour 45-minute phone call.

Then a 1-hour phone call, perhaps the most important of all.

Everything was good. Everything was right. Everything was awesome.

Everything was proceeding. Everything was lining up. Everything was fitting together just so.

God was answering our prayers. He was directing the way. Yes, this all made perfect sense. Things were coming together just as we suspected God wanted for us, our family and our future.

Then there was waiting, waiting and more waiting.

I fasted. Two days.

I prayed like a mad woman, harder than I’d ever prayed before. My husband prayed like a mad man, harder than he’d ever prayed before.

We’ll go anywhere, we’ll do anything for you, God. If this is your will, please let this work for us, please open this door for us.

Yet again, we’d all but given up when my husband got the call. The call came in the middle of devotions, an answer from God Himself.

Come.

Come on out.

We want to see you. We want to meet you.

Elation, excitement and tears of joy ensued.

Within a few days, everything was arranged.

His ticket.

My ticket.

We’d fly, yes, we’d fly.

At this point, all the thoughts and plans were in full motion. I’m talking FULL. MOTION. All the what ifs, all the what thens? They’d all been considered. Everything had gone slow, slow, slow until that phone call, but for reasons left unsaid, this now needed to go not only fast on our end, but fast on their end. There was very good reason to believe this was actually going to happen. We had been patient. Slowly, but surely, everything was lining up perfectly. God had opened every door we’d walked through, including an invitation and flight to come out. This was most certainly nothing we could do on our own. It was absolutely, without a doubt, a faith journey. We were following, and God was leading.

I continued praying and began purging like a mad woman, just in case the answer was YES, which honestly at the time seemed like it was very possible. After 10, 15 trips to the thrift store in a desperate effort to purge STUFF as quickly as possible, I finally had to tell them lest I look like a weirdo, “It’s likely we’re going. It’s likely we’re leaving. We’re really close to moving.” I just kept dumping and dumping and dumping and it was all so incredibly freeing. It was becoming more and more clear. God was sending us. Finally, life was making perfect sense. We were GOING to do this as a couple. All I had to do was say YES to God, purge everything that had ever held me back, and just GO and follow Him. Yes, this made complete sense in my framework, my understanding of WHO God was and who God IS. Would I have ever imagined this for myself, that this could ACTUALLY happen? Nope, not in a million years. Would I have DREAMED this for myself, that I would ACTUALLY WANT this to happen? Yes, a million times, YES.

My calling merged with my husband’s calling? YES. 100% YES. Please God, take me there.

I’m ready to purge it all for the sake of your calling. Literally and figuratively. I’m willing to give it ALL.

So we flew.

We left the kids with proper care and we flew.

Two days.

Yes, for two full days, we dove FULL IN to God’s call.

FULL IN. Down to our bones. To the best of our ability. We were there. We were on it. We were surrendered. We were together. We were leaping and trusting that God was IN this, FOR us, ALL ABOUT this opportunity we would’ve never guessed could actually happen.

Only God. This was only God.

In that place of seeing where I was, having no idea how I got there, and being incredibly excited about where God might very well be bringing us, I felt peace. Deep peace. My whole life made perfect sense now. Every step added up to now.

I’m humbled to admit I went so far as to find us a home that first day. Well, maybe that’s dramatic and not quite true. I found us a couple of super solid neighborhoods we could actually afford and a whole lot of amazing neighbors who flagged me over as I drove by, chatted me up in their driveways, and offered sweet tea as they talked and rocked toddlers on their sides. I met girls my daughters’ ages and women I connected with instantly. I did Facetime with the kids, and with the most rare exuberance in my voice showed them the “amazing” neighborhoods we’d be able to live in. “Look, there are little kids riding scooters around by themselves!” “Look, there are two kids riding bikes!” “Look at how nice this neighborhood is! I seriously can’t believe this. You’ve gotta see this.”

We dined and laughed that night over hot buns with honey cinnamon butter, then returned to our not-so-humble home for the night, purposeful, beautiful noise filling the city streets around us.

The next morning, we woke early. It was time. Time to do our best. Time to step up and step out for God, for our future, for ourselves and for our children. 2 1/2 months ago, we’d started this journey. God brought us this far. Why in the world would we have journeyed this far, traveled this far, both literally and figuratively, for the door to close now? We had hope. A certain hope, for sure. But we weren’t arrogant idiots about it. This was NOT a sure thing. Never once did we believe this was a sure thing. We weren’t taking this opportunity for granted for one second. But things had most certainly been adding up. If things went well, there was only ONE MORE YES between us and this future. One more YES that was most definitely in the hands of God.

My husband got ready in the finest of wears. He was handsome, prepared, feeling his best. I dropped him off at the door. He told me to pray, so I prayed on and off all morning as I drove and explored the place we might call home before long.

I considered exploring new territory, but felt led to return to the place I found peace the night before. Great peace. Deep peace. Immeasurable peace. A place where country met city. A place where I was certain I could belong. A place that felt like home so quickly, so easily. A place that honestly, I might’ve been called to my whole life.

Yes, I know with all the logic of my brain that this is utter nonsense and crazy talk, but I haven’t found a place I want to be buried yet. This was most definitely a place I could see myself being buried, a place where the kids could come and know mama felt home here, mama felt complete peace here, mama felt right and good and was called to live and do life all the best of ways here.

So I drove back to that suburb and those neighborhoods to make sure. The opportunity to check things out was passing quickly. Our plane was set to depart in six hours, and if the answer to all of this was going to be a YES, my husband would be turning his life around quick and very quick. We’d need to make a lot of important decisions from a long distance. So I needed to know. I needed to have a sense that this could be right, that this was right. I had a sense. Yes, that morning, I had a deep sense that this could be right, that this WAS absolutely right.

I grabbed chicken, beans and coleslaw for lunch and drove back to the city. Drove around the loop 20, maybe 30 times, waiting for a “come and get me” text from my husband. It was taking a while. This thing was not wrapping up fast. More waiting. More driving the loop. More wondering what life would be like if all of this ended with a YES. After all, he’d sent me a message earlier saying everything was going “AWESOME” in caps.

Finally, after circling the loop way too many times, I parked and waited.

I opened my window, felt the gentle breeze, and noticed a bird perched on the branches above.

I sat for a good 20 minutes, just staring that bird down, waiting for the “come and get me” text.

More crazy talk, I know. But it never occurred to me until later that the bird wasn’t singing. He was just sitting there, letting the breeze blow him around as he waited to fly to his next destination.

Perhaps that’s been me.

Perhaps that’s been us.

Perhaps God’s wanted more from us.

Perhaps God’s wanted more FOR us.

Perhaps God wants us to sing.

Eight days later in the 11:00 am hour, we got an answer.

NO.

A resounding NO.

We were floored.

Astounded.

Taken aback.

Shocked.

Deeply saddened and disappointed.

There were tears. Then silence. Then more tears.

What could have gone wrong? How could we have come THIS far, prayed THAT much, waited THIS long, been so patient and hopeful and trusting and wholly surrendered, for the answer to be NO?

We had our story ALL WRONG.

We had it ALL WRONG.

All the ways we added it up over the course of 2 1/2 months for this one gigantic once-in-a-lifetime opportunity were flat out WRONG.

We thought God had called us. We thought it all made sense. We thought our callings were merging for the first time in nearly 19 years of marriage.

All we needed was for God to give us one more YES.

And instead, it was NO.

I grieved deeply.

Then anger emerged, which turned to crabbiness and lifelessness.

I didn’t know anything anymore.

I don’t know anything anymore.

One after another, questions poured out of my soul.

Can I trust my own gut?

Can I trust my own intuition?

Can I trust what I’ve PERCEIVED to be the Holy Spirit prompting me, leading me, working in and through me?

Have I heard God’s voice correctly?

Do I even know what God’s voice sounds like?

Maybe I thought I’ve been hearing God’s voice when in reality I haven’t been at all?

What if I thought I knew how to discern God’s voice from all the others, and really, I had no clue?

And what about prayer?

Perhaps I’ve gotten it ALL. WRONG.

Perhaps I’ve been ALL. WRONG.

Perhaps my spiritual side is lacking infinitely more than I thought it was.

Perhaps my perceptions have been WAY off.

Perhaps I don’t have the intimate relationship with God that I thought I did.

For CERTAIN, God is still good, even when things don’t go my way, even when things don’t turn out the way I thought He was planning. But perhaps, my definition of good, my definition of God was simply OFF, simply wrong, simply twisted into some saccharin, worldly version that simply isn’t true.

I thought I had it figured out at least a little bit. Now I’m not sure I have it figured out at all.

Then I asked the question of all questions, the question I’ve only asked one other time in my life. Can PEOPLE get in the way of GOD’S PLANS? I guess the answer is yes? But then again, no? Now I’m not certain at all. My philosophy, my theology is clearly lacking.

Needless to say, this experience led me into territory I’d never traveled before.

I don’t know anything. God knows everything. Anytime I think I have a grasp on life, a grasp of what might be happening, I should just surrender and say “Hey God, take the wheel, do what you want because honestly, I have no clue what’s best for me. Just let me live the story you want me to live.”

Trees blow in the wind. Flowers flourish in the summer sun. And my five-year-old daughter asks “How did all this stuff get in my fingers?” I tell her “God. God put it there. God made you.” I have no other words. Those are the things I know for sure. God made the wind. God made flowers. God made greens. God made my five year old and all the things inside her tiny little body. There’s a purpose for and behind it all.

God made me and He will not abandon me. God made my husband and He will not abandon my husband. God made my children and He will not abandon my children. When He leads us down long paths that seem righteous and right, He has the authority to turn us around and lead us straight back to where we came from.

God is mysterious. His ways are NOT our ways. He works in ways we cannot see, in ways we’re unable to perceive. He leads us down paths that don’t make sense. He gives us YES, YES, and YES, only to give us NO. We have no other choice but to trust Him, whether it’s a YES or a NO, whether it’s a YES and a NO. His purpose is to draw us closer, to make us more like Jesus.

Four weeks ago when we received the NO, I felt like I was standing in a room with no windows, no doors, no way out. I couldn’t believe the answer was NO after all that, and I didn’t have a clue as to what was next. Today, I feel like I’m standing still in an open field, just watching and waiting, saying “I don’t know anything anymore. I see you, God. I believe in Jesus. But I don’t understand where you’re going with this. Help me see. Help me trust you again. Help me trust myself again. Help me be who you want me to be. Help me die to myself. Help me see WHY we’re right back where we started. Help me see why you led us through all of that for a NO. Help me understand. Help me believe again. Help me wait for what’s next. Help me hope.”

And I think of a mama who lost her baby boy, a mother and writer who was killed in a house fire with her husband and two kids, an auntie whose 18-year-old nephew contracted the flu and ended up dead two weeks later, a friend whose long-awaited house deal fell through, the sweet baby girl who witnessed a shooting, the kids in Kenya who have gaping holes in their shoes, all the people standing in the middle of a field waiting for an answer, crying out to God, “We had our story all wrong. We acknowledge you. We see you blowing in the breeze, we see you in the flowers and the trees, we hear you singing your song, we know you’re here, but we’re waiting. We’re still waiting. Show us how to hope. Show us how to live. Show us how to be fully alive, even if, even still, even now.”

The story began on Christmas 1985 when I was just nine years old. I received my first camera as a gift that year. It was film, of course. One of those old-fashioned rectangular Kodak cameras, I’m quite sure. $10? $15? $20 max? Who knows how much that camera cost. I might not have known it at the time, but that camera was undoubtedly the best present I’d ever received.

I never once stopped taking photos. I’d claim it’s the only thing I’ve done non-stop, my whole life, since I was a little girl. But that’s not really true.

The story began in 1988. July 4, 1988, to be exact. I’d just turned 12 and received my first diary for my birthday. I wrote stupid stuff, silly stuff in that diary. Like who came to our house for Easter weekend, all the shirts my crush wore to school, the grades I got in school, and why I thought people should be nicer. $5? $8? $12 max? Who knows how much that diary cost. I might not have known it at the time, but that diary was undoubtedly the best present I’d ever received.

I never once stopped writing. I’d claim its the only thing I’ve done non-stop, my whole life, since I was a little girl. But that’s not really true.

The story began some unknown year when I was a little girl watching Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie on burnt red couches in the family room in our basement. I ate potato chips with bermuda onion dip, and cupcakes I dug out from Tupperware in the stand-up freezer. In-between adventures with Marcia and Greg and Laura and Mary, images from a television advertisement for Children’s Christian Fund clung to my soul. A man with a white beard told me stories about children afar living in extreme poverty. He told me I could sponsor a child for just 80 cents a day and asked me why I’m waiting as I watched children walk barefoot through slums. When that little girl stared at me through the screen, my tiny heart wanted to help. I paid nothing. Nada. Zilch. I might not have known it at the time, but the continual running of those television ads were undoubtedly the best present I’d ever received.

I watched those ads intently for years, as long as they played them on TV. I’d claim I’d forgotten about those children, about my deep-seeded passion for children and families living in extreme poverty. Maybe it was just a childhood whim, maybe the nonprofits manipulated my young, tender heart. But that’s not really true. The truth is that the passion lay dormant due to a culture that doesn’t talk much about people living in extreme poverty. Thanks to God’s grace, I was exposed to Compassion International via my favorite blogger, Ann Voskamp, in 2010. In August 2012, we sponsored our first child. In February 2014, I traveled to Haiti with Compassion International. In January 2015, I was invited by Compassion International to travel to the Dominican Republic with two other writers. And in late 2015, I traveled to Kenya with a small nonprofit, Love for Kenya, to spend 10 days with widows and children in an orphanage. Writing and photographing my way through all three trips was pretty much a dream come true.

I began dreaming about becoming an author in early 2003. The dreaming was private, intense and specific for many years.

I began a blog, Perfectly Unbalanced Supermom, in 2010, but never published a post on it. I was more than ready to write publicly, but that particular blog just wasn’t quite right.

I launched this blog, Divine in the Daily, in July 2012, and have been writing here faithfully for 4 1/2 years. 439 published posts. 91 unpublished posts in the draft box. Four children’s books in the works. A heavy, but hopeful adult nonfiction is somewhere on the horizon. FOUR additional nonfiction books and TWO ebook ideas sit in Evernote as very real and viable possibilities, but they’re somewhere out there in the distance I can’t yet see. Yes, this dream is for an older and wiser woman who’s not that much interested in retirement.

Two years ago this week on December 18, 2014, I left my 14 1/2 year career as a speech-language pathologist to pursue writing, explore professional photography and be home more with my children.

I just wrapped up my second season of professional photography, and it’s been gangbusters, friends. Beyond anything I ever imagined.

This space, Divine in the Daily, has always been sacred to me. But today, I’m here to say it’s time to go. It’s time to close this space down and begin again.

For the past seven months, I’ve felt more and more clear that I need to merge my writing, photography and my passion for missions. I’ve told a few people (quite literally, a few) one of my specific and ultimate long-term visions. If, by the grace of God, I were to ever reach that vision, it would require me to have a complete MERGE of my writing and photography work with my passion for missions. In that ultimate vision, ALL THREE are working together in harmony. I can no longer pretend that my writing operates separate from my photography which operates separate from my interest in missions. As far as I can see, as far as I can perceive, the three are ONE.

Recently, I attended a writing workshop and wrote a seven-year vision. That seven-year vision ALSO requires a merge of all three, writing, photography and missions.

So. Here we are.

This is the LAST blog post I’m writing on Divine in the Daily under the domain name, www.amybethpederson.com. Soon, Divine in the Daily will no longer exist.

I have a few more photo shoots to share on my photography Facebook page, and after that, my photography business will no longer be named Knit Woven Made Photography.

EVERYTHING – writing, photography and missions – will be merged into ONE NEW WEBSITE that will provide a foundation which will support the integrated, long-term vision God has given me.

Honestly, I might be crazy. Call me crazy way back to 9 years old when I received that camera for Christmas, or 12 years old when I began writing in the diary I received for my birthday, or crazy watching Marcia and Laura while eating chips and cupcakes on the couch while watching children walk barefoot through slums in faraway lands. I’ve spent a lifetime caring what people think and doing all the “right” things. But I kind of don’t care what everyone thinks anymore. Call me crazy. All the signs keep adding up in the land of crazy. I’ll follow these crazy dreams wherever they lead.

For now, I’m signing off Divine in the Daily. Goodbye. You’ve been good. So good. Thank you to my dear and faithful readers. You are marvelous and faithful and oh so strong.

It’s your story I’m concerned about. What I’ve learned most through this space is that it’s really not about me anyway. The story I’ve shared today? It’s mine. But it’s meant for greater good. So goodbye, farewell, Divine in the Daily. There are greater stories to tell. There’s a better, more integrated vision for the gifts God’s granted me, and that will be best served in another space, another place.

I can’t promise when I’ll launch the new site. I’ve already been working hard behind the scenes, and have much work to do ahead. I need time and space to do everything required to get another site up and ready. It might be a couple weeks, it might be a month. Who’s to say? I’ll do my part. I’ll work as hard and as often as I’m able. Yes, I might be turtle slow, but this turtle’s story goes way, way back. Turtle it will be.

God bless, goodbye and I’ll see you around the other side.

P.S. Stay with me. NO need to unfollow. NO need for you to leave. I’ll be back and will be sure to let you know when everything new is ready to go. So excited for you to join me as I journey to the next chapter of this story.

My name is Erica. I am a 38-year-old public school art teacher. I have been teaching for over 10 years and love my job. Unlike many mothers with children with disabilities, I have managed to maintain my career. I feel very blessed to work with over 500 students in our town in Minnesota.

I have been married since 2006. My husband, Scott, is an outside sales person for a title company. He is the most amazing father. He has stepped up, when he could have run away. I admire his strength for completely doing this with me day-to-day.

Our only son, Grant, was about 6 when his first serious round of self injury began. He has some level of intellectual disability, autism, and Avoidant Restrictive Feeding Intake Disorder (ArFID) which resulted in a g-tube getting surgically placed in August. Below is just a small piece of my life story. I am writing regularly at erica873.wixsite.com/grant and share updates on Facebook at www.facebook.com/deargrant if you would like to read more.

Amy is my friend and neighbor. She was kind enough to let me share my story here today. We are seeking donations for our medical trip. Grant is on a wait list for a hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, called Kennedy Krieger. Please watch the video at the end of this post, and check out my site for more details if you are in a position to help. Thank you.

I was cleaning up my art room, like I always do. Pandora was playing “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor. I know this song really well. I might be able to sing along without the lyrics without them in front of me. Can you hear it now?

” Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus …”

This song triggers a variety of emotions. I sing along. Just in my head. I don’t need someone to walk in my classroom and hear me.

Taylor sings …

“You’ve got to help me make a stand
You’ve just got to see me through another day
My body’s aching and my time is at hand
I won’t make it any other way”

I push the tears back. I want to let them flow at this moment, but I don’t and I won’t. I have let them flow before. I have had deep, ugly cries in the last six months. I have done this in front of my son. I have done it alone. But, I have never let myself cry like this in front of anyone else. This song is triggering this feeling, but I push it down.

I feel regret and anger when I have cried like this in front of Grant. It makes me cry more. My anger builds with every piece of this of this journey. The tears flow easily if he hurts me and I am not talking about emotional pain. I have never had a verbal argument with him. He is not considered “non-verbal,” but he is not functionally conversational either.

He has attacked my hair so many times I can’t count all of the incidences. Even in one day, he has come at me over 20 times. It’s like he is trying to remove chunks of my hair. I am trained in something called “CPI” so I know how to release his hands from head. I have to press on his knuckles. My scalp hurts after he comes after me. After a summer of hair pulls, I eventually sacrifice my long strands for a chin length “do.” I resent him in that moment at the hair salon. I tell myself it’s just hair. It is not me or who I am as a woman. It’s just hair. I eventually purchase hair turbans off of Amazon to protect my poor scalp. Cutting my hair doesn’t prove to be enough to keep him from hurting me.

He has tried to hurt my eyes. This is how it all started. He would push his fingers into my tear ducts. It happened so quickly. It’s hard to explain how anyone can get to your eyes so quickly.

Today he mostly kicks me. He hits me. He has bruised my eye area. He has scratched my skin and, more recently, he has learned how to head butt. This might be the worst new behavior. It comes out of nowhere. I can be putting on his diaper or he can be sitting on my lap. I might lean over to fix something and his head, with a helmet on, comes at my face so quickly. I can’t get out of the way. I bawl.

There was a day where he hit me so hard, I question if there is blood running down my face. I luck out, it’s only mucus. My nose feels broken regardless. It’s hard to hide my emotions. Tears flow easily. I want to hide. I can’t show him how upset I am in these moments.

This head butting issue really irritates me. On Halloween, his head hits my mouth. I thought he had loosened a tooth. I am not sure if he just caused me serious dental issues. I am hysterical. I grasp my face in horror. WHAT DID HE JUST DO!? How can a 9 year old be this violent? He stares at me as tears make my mascara drip black lines down my face. I am flushed. My lip is busted open this time. I have not overreacted. I might have my teeth still, but that was truly painful. I fall to the floor sobbing. He just stares at me. He might have said something like “mommy sad.” Yes, Grant. Sad is only the beginning of the emotions I feel in this moment.

Deep anger fills me. I don’t lash back. But, every cell in my body wants to fight. But, I can’t. There is no point. He doesn’t understand what he is doing. He just sees his mother crying. To him, this is interesting. So he will do it again. I have sealed that destiny with my outward emotions. But, I can’t stop in these times. I am getting hurt. I am hurt. I cry. I am so unbelievably tired of this.

Attacking me…this only a piece of what is happening in my home on a daily basis. Some days are worse. Some are better. I ask myself constantly “What is worse than this?”  I mean, I quite literally in my head run through a game called “What is worse than this situation?” We have to find answers. We have to move forward. I remind myself that we are lucky he is alive. We wait patiently for his turn at the hospital. I’ll do the best I can with each day as it comes. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe. I will hold on to the hope I must keep in my heart for the three of us for a better and easier life.

Erica

Recently, I received an email from a photography client who loved the photos I took of her family, but…ummm…herself? Not so much. She went on to describe WHY she didn’t like herself in the photos and what specific action she needed to take to remediate that problem next time they take family photos. The funny thing is, I thought she looked STUNNING in REAL LIFE and STUNNING in the PHOTOS. I never thought once that something was off with her look, her style or anything about her. In fact, I thought she was beautiful, poised and TOTALLY put together from head to toe.

I sat and started at the email, wondering if there was something I could have done differently to make this mama feel more beautiful when we took the photos, something I could have done differently with posing to make her feel more at ease, something I could have done differently in editing to make her beautiful self pop from the picture even more.

As I sat staring at that email, I realized this wasn’t about me.

Memories came flooding back. This territory was all too familiar. You see, three years ago, I was the one emailing our photographer, saying I liked our family photos, but I didn’t really like any of the head shots we took of me during the photo shoot. I felt uncomfortable and awkward in front of the camera. I shopped for myself last and bought a shirt that worked with everyone else’s clothes, but I didn’t ever really love it. I felt fat in the jeans I was wearing. The bags under my eyes were too big. I didn’t look like myself. I don’t know. I just didn’t like myself in the photos.

We used the family photo for our Christmas card that year, we printed a family 5×7 for our living room, and I put one of the family photos up on my blog’s “Meet Amy” page. But I NEVER used ANY of the head shots of myself from that photo shoot. Never updated the photo on my blog. Never updated my social media photos. Never used them in blog posts. Never used them anywhere.

When I was going through family photos this fall, I ran across the CD from that photo shoot from three years ago. I took time to look through all the photos on that CD because I hadn’t looked at them in three years and I wanted to know if they were really that bad or if I’d simply fabricated a story in my mind.

Three years later, here’s what I saw…

While the photos of me weren’t awesome, they were also very pretty.

Yes, I said it.

They were also very pretty.

The truth is, there was something INSIDE of ME during and after that particular photo shoot that wasn’t well, something ugly that told me I wasn’t beautiful enough, thin enough, perfect enough in my face. (Okay, I know that sounds weird, but it’s kind of true. Right ladies?) Instead of seeing my beauty, I beat myself up, picking apart every flaw in the photos.

Too fat.

Bags under my eyes.

Uncomfortable.

Awkward.

Ugly, not-quite-right shirt.

Don’t like the way I look.

Three years later and a fresh set of eyes, I could see that I looked pretty in the photos. Totally acceptable. Just right for where and who I was at that time. There was NOTHING wrong with those pictures. Maybe they weren’t perfect, but they were beautiful.

Ladies, for the sake of our own well being, we must figure out how to distinguish between PERFECT and PRETTY. 

Okay, so maybe you’re not going for PRETTY. Maybe you prefer to look beautiful, stunning, ravishing, radical, rogue, hip, cool, casual, fun, friendly, feminine, astute or simply put together.

However you are, WHOEVER you are, here’s what I want you to know if you don’t feel pretty in your family pictures.

1. First and foremost, the likelihood is that you DO look pretty, you DO look beautiful.
2. Even if you don’t feel pretty in your family pictures, go ahead and use the photo for your family Christmas card anyway. Go ahead and print the photo and put it on your end table anyway. Go ahead and make the 8×10 canvas and put it up in your bedroom. Go ahead and make a few copies to give your children when they get bigger because YOU are important, YOU are beautiful and YOU are needed in your family and this world JUST AS YOU ARE.
3. Save the CD. Save the flash drive. Save the proofs. Save the memory card. Just save the photos, wherever they are. Then take another look at them three years later, five years later, ten years later and beyond. You’ll realize you were so pretty, so beautiful, so lovely. And you’ll most definitely wonder WHY in the world you thought anything different.
4. Give yourself a chance. Give yourself a little grace.
5. Keep yourself in the picture and call yourself beautiful because you are.