Friendship 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.)

April 11, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

The Party You Are Invited To Join

It’s easy to hole up inside, isn’t it?

It’s easy to find a comfortable spot, close the door, and lock out the rest of the world.

It’s easy to do this when you’re tired; and it’s even easier when you have to start all over again.

It’s hard to leave your real life friends. It’s hard when they have to leave you.

It’s hard to pull yourself together for a coherent conversation when all you want to do is hide, or sleep, or survive.

But, we weren’t made to hide or just survive.

It’s hard to get out there and be real.

But, it gets easier with each step toward the door… with each new friend.

Come meet us at the park…

4-ish?

The text lit up my phone; a smile lit up my face.

We’ll be there…

We fall into the trap believing God doesn’t care about the in’s and out’s of our days. Those minutes in the day when we wonder,

What difference does it really make?

The truth… it is in the smallest details of our lives where we really live. In the daily duties, routine requirements, and sometimes mundane monotony – this is where our breath meets the breath of God. The small things matter to Him.

The children we feed, and clothe, and teach, and adore. The spouses we support, and battle, and love. The places we wrestle and realize what it really means to sacrifice. The places we carry our crosses, and realize sometimes we are someone else’s cross to bear.

The friends who carry us through care-free laughter to crying discouragement. The real life ones and the ones we seek in the quiet recesses of late night stillness. Somewhere behind computer screens.

The internet. This generation’s backyard picket fence. The way we find each other. The place we meet, hearts on our sleeves, to remember we are not alone.

So, today I throw my dance card out there with a group at 5 Minutes for Mom (and, man, do we sometimes need 5 minutes… or 50). They are hosting the 2014 Ultimate Blog Party. And, we could use a good party.

If you are visiting from the Ultimate Blog Party 2014, welcome! You’ve found the place I rise at sunrise (or something like that) with my pack of six. I write about faith through the eyes of a mom, military wife, and woman who spent more than three decades believing in a distant God. This is the place I re-live the moments of madness in motherhood and genuine gratitude.

I’m glad you’re here.

If you’ve been reading along with me for a while… I want you to know, I am grateful. I am truly thankful you have taken a few minutes from your day to meet me at the picket fence. I hope the words I etch in this place bring you inspiration and encouragement.

I’m a little pencil in the hand of a writing God, who is sending a love letter to the world. ~ Mother Teresa

Thank you for being part of my sunrise.

Proverbs 17:17

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.

March 13, 2014 by Karin 6 Comments

When You Are Tired Of Feeling Guilty

I only glanced into her eyes.

I wanted to get my eyes onto the new life she carried with her.

Sleeping soundly. That whole sleeping like a baby thing. The seasoned pros know what the novices learn quickly – sleeping like a baby is not sleeping at all. It’s a brief peace interrupted by the restless squirm of an empty tummy or a full diaper. Sleeping like a baby might as well be called sleepless in (name your city).

I hugged my friend’s neck as they made their way through the gauntlet of our home. Passing carefully booby-trapped areas of trains, dolls, cars, and random kid items lead to the safe haven of the back room. The den. I can manage to keep one safe zone at a time. This one place where foot injury by Lego is least likely. Only one zone at a time. Someday… someday we’ll be able to tread freely in our four walls. Truth? I dread that day.

I finally looked into her sweet mama eyes and saw this glimmer of a look that triggered a foggy memory. I knew that look. Almost like looking into a distant mirror. Funny how in a certain light we all look the same…

How are you? How has it been going?

She smiled and we exchanged the pleasantries. The joys of motherhood and the blessing of babies. The sweet smells of the miracle of newborn life. The beginning curve of the lips when we realize the smile looking into our eyes has nothing to do with gas. We ooh-ed and aah-ed at the precious pink package who lay soundly sleeping in her car seat.

How are you… really?

That familiar strain of her eyes caught my heart. Those memories of sleepless wonder and delirium woke the newborn mama corner of my mind.

Oh, I remember like it was yesterday. It’s hard, isn’t it? Brutal to be so tired.

She nodded and smiled,

It was a rough day yesterday. I’m just not myself. I’m just so tired.

I nodded and saw that familiar beast prowling around us,

Yea, and you feel guilty. Because you want to enjoy this more. But you can’t because you are just too exhausted.

Her eyes filled.

Mine filled in unison with my dear friend. Oh, this lie. It enrages me. This pure joy and mighty miracle of new life is snuffed with the tale that we should relish every minute. Capture every moment in gratitude. Hold every hallowed waking moment in the shrine of our thankful mother hearts. But, the truth? We are awake every waking moment. And it’s brutal. Our soldiers and warriors are trained to withstand the torture of crying babies. It is a form of torture – this listening to tender new life… cry.

I looked into my sweet friend’s mother eyes,

You know, I remember after my fourth baby was born. My mother-in-law came to visit. She gave birth to and raised nine children. I told her I wanted so badly to enjoy this, but I was dying from exhaustion. What was wrong with me?

Her eyes fixed on mine and I went on,

She told me, “Oh, Karin, you want to survive this part. You’ll enjoy it soon.”

That was it. Off the hook. Guilt got a one-way ticket out.

My friend and I smiled as the relief released us both. Sometimes we have to hear it again. Sometimes we have to know the truth over and over again. Gratitude and joy can exist right in the middle of the blues – they might just appear cloudy for a while. And it’s all ok. Guilt is the lie. Guilt snarls,

You aren’t grateful enough. You don’t deserve this gift. You aren’t cut out for this. You are not enough.

And it’s a lie. You are enough.

You are enough when the new life enters this world.

You are enough when the toddlers scream and shriek and drive to you to madness – and your fifth cup of coffee.

You are enough when the attitudes grow in these young growing bodies – and you wish, for a second, they were little again.

You are enough when they grow up and grow out – and you wonder why you ever begrudged a moment of time with them.

You are enough – if you have never birthed life to another soul and you wonder why.

You are enough.

You are enough in the middle of the messes, the mayhem, the fear, and the failures.

You are enough. Because He is enough.

And He hasn’t left us alone. He’s walking us through the season.

The guilt – it entangles us and we trudge along under its weight doing and trying. Doing and trying and plodding along with one good hand, while the other slowly goes to our throats and squeezes. Choking the love of life right out of us.

We are free. Free to bring our hands down from the self-choke hold. Free to breathe and behold the gifts in front of us – even in the weary moments. The guilt is a lie – the joy is real. Even under the fog of survival.

The little one in the car seat began to stir. We crowded around as the new eyes flickered. She stretched her little arms toward the heavens as her baby blues opened.

These tiny arms opening up – to joy, to life – to the grateful gaze of her mother.

Hebrews 10:22-23

let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.

January 22, 2014 by Karin 4 Comments

When You Can Suddenly See So Much More

You can’t help but stare.

It’s almost too much for the eyes to take in.

Coming from the green drenched hills of the east where sight doesn’t extend past the next turn. Your eyes can’t help but blink and blink and try to take it all in.

The open valley, the stark desert sprinkled with life – then suddenly the mammoth city and the rugged beauty of jagged mountains.

You think you might just be able to see forever. And, you wonder why you couldn’t see forever before.

She landed in this western city where endless bets are placed. Her little guy stared, mesmerized by a place he had never seen before.

This forever friend of mine and her little boy who struggles with grueling allergies and tormenting skin problems – just like my boys.

It’s no wonder God brought us to meet in our twenties. She introduced me to my warrior – she told me he would be the one for me. She was right.

It’s no wonder we met all those years ago and had our first babies one week apart.

It’s no wonder our boys have mirror allergies. I had been through this desperate search for help – 7 years ago. I knew a man, a doctor, who could help. It was no small miracle – no, it was a merciful miracle that brought healing to my baby boy now growing strong and healthy.

I told her about this doctor, and you know how friends are… the best ones. They believe you when it all seems… rather doubtful.

She and her little guy landed safely in this glitzy town in the middle of a desert. She wound her car down the highway and he stared across the miles of valley,

Mommy, why is it?

My eyes are the same size… but I can see so much more…

And that’s just it. The heart of the matter. Our eyes are the same size, but suddenly… we can see so much more.

Why does it sometimes take so long? And, why can’t everyone see it?

It’s right there in front of us, but we can be so blind.

Maybe sometimes it takes a step. A step in faith.

What are the chances that a doctor in the middle of a brimming city – in the middle of a stark desert – can provide a healing touch? An answer to the suffering of a little boy.

But, he did. Just like he did years ago for my own son.

What are the chances we can open our same sized eyes and suddenly see differently – all the things we thought we already knew?

What are the chances we can open the eyes we have always had, and suddenly see so much more?

What are the chances a friend can whisper a Truth, and though it seems impossible – unimaginable – it is real?

What are the chances a step in faith can bring us to a place we can see forever?

Maybe sometimes it just takes one step…

I’d bet my life on it.

2 Corinthians 4:18

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

When You Don’t Know How To Forgive Yourself

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

The Party You Are Invited To Join

When You Are Tired Of Feeling Guilty

When You Can Suddenly See So Much More

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