Right after college, my husband and I moved into our cute little starter home in an old first-ring suburb.

A month later, two women moved into the brick house on the corner, on the other end of the block.

For the longest time, I didn’t know my neighbors were gay. I knew the two women lived together, but they might have been sisters, friends, roommates, whatever. I just knew they were good neighbors. They took way better care of their yard than I did, kept their house in great shape, and always waved a friendly wave when we drove by.

I found out they were gay almost a decade later, when those ladies went to court to get a restraining order against the neighbor across the street, who was terrorizing them because she didn’t like their lifestyle.

We got to know our local police pretty well in the months that followed. It was clear that the restraining order was being violated, but to bring an action, the police had to catch her in the act. This was tough. She was unpredictable: there was no telling what time of day she’d get drunk and start yelling–or worse–at the neighbors she so hated.

One night we took the trash out at 10pm and found a cop car keeping watch in our front yard–literally parked in our grass, hidden from sight by our giant trees–just waiting for this woman to throw open her kitchen window and start hollering slurs (or throwing beer bottles) at the house across the street. Another time, I piled the kids in the car on a sunny Saturday morning, and had to nicely ask the 3 police cars staked out in our driveway to move so we could leave the house.

The police eventually busted the lady for violating the restraining order, and my street has been drama-free of late. But I still remember the ongoing, continuous persecution my neighbors endured because they were gay.

The irony is rich: my gay neighbors are wonderful neighbors. But my kids aren’t allowed to play in our front yard unless I’m right there to supervise, because my restrained-neighbor has been known to careen tipsily down the road at all hours, and I don’t want my kids to be hit by a drunk driver in their own front yard.

I’ve always tried to be a good neighbor–to be welcoming and friendly and kind–but I still feel like a party to something shameful, when on my nice suburban street people are being treated so cruelly.

I want them to know that I think they’re wonderful neighbors, and kind people, and I’m glad we live on the same block.

They know where my husband works–for the big church that paid a lot of money to take out billboards opposing same-sex marriage when the issue came up for debate in our own state. I wonder if they hold that against me, but I don’t know how to ask. I want them to know that I love them, because they’re my neighbors. Because I think Jesus would love them. I can see him on my street, chatting up my gay neighbors while they walk their dogs. He wouldn’t say anything awkward. I’m so terrified of being awkward.

My gay neighbors and I chat about pretty basic neighborly stuff: sports and the weather, their dogs and my kids. We don’t talk about them being gay or me being a Christian. I don’t know what I believe about the gay marriage thing, but there they are at the end of the street, together, just like my husband and I down here on our end. We moved in just one month apart. I wonder how long they were together before that.

I don’t know, we don’t go there. I’m so afraid I’ll say something all wrong. I want them to like me. I want them to like Jesus. I feel like I’ll shove my foot in my mouth and ruin things forever, amen.

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Thank You, Jesus and Up Yours, Hallmark (On Mothers and Non-Mothers and Orphaned Hearts at Mother’s Day) | Whimsy Smitten

It was sweet and it was beautiful, but it was gut-wrenchingly awful at the same time. We listened to Pastor go on about how wonderful mothers were and the boys sank deeper and deeper into the pew. I kept my eye on Levi, just praying he could tune out the words. It would be his first mother’s day since his own Mama passed away.

Musings on Mother’s Day | Simple Bites

It’s only natural to contemplate the seasons of motherhood when the eldest in the family tree leaves this earth within weeks of the arrival of the youngest little girl.

Where is the mommy-war for the motherless child? | Rage Against the Minivan

When it comes to issues of motherhood, there is one issue I care about: some kids don’t have one. All of these petty wars about the choices of capable, loving mothers is just a lot of white noise to me, Quite honestly, I’m often astonished at the non-essential parenting issues I see moms getting their panties in a wad about. Particularly when there are so many kids in this world not being parented at all. This is the only mommy war I’ll wage.

What I Learned About Motherhood By Being An Adoptive Parent | Huffington Post

When we decided to adopt, we have a few friends with disturbing concerns about how we “didn’t know what we were going to get”.  I would say that this is true for anyone who decides to become a parent.  I’ve observed that all four of my children were born with distinct personalities that seemed to transcend the fact that they’ve each been raised in the same household. It’s been a joy to see how each child’s personality develops. All parents would do well to give their kids the freedom to be who they are.

Apropos of Mother’s Day and the Time cover debacle:

This is what extended breastfeeding really looks like | Kate Wicker

I have seen my share of photos of older children nursing in other countries where there’s a lot more of the mother’s breast exposed (like the whole thing – nipple and all – because both breasts are clear to the eye since she’s topless); yet, these photos evoke beauty, peace, and maternity. But this photo does nothing of the sort. The Time photo shows defiance. It shows a flash of breast. What it doesn’t show is any inkling of serenity or maternity or love.

I Can’t Believe I’m Telling You This | Modern Mrs Darcy

I’m a pretty crunchy, natural-living, attachment-parenting kind of girl, but I never thought I would be breastfeeding a two-year old.  Ever.  And I’ll be honest: it’s mostly because of all the negative things people say about extended breastfeeding–and the women who practice it.

Last Sunday, a woman preached at church.

In her sermon she spoke about how she always bakes when she’s stressed. She talked about cellulite and stretch marks. She talked about being a woman who used her body–imperfect as it may be–to glorify God.

I didn’t realize when I saw her take her place in the pulpit that I hadn’t heard a woman preach in 10 years. But when she started talking about the stretch marks, I realized:

I’ve been missing this.

As a fellow sugarholic, I appreciated the concept behind Lisa Velthouse’s memoir Craving Grace: A Story of Faith, Failure, and My Search for Sweetness.

Velthouse first made a name for herself with her book Saving My First Kiss, in which she advocates saving her first kiss for the man she’s going to marry.

But several years later, Velthouse remains ironically single–and unhappily so. For her whole life, she’s been a good girl Christian who’s followed all the rules, but instead of feeling fulfilled in her faith, she’s feeling pretty dry.

Velthouse “can’t shake the idea that what I lack most in life is real sweetness.” So when a trusted mentor asks, “How do you think your life would change if God became the sweetness in it?” Velthouse decides to find out. Sweets are her favorite food, but she embarks on a 6-month fast from sugar, hoping to find a deeper source of sweetness in her life.

The narrative is loose, and the story stumbles in places. But Velthouse’s tales of the glimpses of grace she experiences during her fast shine. Her anecdotes are surprising and poignant, and dripping with genuine grace. Velthouse is real and relatable: her tales of her farm community had me pining for people in my own life like that, and I shook my head in empathy at her KFC incident.

I’m a sugarholic myself, and I’ve found that the only way to curb my out-of-control cravings is to avoid the fake sweets entirely (even Diet Coke). These fake sweets fuel my cravings but never leave me satisfied, and Velthouse reaches similar conclusions about the imposter sweets in her own life.

Velthouse speaks disdainfully of the “cheap-sweet-counterfeit” she’d fed her body for too long–how she’d unwittingly trained her body to want “what it didn’t need and shouldn’t have.” Her sense of taste was off–her taste for sugar, and her taste for God.

By ditching the counterfeit sweets in her life, Velthouse was able to teach her body to crave the good stuff again.

She’s finally learned to crave–and be satisfied with–real sweetness.

Two weeks ago, I bought a last-minute ticket and drove down to Nashville for the Killer Tribes conference. It was amazing.

But I nearly missed out. My health has been skittish the past few months, so I was a little anxious about driving the three hours to Nashville by myself.

That seems like common sense, right? Better to stay home and stay safe.

Well, no. Clinically, that’s called agoraphobia, and mine started way back in 2001.

Like so many people, 9/11 triggered my first intense bout of anxiety.  I was on a plane over the Atlantic–bound for New York City–when the planes hit that morning. The pilot announced that U.S. air space was closed and turned our plane around.

When we stepped off the plane into the chaos of the Prague airport, a flight attendant–who couldn’t bring herself to look into the Americans’ eyes–handed each of us a CNN.com printout detailing the day’s horrors, all in a few paragraphs. Even in that sparse summary, outdated misinformation had already been blacked out with a sharpie. The information was still unreliable, but it was horrific enough. The New Yorkers around me crumpled, or were pulled to the tv screen nearby, riveted by the breaking news.

A few wandering days later, still stranded, I landed in a Nurnberg emergency room with what I thought was an allergic reaction to a bee sting. It wasn’t. It was a panic attack. My first.

Once I got back to the states, my doctor diagnosed PTSD and prescribed a slew of pharmaceuticals to keep my burgeoning panic attacks at bay. They kept coming; the meds made me woozy and nauseous but didn’t seem to do anything else for me.

I was suddenly afraid I’d pass out behind the wheel, or when I was alone. I was afraid I’d get sick while trapped in the middle of the church pew, and wouldn’t be able to get out. I was a runner, but was suddenly scared to venture more than a few blocks from home.

My doctor told me I’d entered the classic cycle of anxiety–panic, anxiety, avoidance–and told me to keep taking my meds. I never saw a therapist; my doctor said I didn’t need to. I was 22 and healthy, except for my resting heart rate of 190 beats a minute and my fear to get behind the wheel, or be by myself.

And while my first impulse was to make the bad stuff go away, it was undeniable that this struggle–and the subsequent struggles of my 20s–were bringing real good into my life. My cocky 22-year-old self was humbled. For the first time, I felt like this world might be too much for me to handle on my own. I felt like I might actually need God, instead of the other way around.

I dropped the meds, and eventually my panic attacks stopped.

But for the past decade, any kind of health weirdness has revved up my nasty cycle of anxiety all over again. I’ve only had a handful of panic attacks in the intervening ten years, but–just like the first one–they’ve all been triggered by health issues.

This past January, I had my first panic attack in 5 years. I remember passing that 5-year milestone last year: like a cancer patient, I’d declared my panic attacks officially “in remission,” and it felt good.

But when my hand started going numb this winter, my doctor wanted to investigate some pretty scary potential causes, so I went to the hospital for a bunch of expensive tests. He told me to pay close attention to my body, to journal every symptom. For someone with my history, this is a recipe for disaster. Soon I was back on that stupid cycle–panic attack fueling anxiety fueling agoraphobia.

This time, I went to see my therapist. (Because now I’m mature like that: I have a therapist.) She thought my freaking out about breaking my 5-year perfect record was unwarranted, and calmly said, “honey, anxiety is just a tool. Let’s see what your anxiety is trying to tell you.”

Her wise words gave me the confidence to leave my safe spaces, and with a leap of faith and a whole lot of positive self-talk, I convinced myself I’d be okay to get down to Nashville.

Ironically, when I got back from Killer Tribes, the first book I picked up–the one waiting at the top of the stack–was Rhett Smith’s new book The Anxious Christian: Can God Use Your Anxiety for Good? In it, he tells the story of his own struggle with anxiety, kickstarted when his mom died of breast cancer when Rhett was 11.

Rhett shared his story as a Christian struggling with anxiety, and I had to laugh when I saw what he was advocating: ten years of wisdom I’d gleaned from the school of hard knocks were staring up at me from the page:

1. That Christians struggling with anxiety recognize that it’s a tool, and that it can have enormous potential for good, if we let it.

2. That Christians struggling with anxiety should seek professional help.

As a Christian who’s struggled with anxiety, I appreciate Rhett’s practical–and redemptive–approach to anxiety. I’m thankful for the lessons I’ve learned since 9/11, but I nevertheless hope his book spares some Christians the hardships and heartache I went through.

And I’m hopeful that Rhett’s book indicates that the church’s attitude towards Christians’ anxiety is finally shifting. I’ve been reluctant to discuss my own struggles in Christian circles, because to too many believers, anxiety is a symptom of only one thing: a flawed faith.

But I have to agree with Rhett, and with my therapist: anxiety isn’t necessarily good or bad; it’s a tool. And as a tool, it can spur me on to a deeper life, and not just interfere with my real life.

But only if I use it well.

photo credit

I’m sharing this post at Joy’s Life: Unmasked link-up.