Forgiveness Archives - karin madden

May 7, 2014 by Karin 12 Comments

When You Don’t Know How To Forgive Yourself

The phone rang through the sizzle of the searing meat on the stove.

Taco Monday. Not nearly as clever as Taco Tuesday, as my girl pointed out, but it’s Cinco de Mayo. A day to celebrate our Mexican heritage – thought it’s only a fraction for this six pack of ours. A grandmother of a great-grandfather. Born and raised in a border town in the blazing Texas heat… a very long time ago.

I had a few conversations with this grandfather of my warrior. A brilliant man whose heart bloomed beautifully as his mind aged. I remember the stories that brought a twinkle to his eyes. The time he ran away when his parents adopted a little sister. He was ten-years-old and found this new sister an imposition. He laughed as a 95-year-old man recalling his childhood antics. His life stretched a full 98 years. Though my children had prayed for a full one hundred. Who gets to live that long? They wanted him to wear the badge of honor.

I wonder if his mother ever dreamed her boy would live to be on old man with grandchildren upon grandchildren. A man who touched the cheeks of his great-grandchildren.

I wonder if his mother thought that far ahead? It’s almost too far to look down the road. Besides, we are supposed to live right now, aren’t we?

The sound of the phone drilled through my thoughts of tacos and dinners and heritage and old age and mothers.

I scooped the phone to my ear,

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Her voice trembled through the line,

Hi Karin, how are you?

We can just tell, can’t we? We can hear in the tremor of one small syllable of a dear friend’s voice when the flood of salt is close to the rims of blurring eyes,

What’s wrong? Why do you sound so sad?

The barrier broke as she poured her aching mama worries through the line. The ebb and flow of her voice washed over us both as she described every fear, every worry, and every heartache her sinking soul couldn’t hold. We all end up here sometimes. Paddling upstream. Clamoring for air, and relief, and any reed we can hold on the shoreline. We all end up here – grasping at straws.

We talked like two oarsmen trying to find a rhythm we could both understand. Trying to make sense of the choppy waters we find ourselves paddling through furiously. And sometimes the rowing is so much easier with two. Sometimes we need to know someone is holding the other oar – praying to God we don’t sink under the weight of ourselves.

The words flowed on about motherhood and mess-ups and maternal mayhem, until she asked the question,

Karin, how do you forgive yourself?

How do you forgive yourself when you mess up?

There it was. The place our river turns to white water rapids. Guilt.

And we just drown under it.

Guilt. How do we forgive ourselves when we make the same mistakes over and over again?

How do we forgive ourselves when we lose tempers or sanity?

How do we forgive ourselves when we turn out to be less than the mothers we expected to be? When our ideas become vapor? When our plans wash down the stream far from view?

How do we forgive ourselves when who we are turns out to be less than whom we can accept?

I stammered over my reply. It’s not easy to explain the demon you battle yourself. It’s not easy to describe the end of the rapids when you are stuck in the middle of the water yourself,

Well, I guess, we have to remember that when we don’t forgive ourselves – we are sort of calling God a liar. He forgives us, but we are telling Him – He must be wrong.

She sighed,

I know. And that makes me feel even more guilty.

Yea, me too.

And I’m tired of this wasted emotion. I’m tired of it when I hear my son sink under the weight of the same snarling beast. Guilt. And I wonder if he learned it from me.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the emotion that lies to us and tells us we won’t get it right, and even when we do – it won’t let us forget the times we didn’t. The blade cuts to the soft white underbelly of a sinking soul.

So, my friend, this is the way I see it. Guilt is the part of the ride where the river forks.

You can keeping riding that dangerous wave as the current pulls you toward the cliff plummeting into the spray of murky depths. Or you can grab the oar and steer and paddle like hell – until you find yourself on smooth waters on the other side of that fork.

But, you are going to have to believe the One who forgave you first. And you are going to have to throw your sisters – the rest of us moms – an oar so we can help you steer. Because see, we were never supposed to raft down this journey alone.

And in this ever-changing current of motherhood… a river runs right through it.

John 7:37-38

On the last and greatest day of the Feast, Jesus stood and said in a loud voice, “If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.”

April 14, 2014 by Karin 15 Comments

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

Here I am. Fingers poised.

I did it again. I signed up for a project, not really knowing what I was signing up for. I do that sometimes. I think if God wants us to follow Him faithfully and step out into the unknown, sometimes we actually have to. Step out into the unknown, that is.

Then I found out more about it. I have to write the real, messy beautiful truth about who I am. Argh. Not that I want to really keep it all to myself, it just seems so painfully introspective. Almost narcissistic. And, man oh man; I don’t want to be narcissistic. There are too many millions out there who don’t have the luxury of sitting at a computer playing mind-mellowing tunes while they pick apart their own anxieties and deep-seated isms. But, it’s what I signed up for. And I like to follow through. I like to do what I say I’m going to do. I think that’s a big deal. There. That’s one part of me.

I like follow through because it’s the same as telling the truth. And I like to tell the truth. But, I don’t like mean. Not that kind of truth-telling. Not the,

Hey, I really don’t dig that shirt… or hat… or purse…

Not that kind of truth-telling. It’s really not necessary. Unless someone asks. Really asks. You know, the girlfriend who wants it straight,

How do the jeans really look?

I’ve had friends like that. And I need them. I miss them.

See, in the military, you get to start over and over again. Like anything else, it carries the great and the gruesome with it. You clean your house and your heart, and you pack up and leave.

There’s an excitement and a refreshing order that comes with going to the new normal. You get to start from scratch. But, scratch can hurt. The scratch can bring cuts and wounds and tears. The hardest part, it brings tears from your kids. Those are the worst ones. You just can’t un-live some places for them. The heart places. They have to go there, just like you do. The best you can do is grab their hands and hold on. We only become warriors by going to war – by going to battle against the dark places. Outside of us – but, first, inside of us.

I’m married to a warrior – the kind who flies fighters and goes to war. I’m a mom of six kids. That makes me a warrior in some ways. Six more souls to go to battle for. It also shows me God had to give me more practice in patience than most. Each one of my littles is a hill on which I die. Another place to die to myself. And I really want to die to myself, though it took me over four decades to figure out what that means.

So, who am I? That’s the assignment. I’ll just go right to the fears. We all have those. It’s not such a tough place to start.

I’m afraid of heights. Really afraid. Like knee buckling, heart racing, dizzying fear. I’m not so much afraid of falling; more that I’ll forget I’m up high and jump. Pretty strange, I know. What scares me more is I’ll miss some really cool moments with my kids because of this fear. I already have. Roller coasters and lighthouses. I missed that time on the lighthouse. I have pictures, but they’re just not the same. What’s worse, my baby girl is more petrified than I am. And, I’m sure it’s my fault. Guilt. That’s a whole other subject, isn’t it?

I’m afraid something will happen to my kids. I know we all are, but I don’t want to be like Nemo’s dad. I want them to live. Really live. I don’t know what to do about this fear. So, I pray. But, sometimes I worry I don’t pray enough – or the right way. Like God’s giving me some prayer exam and I am one question away from failing. I want to get it right – like it all depends on me.

Which brings me to the next fear. It all depends on me (and I worry about narcissism?), and I’m going to completely mess up my kids. I had a great childhood. Good parents, good brothers, good friends. And I never had to move. Ever. Same house, same town – until I left for college. And I hardly ever went back. And that’s it, I think. I hardly ever went back. There’s the root of my fear. My kids will take off and live and never come back.

My parents still live in the same house and I hardly ever go back. We live too far away, and it’s not easy to road trip 3000 miles with six kids. The worst part – my mom has Alzheimer’s, or something like it. We aren’t sure because she’s not the biggest fan of doctors. Every phone call, I try to memorize the brief conversation. She’s my mom. It’s been called the long goodbye, but it’s more than that. Imagine your life as a time line. You cruise along collecting memories and suddenly the one who gave you life, the one who held your new baby body, the one who taught you everything about being a girl and a woman – is living a sliding scale. The memories slide to the right leaving everything to the left – your whole past – behind. The memories become yours – alone. And I hate it. That old saying,

We’ll always have the memories.

Yea, but sometimes we won’t.

Fear of man. It’s one of the worst. Being afraid of what people think. It’s almost paralyzing sometimes. We can say (and when I say “we,” I mean “I”) we don’t care what people think. But, we do. The problem with this fear? It keeps us caged. Stifled. Half alive. And the worst part, we miss the best parts of the turning pages of these passing years. We read only half of every page, which leads us through only half of the book. We miss some of the best parts, but we’ll never know it – until the end when all the pages are open under the sun. I’m not saying finding favor with man is wrong. Wise old King Solomon told us it’s a good and honorable thing to have. It shouldn’t be the goal; but it shouldn’t be the hindrance.

Love is a big deal. Love and mercy are mission number one. But, don’t you know, there’s always going to be someone who wants to shoot you down. And, that’s why we’re warriors. Because we are willing to let people shoot at us. Because we know what’s at stake – our very lives. Our real lives. The ones we are supposed to live – wild and free. Just like that rebel Jesus.

It’s funny, the more you talk about your fears, the smaller they get; and the braver you become. And, man, I want to be brave. I want to be brave for my kids every time they face the dark places. I want them to be brave in the face of angry and critical eyes. I want them to be brave when the angry and critical eyes are the ones facing them in the mirror. Because we can be brutal with ourselves. I want to show them what brave looks like. I want to show them forgiveness is the bravest thing you can do – especially to yourself. I want them to see what it means to carry a cross and to sacrifice. And I want to love their daddy well. I want to be brave for my warrior every time he steps out to battle. And sometimes love is the battlefield (thank you, Pat Benatar…). I want to show them that this is not all there is; but this is all worth fighting for. And, then I think of her.

She’s been gone two years now. The kind of friend who would tell you in her sweetest southern drawl that those jeans were just all wrong. She would smile and hum,

Girrrrl… huh-uh. Those are all wrong, girl.

Man, I miss her. Two years is a lot of life to keep to yourself. So, here’s the thing. My girl, she could stress with the best of them. We could talk in the dark of a booth in a remote restaurant, and just as she poised herself for true confessions, her ears would perk and her eyes would shift,

Do you think anyone heard me?

She pretty much cared what people thought. For a long time. Until she got sick.

Cancer will kill more than healthy cells. It will kill any inkling of fear of what your purpose here is. It will kill any thoughts about what anyone else thinks. It will make you brave and strong and grateful for this very moment, even while you are scared and weak and the moments pass by. It will make you grow up and wake up. It will make you see things you forgot to look at. It will make your eyes new again with more tears than you can count. She was brave and I want to be just like her.

I could go on. But, well, there comes a point we have to stop. We have to get a grip and stop being afraid. I don’t know how to change it all. I don’t know how to erase the fears, but I know a God with a mighty powerful pen. I am fairly certain He can write over anything we ask. In fact, I know He will.

So, I am just going to start here – with pen and ink. I’m going to ask Him to re-write my view of heights through His eyes. The places that seem too high for me are just footstools. He has higher and holier places to take us. Maybe I can just step on one of these footstools, then take the next step, and the next…

My kids. Yes – motherhood. This place He shows me how wrong I can be – while being right where I am supposed to be. I guess I’ll just have to remind them I never doubted them when I let go of their hands… or they let go of mine. And I would fight the world for them; but, that’s not what they – or the world – need. The best I can do is throw these fears onto a page to tell them, and you, we are really all in this together. Some same, some different, but we are all sweating bullets over the pages we haven’t even gotten to yet. And those faded chapters? They show us how far we’ve come.

I want to live this epic tale. I don’t want to miss any more of the story meant for me. And whatever I miss, I’ll ask Him to please have a white-washed beach for me in heaven – somewhere breath-taking, with a hammock and a cold drink – where I can finish reading the parts I missed until now.

Romans 8:15

For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

(This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, Click Here. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, Click Here.)

November 7, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

The Longest Walk

31 days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 26 ~

Sometimes the longest walk… is across the room.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. Though the reflection in my mirror proves it was more than a few yesterdays ago. I remember it.

The doors of that magnificent old church opened. Both arched doors revealed a sea of faces waiting for one nervous bride.

I remember my girlfriend Kim fretting over her hair as her nerves tingled in last minute stage fright.

I remember my dad, handsome, standing straight and proud holding my arm. His German accent whispered in my ear as the gates to wedded bliss opened wide.

I remember taking those first few steps as the breath caught in my throat and the tears hovered in my lashes.

I heard the whisper of my warrior’s pilot comrade to my left,

Awesome.

I smiled to myself thinking I had succeeded at pulling off the perfect Princess Bride makeover.

I peered and saw the Scottish priest in his cowboy boots. Beaming.

Overwhelming. The crowd stood like a wave surging over a small unsuspecting shell sunning on the sand.

Breathtaking. The faces of people I loved, some I barely knew, some I didn’t know I would grow to love over the years. This family of friends and relatives welcomed me into the room.

And, I began to walk.

I remember a few faces in the sea. They smiled through my blurry eyes and my heart swelled.

I walked.

Then, I saw him.

Smiling and standing proud in his mess dress. Surrounded by his brothers, my brothers, and friends who had become brothers.

My feet carried me, I think. But, really, it was my heart.

And, we met at the altar.

This walk burned into my memory. I can close my eyes and see it still.

Then, the years rush. They pull and they push and the waves crash over and over again.

The ride is up and down over the swell.

I remember a song my girlfriend Jennifer and I used to play and repeat… and repeat. Big fans of Big Head Todd and The Monsters.

Bittersweet.

The song intrigued us as the single girls. The lyrics… they are just a little bit sad. How would we avoid the bittersweet?

It’s bittersweet

More sweet than bitter,

bitter than sweet.

It’s a bittersweet surrender.

The walk that day. Nothing but sweet. Completely and wholly surrendered.

And the years keep rolling and the waves keep crashing. And the lyrics come back to me…

I know we don’t talk about it.

We don’t tell each other.

All the little things that we need.

We work our way around each other…

As we tremble and we bleed.

The song still whispers a heartache. I’ve watched it happen. So many times, I’ve seen my friends tremble and bleed.

And my warrior and I, we have trembled and bled just a few times, too.

We work our way around each other. We ride these waves. And we just want to keep our heads above the water. But, really, we want to stand on the water and walk. We want to walk this walk together. We want to meet at the altar.

The good deed.

I met a couple of new friends a few weeks ago. I asked them for good deeds and I waited for stories about heroic acts and gifts given in secret. Then, Shannon smiled and told me,

I walked across the room and gave my husband a glass of water.

I stopped and looked into her eyes.

She went on,

We had been disagreeing and I was so frustrated with him. But, I wanted to make peace.

So, I served him. I walked across the room and gave him a glass of water.

And, it changed everything.

Another brave heart I had just met, Karen, she laughed and said,

I just brought my husband tea.

We weren’t in the best place with each other and were both frustrated.

I made him a cup of tea.

I walked across the room and handed it to him. And, he melted.

I smiled at the simplicity of the deed. The simplest deed is sometimes the very hardest one.

I thought about the times my warrior and I have battled on our own hills.

Sometimes the walk across the room… is the longest walk.

This ride, these waves, the best deed… walk across the room completely and holy surrendered.

The sweet surrender.

The longest walk… our feet won’t carry us.

But, in surrender… our hearts can.

As we meet at the altar again… and again.

Ephesians 5:1-2

Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.

October 2, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

Let Your Light Shine

31 Days of Good Deeds

~Day 2~

This story, posted by a friend of mine, is the story that prompted me to look for more good deeds.

Most of the time we like to retaliate. Repay unkindness with some other type of unkindness. This isn’t the way we are called to live. This isn’t the way that makes us happy. This isn’t the way we find peace and joy.

I tell my kids,

Be nice.

Over and over again. Sometimes, it isn’t that simple. Sometimes, it takes making a decision that feels quite unnatural.

Sometimes, it takes hearing a story about someone who made the right decision… and deciding to be more like him.

And, in the end, more like Him…

Here is my friend’s story.

I just had an interesting experience at Starbucks. The drive through is set up in such a way that you can enter two ways. It is customary to take turns approaching the order area. Anyway, I waited my turn and could tell the next car in line didn’t want to wait. They quickly cut me off. I gave the two college-aged boys a what’s going on expression and asked them to roll down their window. They proceeded to cuss me out and say it was their turn and they had been there 10 minutes. Well, this is not the first time someone has done this to me this week, and I’ve had enough with people. So, I seriously considered getting out of my truck, pulling the guy out of his car, and breaking his face (sorry mom). But the thought of going to jail and leaving my wife with 5 kids over Labor Day stopped me.

Just then I seriously thought what would Jesus do. So, I let them go ahead of me and when I placed my order I told the lady I wanted to pay for their coffees, too. I could tell they were stunned when they pulled up to the window. I hope that made a bigger impact on their lives, and maybe taught them a little about courtesy and how to treat others. Hopefully they will remember this long after they would have forgotten their broken noses.

Yes. I want to be more like this.

Matthew 5:16

In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.

(Day 1 is right here…)

March 18, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

When Your Day Is a Bust, and You Are One of the Lucky Ones

It’s been one of those days.

I thought these days would become more infrequent as the kids get older.

I screamed so much that my throat hurts… and I feel like I deserve it.

Why, at the end of the day, is it so hard for us to forgive ourselves?

So much for the one good year goal. All the days gone by in achieving the goal… washed away by tears of children today.

Great job, Mom.

One of those days.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

We celebrate that one around here. The stealthy leprechaun visits and leaves a trail of treasure hunt. The end of the rainbow brings a pot of overflowing craft supplies… and overflowing joy from little ones.

Then, the downward slide.

Projects, procrastination, perpetual whining.

The volcano of mama erupts. Not once… but over and over.

I never knew it would be so hard… to hold my tongue.

I never knew I would fail at it so frequently.

I never knew I would hurt the hearts of little ones… for whom I would throw myself into a fiery volcano.

But it is hard, and I do hurt them. And they forgive me. And I forgive them. But… I am not so quick to forgive… myself.

Maybe they won’t remember…

This day of Irish celebration… a bust.

I read something the other day. Something about feeding His sheep. The words drew me in… they reminded me of what it’s really like out there.

I, called to feed His sheep… spent the day feeding my woes.

With my full pantry.

With my full house.

With my full closets.

With my full belly.

With my full arms.

With my full heart.

Poor, poor me.

We feel quite helpless sometimes.

We watch the terror enveloping our world.

We watch our economy like a growing snowball… plummeting down the steep mountainside.

We watch as people suffer, and starve, and die.

We feel the pinch to our own purses.

We feel the tug at our hearts.

We feel the fear and the frustration.

We watch it all happen… and we feel pretty helpless.

Don’t you sometimes have the urge… to do something? Just anything… that matters?

When you feel like the day is a bust, and the world is busted… don’t you just want to do something?

We did. Today.

The day was a bit of a bust (in mama’s mind). Things just didn’t go the way they were planned.

Then, the moment. A moment of peace. Eyes went to a face on the screen.

A pretty little face. A little girl in a white dress with a big fluffy pink bow crowning her shiny dark locks.

She has been waiting 228 days. Almost. One. Year.

For months and months she has waited for someone… anyone… to pick her.

She needed a sponsor.

Our eyes… captured by hers.

Her birthday… the same as my oldest baby’s.

We are the lucky ones.

It is St. Patricks’s Day.

I yelled too much. Kids whined too much. We planned too much.

We. Have. Too. Much.

When He called us to spread our luck… which we know is the nickname for blessing… we listened.

I can’t wait to write her!

Oh, she’s so sweet.

I think she will be so excited to hear she has a sponsor on St. Patrick’s Day!

My own little one gleefully exclaimed as she pranced around the room.

We are the lucky ones.

We just forget sometimes.

Our new friend across the oceans just reminded us. She is the blessing. She just doesn’t know it.

Her name, of course… is Irish.

Not an Irish name.

Her name. is. I.R.I.S.H.

She is the one waiting at the end of our rainbow today.

John 21:17

The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.” Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.

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When You Don’t Know How To Forgive Yourself

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

The Longest Walk

Let Your Light Shine

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