This morning we had to make the decision to put our dog down. Awful.

The difficult, ultra sucky part was telling the kids. Jacob is 9 now and Jessica is 7. Today was the first time in their little lives that they have had to experience grief and loss of any kind. We told them about the dog when they got home from school and it was as bad as you would expect.

I think Jessica said it best when she said, “I think I might be sad forever.”

Obviously she won’t be sad forever but a small (or maybe not so small) part of their innocence has been stripped away. That’s the saddest thing that this mommy’s heart can imagine.

A few months ago my husband guest posted on my blog. He wrote a sweet post about this cute little dog that I pretended to be indifferent about but secretly loved. I thought it would be nice to repost it today.

This photo was taken this morning before his trip to the vet. What a sweet boy… xoxo

What I Learned about God from my Dog

By Jesse Wick (@jessewick)

Nicole loves animals. We have three of them: the cat she had when we met, a narcoleptic shih tzu named Pong, and a pesky maltese/shih tzu mix (malte-shitz?) named Mitzy. The maltese is incredibly dumb, though she does a great job protecting our home from squirrels, toddlers on tricycles, and the miniature pinscher down the block. The cat has a gentlemanly distaste for the dogs and tends to stay in the basement. (The dogs are afraid of the stairs.) But Pong… ah, Pong. The dog I always wanted. The only thing worse than his body odor is his breath. He is morbidly obese. He sleeps 23 hours out of every 24 (this is a rough estimate, not an exaggeration), snoring loudly. His idea of a “walk” is a quick trip halfway up the block to a nearby tree, upon which he dutifully pees, followed by a somewhat slower, panting waddle back home. He has the personality of a loaf of bread. He may be the most useless dog that ever lived.

And I love him.

And that’s the first thing he taught me about God. My love for him is not based on anything he does. It couldn’t be, because he doesn’t do anything except lie around and reek. I just love him. And he knows it. And he depends on it.

Now, lucky for us all, I’m not God. I’m sure God knows why he loves us. All I’m saying is that Pong doesn’t ask for reasons why I love him or worry that I don’t; he just trusts in it. Unlike the malte-shitz, who tries to earn my affection in all sorts of obnoxious and off-putting ways. (“Look! I love you! I’m jumping up and down frantically while snapping at your hand! Look! I’ve killed your daughter’s stuffed animal! Look! Here are the mangled remains of a dead bird I found! Aren’t I great?”) Pong doesn’t need to do all that. He just accepts my love without a blink or a second thought.

Being at home a fair amount during the day, I spend a lot of time around this dog. And I sometimes get that weird feeling that someone is watching me. I’m not paranoid; someone is watching me. Pong. When he is awake and doesn’t have his face in a food dish (which, again, is rare), he is mostly looking at me. Not wanting anything, just gazing at me. You’ve heard the old hymn, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus”? If I were Jesus, Pong would be the holiest living thing within fifty miles. It’s a constant reminder to me of where my own eyes need to be directed.

As a corollary to both of these points, Pong is content simply to be where I am. And by extension, he gets a bit agitated if he isn’t. If I go into a different room for any length of time (including, unfortunately, the bathroom), he will poke his head in there and just stand there gazing at me until I am done. He has a little bed next to ours and can’t go to bed without me. When bedtime is close, he’ll often stand at the bedroom door, huffing and puffing, until I come in with him. He doesn’t need me to stroke him, give him treats, tell him what to do, or anything else. He just needs me to be nearby. Then he can go back to his default state of contented lethargy. I should be so content simply to be near Jesus – without always wanting something from Him into the bargain.

Finally (because this is getting long), Pong counts on me. If he were a psalmist, he would have many names for me: Lord of the Vacuum Cleaner, The One Who Lifts me Onto the Couch (Because I’m Too Fat to Jump Up There), Filler of the Kibble Bowl, My Refuge in the Time of the Veterinarian. He’s not shy about admitting to me when he’s scared; at the vet, he puts his paws in my lap and pants furiously, gazing at me extra hard. He’s not afraid to tell me what he needs, standing in front of the couch or at the back door, doing a little shuffling dance while huffing and puffing pathetically.

You see, Pong doesn’t have an image to maintain.

He just has faith.

But then I read his words, his undignified description of this mess of a dog, and saw the worry he experienced when the dog was injured last week in a freak one-stair accident. And I knew that I had to post this before he (the dog, that is) died. They love each other. It’s weird. But it’s real.

So here it is….

What I Learned about God from my Dog

By Jesse Wick (@jessewick)

Nicole loves animals. We have three of them: the cat she had when we met, a narcoleptic shih tzu named Pong, and a pesky maltese/shih tzu mix (malte-shitz?) named Mitzy. The maltese is incredibly dumb, though she does a great job protecting our home from squirrels, toddlers on tricycles, and the miniature pinscher down the block. The cat has a gentlemanly distaste for the dogs and tends to stay in the basement. (The dogs are afraid of the stairs.) But Pong… ah, Pong. The dog I always wanted. The only thing worse than his body odor is his breath. He is morbidly obese. He sleeps 23 hours out of every 24 (this is a rough estimate, not an exaggeration), snoring loudly. His idea of a “walk” is a quick trip halfway up the block to a nearby tree, upon which he dutifully pees, followed by a somewhat slower, panting waddle back home. He has the personality of a loaf of bread. He may be the most useless dog that ever lived.

And I love him.

And that’s the first thing he taught me about God. My love for him is not based on anything he does. It couldn’t be, because he doesn’t do anything except lie around and reek. I just love him. And he knows it. And he depends on it.

Now, lucky for us all, I’m not God. I’m sure God knows why he loves us. All I’m saying is that Pong doesn’t ask for reasons why I love him or worry that I don’t; he just trusts in it. Unlike the malte-shitz, who tries to earn my affection in all sorts of obnoxious and off-putting ways. (“Look! I love you! I’m jumping up and down frantically while snapping at your hand! Look! I’ve killed your daughter’s stuffed animal! Look! Here are the mangled remains of a dead bird I found! Aren’t I great?”) Pong doesn’t need to do all that. He just accepts my love without a blink or a second thought.

Being at home a fair amount during the day, I spend a lot of time around this dog. And I sometimes get that weird feeling that someone is watching me. I’m not paranoid; someone is watching me. Pong. When he is awake and doesn’t have his face in a food dish (which, again, is rare), he is mostly looking at me. Not wanting anything, just gazing at me. You’ve heard the old hymn, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus”? If I were Jesus, Pong would be the holiest living thing within fifty miles. It’s a constant reminder to me of where  my own eyes need to be directed.

As a corollary to both of these points, Pong is content simply to be where I am. And by extension, he gets a bit agitated if he isn’t. If I go into a different room for any length of time (including, unfortunately, the bathroom), he will poke his head in there and just stand there gazing at me until I am done. He has a little bed next to ours and can’t go to bed without me. When bedtime is close, he’ll often stand at the bedroom door, huffing and puffing, until I come in with him. He doesn’t need me to stroke him, give him treats, tell him what to do, or anything else. He just needs me to be nearby. Then he can go back to his default state of contented lethargy. I should be so content simply to be near Jesus – without always wanting something from Him into the bargain.

Finally (because this is getting long), Pong counts on me. If he were a psalmist, he would have many names for me: Lord of the Vacuum Cleaner, The One Who Lifts me Onto the Couch (Because I’m Too Fat to Jump Up There), Filler of the Kibble Bowl, My Refuge in the Time of the Veterinarian. He’s not shy about admitting to me when he’s scared; at the vet, he puts his paws in my lap and pants furiously, gazing at me extra hard. He’s not afraid to tell me what he needs, standing in front of the couch or at the back door, doing a little shuffling dance while huffing and puffing pathetically.

You see, Pong doesn’t have an image to maintain.

He just has faith.

Do you, or have you ever, had a special relationship with an animal? Can that relationship be spiritual?

David and his amazing wife Diane live in Australia, Northern Ireland, and Oregon (at last count). You can follow David on Twitter or his blog(s). Thanks for doing this, friend. Love you!

And without further ado, David Goodwin…

In most Christian circles, its rare to hear “homosexuality” without “sin” also being mentioned.

As someone who used to be gay, and a Christian then and now, I’m comfortable with that, but I’m very uncomfortable with how they are almost always linked in a pious and/or disgusted manner.

Because sin is sin is sin. No matter what it is, God offers us all a level-playing field in Jesus.

But plenty has been written about that, so I won’t rehash it. Instead, a quick overview of my theology on sin:

1. sin is anything which separates us from God.
2. many of those things don’t make sense to our warped view of justice, so God gives us specific guidance through His written word, by His Spirit, & through wise counsel.
3. things which appear to make sense, like murder or theft, still get a look in because God knows we’re completely depraved.
4. and then…there’s everything else. The “everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial or helpful” stuff. Freedom in Christ. Yay/ugh/yay/ugh/etc.

For some, all things LGBT fit at 4. For others, me included, they fit at 2.

However it’s not my job to convince anyone where they belong, that’s the Holy Spirit’s job. My job is loving. But…often judging seems to come much more easily.

When I was living gay half a lifetime ago, I was living a double life : one where I was a once-a-week-church-going-conservative-yet-camp guy, and another where I went out clubbing, drinking & (kinda) engaging in trysts. All in all, not much different from the experience of any number of guys…save some significant details.

Yet here’s the kicker : the pious part of me spent so much time judging the rest of me that I blocked the Holy Spirit from doing His work in me.

But over a long period of time, I learned to stop judging me and began to love me instead. That work of the Holy Spirit transformed me from the core.

It’s such a simple sentence to write, yet so difficult to convey the tears, struggle, and anguish of fighting who I believed myself to be versus who I knew God desired me to be.

And years later, I’m still struggling.

Until recently I wasn’t comfortable being in traditionally blokey environments. They kinda freaked me out. I just didn’t know what to expect.

Would those old feelings be revived?
Was I likeable, as a straight man, to other straight men?
Could I really be myself?
Or, perhaps bizarrely, would I get hit on? (it still happens. even, or maybe especially?, when I’m out with my wife.)

In other words, despite having been released from sexual attraction towards men, I still wouldn’t allow myself to form close relationships with men.

I’d only allowed the transforming power of God to go so far.

I was still living with fear, and it was my choice.

There is always choice.

Nikki and her husband Matt are using this diagnosis to bring hope to other families though an organization they are starting called Santino’s Voice, which, among other things, makes churches aware of those with special needs in their community and creates ministries to support them. (Did you know that 95% of special needs families don’t attend church?)

One more thing… this Mother’s Day week was about great mothers and the unmothered. If you haven’t read the post about trafficking, orphans, and Moldova, I hope you do. And I hope you give.

Santino’s Story

For months our son had been poked and prodded at. A neurologist told us he could have autism or he could be ADD. Santino had some autistic features such as lack of speech, occasional meltdowns, and a tendency to sway and rock instead of standing still. But he had other characteristics that were very contradictory to autism. He was affectionate, he did not have severe mood swings, and he was a good sleeper and eater. At that point the neurologist ordered an EEG and MRI, and then suggested that we could possibly medicate him.

We left with our heads spinning.

A pediatric physiologist said there was “no way” he was autistic. Hearing tests. Speech tests. “Tino point to the dog.” “Show me your nose.” On and on the evaluations went. Nobody would tell us what was wrong with our little boy.

Then, on a cold January day in 2006 we visited Dr. Richard Solomon’s office in Ann Arbor – me, my husband Matt, and our beautiful 2½-year-old son, Santino. We sat expectantly as we awaited the news. Dr. Solomon looked at me and my husband and said, “Your son is autistic. He is mild to moderate on the spectrum.” That was the very moment that God stepped in and took over.

FINALLY an answer…now we could help our son.

The journey since that January day has been paved with miraculous breakthroughs and littered with soul-crushing heartbreaks. But one thing has never changed: we aren’t walking this path…God is carrying us every step of the way.

Every day when I look at Tino, I don’t see autism; I see one of God’s most precious gifts. God has uniquely and beautifully formed our family through the blessing of this precious boy he has given us.

I have seen God through the beauty of what the world would consider imperfect, defective.

I don’t see imperfection when I see Santino. I see a boy who doesn’t know how to hurt people. He doesn’t understand the concept of being mean, he loves unconditionally, he will give anyone who asks a hug, he loves to flash the most vibrant smile and squeal with joy when he’s excited, he’s only concerned with the basics, not the excesses. When I see Santino, I see a boy who, through autism, is more tender to the heart of God than any of us could ever hope to be.

When I see my son, I see my God, and it is an awe-inspiring sight to behold.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well” Psalm 139:13-14

What parts of your story do you see God in clearly?

Anyway, Jessica’s blog is called The Mom Creative and it is a favorite (seriously… check it out). I love it because it’s a place that allows me the freedom to celebrate motherhood sans the guilt trip for working full time. Excellent.

Crying from the Crib

My 19-month-old son is at that age where he doesn’t want to rest. He is too excited to discover the uncharted world around him.

But sometimes, he needs a nap.

In those moments, I scoop him up – one arm under his bottom and one arm around his middle, my hand gently rubbing his back. As I put him in his crib, I  kiss his cheeks, and say, “I love you Elias. It’s night-night time. Go to sleep little one.”

Sometimes he will lay right down, but more often he will fuss.

I repeat, firmly, but still lovingly, “It is night-night time, sweet boy. You need to rest.” I then walk away from the crib and him, as he cries with big crocodile tears streaming down his face.

I hate to see him so upset. But as his mother, I know that sleep is what is best for him, even if if it hard for him to understand in that moment.

So I let him cry.

As he cries, I stand outside his bedroom door with one hand on the door handle, listening and thinking, “should I go in?”

I know if I go in, he will beg me with outstretched arms to take him out of his crib. And I won’t be able to resist.

But he needs the rest.

I don’t go in. Instead, I wait.

His cries turn to whimpers.

He gets quieter.

He yells “Mammmaa!” one more time, but it doesn’t some sound desperate.

I stand outside the door, saying quietly, I’m here honey. Right here. Go to sleep. You need that sleep. I haven’t left you.

He sleeps.

Isn’t that kind of like God when we are in a hard situation?

We cry out, God, please rescue me! And it feels like he has abandoned us.

But in actuality, He is on the other side of the door, right there with us, wanting what is best for us.

Moses told Joshua in Deuteronomy 31:8 “The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

The same is true for each of us. God goes before us and is always with us – even in the times when we feel stuck like a baby in a crib.

Do you sometimes feel like God is not with you? How do you draw yourself closer to Him?

I spent the first half of Mother’s Day week talking about needing mother’s… or being Un-Mothered. Now I want to close out Mother’s Day week celebrating three friends that I think are AMAZING moms. Today’s post is from Jenni Clayville, a wonderful mom, wife, and worship pastor. You can follow her on Twitter (although I’m assuming you already do) or on her blog.

Oh, and did I mention that I love her? Ok, now that that’s out of the way here’s her post…

Invite Me

I’m sitting here watching my 4-year-old.

He grabs a little cup from one of the bottom cabinets (we put all the kids dishes where they can reach them so they can help themselves), scurries over to the fridge, fills his cup with water and drinks from it. Then he grabs a couple apple slices I’ve cut for them and runs over to his 1-year-old little brother.

“Here Paxton… want an apple?”

As they both snack, they sit side-by-side and Chance “reads” to Paxton. Then… out of nowhere… Chance says:

“Hey Mom… you wanna come and read with us?”

ABSOLUTELY!!!

I could have easily done all that water-fetching and snack-handling for Chance and Paxton… but there was so much more pride when I saw he was self-sufficiently taking care of his own needs, sharing with his brother, playing quietly… and then he invited ME to come and play with him.

I love walking alongside my kids.

I love listening to the silliest rambling and chatter their little minds offer.

I love to watch them grow.

I love holding them close and cuddling in.

I love experiencing every milestone with them.

I even love their temper tantrums because it reveals passion.

I love being WITH them.

That’s when it hit me: This is what God wants from ME!

God loves to see me taking care of myself… taking care of others… living out my purpose. He’s always present, just like I’m present with my kids… but to be invited into the simplest, daily activities of our lives?

God loves walking alongside me.

God loves listening to the silliest rambling and chatter of my mind.

God loves to watch me grow… especially if I take a lesson in with it.

God loves holding me close… in joy or in my tears.

God loves when I experience my milestones THROUGH Him.

God even loves my passionate outbursts because I’m using the feelings He gave me.

God loves being with me.

Now, only if I’d invite Him along…

What do you need to invite God into?

One of those friends, Khanh Dn Oehlke, sent all of our adoptee friends this poem a month or so ago. I love it. It describes our experience so beautifully. Khanh has returned to Vietnam to live with his wife and adorable children. I love his heart and am so grateful that he allowed me to share this with you.

The Perfect Shape

by khanh duy nguyen oehlke (1999)

the perfect shape,
i’ve come full circle.
far from home,
i’ve come so far.

we know the story far too well,
as we size, share, and compare the scars.

in quest of self,
we have found each other.
in the company of strangers,
we have found a brother.

we know the story all too well.
we know the love of a child and mother.

blood has proven wider than oceans.
skin has proven only so deep.
ignorance once fueled a fire
self-awareness and understanding has laid to sleep.

i will return
to where i’ve never been.
again. and my friend,
i will see you there.

together, we will walk the shape that has brought us so far.
we will make the shape that has brought us home.

This week my blog is all about mothers and the motherless. Tomorrow I’ll be celebrating my adoption anniversary on my blog in a big, big way. I hope you come back and celebrate with me. The rest of the week I’ll also be honoring some fantastic mothers with guest posts by my friends Jessica Turner, Jenni Clayville, and my good friend Nikki.

Have you ever had a life changing reunion? Is there a reunion you wish you could have?

I shared on the blog and via Twitter that my son, Jacob, was diagnosed last year with Asperger’s Syndrome (an Autism Spectrum disorder) and in sharing learned that many of you share our story. One twitter friend, Scott Finn, offered to share part of his and his son’s story here and I am so, very grateful. You can follow Scott on Twitter or on his site, FinnStuff.

Living in His Word by Scott Finn

My son, Daniel, was diagnosed with Aspergers Syndrome shortly before his fourth birthday.  Prior to that, it was summarized as a speech delay, a learning disability, and “we just don’t know what it is that he has.”  That last one was fun, since it came from the special ed teachers.  Once we had the diagnosis, though, we began to find out that he just learns differently, reacts differently to events and stimuli and looks at the world in a different way.  For these reasons, we just had to learn to live in his world.

Family activities had to be adjusted a bit over the years.  When we took Daniel to the circus at the age of four, he spent most of the time under his seat, since the sounds were too loud in the stadium.  Fireworks on the Fourth of July were totally out for a few years, until we discovered that an iPod and headphones with his favorite music tempered the explosions in the sky.  Large crowds can be overwhelming for him, but as long as we stick together and don’t lose sight of one another, it’s all good.  At Disney World, most of the dark attractions were a challenge for us, as they nearly all also employ loud noise as well, and noise plus the blanket of darkness was just a little too overwhelming. On occasion, we’d feel like we were missing out on some fun things, but we always found things to do that we all could enjoy.

One common trait of those with Aspergers is a near obsessive approach to topics of interest.  This can be frustrating, as a parent, when you want your child to engage in a variety of activities.  On the other hand, there are benefits to this type of attention to detail.  When Daniel was a relatively new karate student, he was able to learn katas and techniques of students that were two belts above him in rank, simply by watching them each week in class.  He can Speed Stack like a pro, and it is usually one of the first things he does in the morning, and the last thing he does before bed. Every day. Oh, and if you need any info about the Three Stooges, he’s your guy.

I think the greatest thing about living in his world is learning to enjoy little things. When he watched his first fireworks show, it was at Epcot in Orlando. If you’re gonna do fireworks right, Epcot cannot be beat, and he did it, and we were beyond thrilled. He enjoys family movie nights, even though he rarely sits still long enough to get through an entire film without stacking cups or “just checking on something” on the computer. At night, he likes for me to lay down with him for a few minutes before lights-out, to talk about his day, and what tomorrow will bring.

Sure, we wonder what his tomorrows will look like, but we know they will be bright. We are living in his world, and it’s really a great place to be.

How is God challenging you to live in His word today?

So, while we were busy debating Mark Driscoll, my friend Tom Davis was having coffee with sex traffickers. His post about encountering sex traffickers on his trip to Moldova puts everything into perspective for me. It’s fine, and sometimes to fun, to challenge each other on our beliefs about bits of docrine or opinions about working parents, but at the end of the day this is what really matters. If as Christians we can agree on this, as far as I’m concerned, we’re all ok.

Sex Traffickers and the Craziest Day…Ever

Originally posted by Tom Davis on his blog. Follow him and his Children’s HopeChest trip to Moldova and Russia on his blog.

Today, we meet a psychologist to girls who have been rescued from the sex-trade.

As we walk down the street, she tells us she has a “surprise” waiting at our destination. I’m up for surprises. In fact, I kind of flow with them. The day is clear, a slight breeze is blowing, and for the first time I don’t even need my Northface jacket. We sit down in an outdoor cafe with green umbrellas and Ahmad tea signs all around. Reminds me of Kiev and the sun feels good.

“Do you want to know why I brought you here?” Nothing to fear, no need to worry. Of course we do. The black stuff in my cup isn’t real good so it’s not the best espresso in the city. “Why are we here?”
“One of the girls you will meet was trafficked from this restaurant.”

What…did…you…say? At that moment, my world changed. The crowded city street was a different place. A man from the Middle East appeared over Anne Jackson’s right shoulder. Something about him, it wasn’t right.

“In fact, they’re here right now. And so are the girls who are being trafficked. They lure girls here for a job. Then they are sent to Turkey, Israel, and Russia.”

I saw them. Teenagers draped with blond and brunette curls. You’ve got to be kidding me. And I’ve brought Anne here? I mean Simon and Brad are one thing, but a girl? Someone I’m responsible for, and I’ve brought her into the midst of a den filled with sex-traffickers? I looked to the right and saw two more men emerge out of the restaurant. They weren’t Moldovan. Simon’s camera didn’t help things. He was shooting pictures and video faster than Usain Bolt runs the hundred yard dash.

Now we’re the center of attention. We tried to play it cool, acting like we belonged there and were just shooting a plain ‘ol video about life in the big city. My chest got a little bigger, my sixth sense a little stronger. If there was ever a time I longed to be a CIA agent.

An overweight, middle aged man sits down with a young girl at a table ten feet from us. She might be seventeen. We captured the photo. She bats her eyes and tries to impress her. He hands her a wad of cash for last nights exploits.
I’m sickened beyond explanation. And then I realize, this happens every single day. What am I suppose to do? Turn a blind eye? Pretend this evil doesn’t exist? Go back to my comfortable life and wish that young girls aren’t trafficked like this right in front of my eyes?

Something inside tells me I can’t. I’ve been exposed and I’ll never be the same.

At least ten traffickers sniff us out. They’re behind us, in front, to the right and left. We’re absolutely surrounded. But were not in prison like the young girls who fill the chairs. We have a choice. Their choice had already been made for them.
This place has the heavy-weight title of the highest rate of trafficked women in the world. Tens of thousands simply disappear. Our psychologist friend pulls out a local newspaper. “This is how they trap them. Local ads promising well paying jobs abroad. Everyone wants to leave so all young girls are potential victims.”

I look to the left and to my utter shock, see two girls reading the same kind of newspaper. Once your eyes are opened, it’s everywhere in this place.

“I brought you here so you can see the realities in our country. It doesn’t do you any good if I only show you what most people want to see. This is the reality.”

Tomorrow, we will be with five of the girls who have been rescued from this nightmare. I want to be a real presence in their live and fight back the evil that had control over their life. Thank God there are people here who go to the front lines every day. I have to do something, I can’t sit on the sidelines and hope this goes away.

We’re in Moldova. Who would like to join us?  We stood up from our table and walked out of that hell hole. The beautiful blonde girl didn’t have that choice.

Tom, thanks for allowing me to repost this on my blog. Praying for you on your trip this week.

You can learn more about Children’s HopeChest here and follow Tom on his blog or Twitter.

I few weeks ago Mike Foster and Jud Wilhite were gracious enough to let me guest post on their awesome site. I was honored to share this post with the People of the Second Chance community.

A few weeks ago when everyone was showing off their #RealMe on Facebook and Twitter I quietly looked the other way and kept my lovely, professionally shot, and photoshopped profile picture up. The idea of showing my face first thing in the morning, free of make up and hair product didn’t bother me. It isn’t a sin to look tired, or plain, or blotchy. It isn’t even a sin to be ugly.

However, it is a sin to be fat.

And that’s me. I’ve struggled with my weight for years, as long as I can remember really. I grew up on my mom’s southern cooking; fried meats, sweet tea, and home made mac and cheese. I was always able to keep it somewhat under control… that is until I got pregnant. Women? Do you hear me on this one? Yeah, I thought so.

Anyhow, in addition to carrying around 25 extra pounds of post-delivery baby weight I also fell into a part postpartum/part dealing with my husbands porn addiction depression. A deep depression that I attempted to cure the old fashioned way: with food. The ooey, gooey comfort foods I grew up on. And as I “coped” the 25 pounds became 100. Yikes.

So, that’s the #RealMe. And I hate it. As I struggle to eat the right things, exercise, and avoid treating depression with ice cream I need a second chance. A second chance from people who make jokes, or assumptions, or judgements.

But, seriously, more than that I need to give myself a second chance. I need to get ok with me. The #RealMe. I have what sometimes seems like an infinite capacity to show grace to others. No matter what they have done. But I have an incredibly difficult time showing that grace to myself. And I know that I’m not the only one.

This is my second chance.