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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.

Beautiful Life

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.”

Karin Madden

Messy beautiful

(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.)

Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith, Family, Forgiveness, Friendship, Hope, Marriage, Military, Motherhood, Together Tagged With: fear, messy beautiful warrior life, time to get a grip

February 7, 2014 by Karin 11 Comments

The Real Fairy Tale

Not what she expected.

My sweet ten-year-old looked up at me from behind the soft covers. With tears in her eyes she mumbled,

Maybe your next anniversary will be better.

I cocked my head to the side,

Better than what?

She went on,

Maybe you and Dad will be able to go out and have dinner… I don’t know.

I smiled into her innocent eyes. These young recipients of endless princess tales vividly displayed on wide-screen. The princesses who get clothing lines and figurines and jewels. The ones who sing like angels and fight like brave hearts. The ones who struggle through adversity and end up in a life that’s – perfect. With a theme park thrown in.

I laughed,

Sweetie, this was a good anniversary. I got to see my honey… you know, Dad. I was able to hang out with all of you. We are healthy and fed and in a home – all together. That IS a good anniversary.

She looked at me suspiciously,

Ok. But, it’s your anniversary.

I went on, trying to convince this young girl of the beauty of simplicity,

Well, and maybe we can go out to dinner someplace really nice… really soon.

She smiled and hugged my neck,

Ok, Mom, that sounds great. Maybe you can drive to the mountains or something.

(I’m fairly sure she wanted to add… in a horse-drawn carriage)

I tucked her sweet innocence into bed, blew kisses, and turned off the light.

I looked at my warrior,

You know, she wonders why this wasn’t more romantic. She’s watching and wondering where the fairy tale is.

He and I both chuckled, knowing the fairy tale in this chapter is six sleeping children. That is a good anniversary.

watching the washer

watching the dryer

Fairy tales. The funny thing is, I grew up hearing my mother’s German fairy tales, and they were far from the story we show our own kids. The original versions involved pain and healing, life and death, beauty and horror. I have books my mother saved – the old hardback German books from our childhood. The characters are running around with hair on fire and thumbs cut off. Pretty morbid stuff. And I didn’t fall apart… as far as I remember. The real stuff of real fairy tales… was real. Or at least not glossed over and fluffed up.

Der Struwwelpeter

The girl played with fire

No more thumbs

The beauty in the reality of it all… was the end. The redemptive stories intertwined with mayhem. A little bit more like… life.

The fairy tales on our screens today might just bring our princesses (and our princes) crashing down – to reality. There is romance, there is true love, there is charm and beauty… but, it’s not perfect. Not yet.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a beautiful ending all tied up in a bow. There is no Disney-deficiency anemia in our home.

dress up

I love that Pocahontas had a heart-gripping romance with John Smith – even though in real life it wasn’t true. In real life, legend has it, she was a brave soul who saved the neck of John Smith and married a man named John Rolfe. She was baptized a Christian and given the name Rebecca.

I love that little red-haired Ariel marries the prince, grows feet, and has a fabulously explosive wedding. Even though the mermaid fairy tale of my childhood told how the mermaid not only longed to be with the prince, but also deeply desired the eternal human soul. This eternal soul – mermaids don’t have. The story in our old German book ended in her death. It made me sad as a kid.

Bruder Grimm

Yes, I love the glossy new versions, but I wonder if they really prepare our little warriors for the real deal? The battle in this life for faith and hope and love. And, it is a battle. The battle worth living for.

Hans Christian Andersen said it well,

Every person’s life is a fairy tale written by God’s finger.

Not the glossy versions, but the real, raw stories of recklessness and redemption… of doubt and deliverance… of fear and freedom. Of life and death. And, Life.

God's fingers

Maybe I’ll pull those old fairy tales out and read them to my kids. I’ll read the German version to the sound of giggles and translate the stories to English. The real versions, as they were really written. Maybe kids can handle the messy tales – knowing the glory is coming in the end.

The important part is the ending. It doesn’t always end well… here. The real ending hasn’t come yet. The best part – the real ending is the real beginning.

A confession. I already read the last page, and… spoiler alert…

Love wins.

 

Revelation 22:17

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” And let him who hears say, “Come!” Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life. 

Karin Madden

Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith, Hope, Love, Marriage Tagged With: fairy tales, the real version, those German stories

January 9, 2014 by Karin 14 Comments

When We Don’t Know Much About The Proof Of Love

I hear their little voices ringing in the background. My head is starting to hurt. I hear the beep of the microwave reminding me the coffee from this morning has been reheated… again. And here I sit looking for revelation in a keyboard. I forgot again. Stop and pray and ask…

I’m listening to The Proof of Your Love and I remember now… 15 years ago.

Let my life be the proof of Your love.

I remember the vows this war bride took in a dimly lit church on a cold winter Saturday night in January. It was only months after I met him. Only months after our engagement. Only months after the first deployment. Separated from this man I loved and planned to marry – and I didn’t even know yet. I didn’t know how much things would change.

I called the Scottish priest on the phone. It was Saturday afternoon. Just the night before, our squadron commander pulled me aside, knowing we were planning a wedding,

They are leaving days from now. I just want you to know… in case you feel like you need to make plans.

The story is familiar to many military brides. The marriage… followed by the wedding.

I remember when we fell head over heels in just weeks… days, really. He pulled me close and told me of the risks of loving a warrior. You can lose more than your heart, you know. He wanted me to be sure – to give me one more chance to bail. You could have sooner cut my heart from my chest. I was in… for the long haul. Of course we don’t know what the long haul is when we hitch up our trailers.

The priest in his thick Scottish voice laughed,

Don’t marry him!

I laughed, relieved to find humor in the moment. He continued,

When is he leaving?

I answered, not quite believing the road we were on,

Only a few days now. Tuesday, I think. Will you marry us?

His tone took a note of warm sincerity,

Of course I will, my dear. Come to mass tonight. Six o’clock. Stay after everyone leaves. I’ll clear the church quickly and we’ll marry you then.

My head was spinning, but my heart beat steadily. The fast sure resolve in this beating chest reassured me. We don’t much need our heads in moments like this. They just get in the way. The heart – all things flow from this pumping organ.

We drove in the darkness toward the old brick church in the middle of our small southern town. Both sets of eyes facing forward as he reached for my hand. There is something about taking the grandeur out of a wedding; wearing a black skirt with a tan sweater, holding hands in the dark of night while you drive toward your wedding vows, that reminds you why you are jumping into this unknown. The proof of your love.

The old church

The service murmured in the back of our thoughts while we smiled knowingly at each other. He squeezed my hand tighter as he tilted his head toward the stained glass to our right. Marriage. The kaleidoscope of carefully placed mosaics glowed above us. Marriage. That’s what it said under the intricate hands that grasped each other – just like ours.

The service ended; our hearts raced. This fiery Scottish priest beamed and patted backs as he hurriedly ushered the masses to the door. He glanced over to us and smiled. The reassuring smile of man whose heart is driven by God,

I’d like for you to meet someone. I asked them to stay behind. We need witnesses, you know.

I didn’t know. I’d never done this bride thing before,

Oh, yes, of course.

We turned and smiled at the couple standing by the pews. They wore jeans and jackets and grinned at us wide-eyed.

The wife smiled sheepishly,

I would have worn something nicer than jeans if I had known we were going to a wedding tonight.

I laughed,

I haven’t known much longer than you.

We walked toward the altar and I looked up at the crucifix. The dim candlelight flickered time to a standstill. One of those moments that time becomes meaningless. The cross above us – the only other Witness to this union.

The moment hung in the air with the vows we pledged and the prayers we prayed. Our hearts beat a steady drum. Shaking hands placed the Claddagh of our wedding bands – friendship, love, and loyalty.

And the candles flickered. The proof of our love.

Claddagh bands

I looked up. His body nailed to that cross. I didn’t know much about the Man who hung above us. I knew enough to bring me into this House wrapped in glistening stained glass. I didn’t know much about Him then, even as the proof of His love hung before my newly married eyes.

I didn’t know much about hitching a wagon to a warrior’s life or the real meaning behind these sworn vows.

I didn’t know much about hearts melting together and living oceans apart over and over again.

I didn’t know much about love forming life and the patter of feet all over a home.

I didn’t know much about the stubbornness of self and pride and all the things that bring us to collide.

I didn’t know much about being willing to die for the new life that comes from this union under a cross – or being married to a man willing to die for a country.

I didn’t know love is good, love is hard, love is sacrifice.

I didn’t know much of anything, really.

I didn’t know the proof of love had been written Ages ago.

Newlywed war bride

 

Patter of feet

Faith is funny that way. It breathes life when you don’t even know you are breathing.

It enters that moment you are willing to bend a knee on an altar – even when you don’t quite know Whom you are bending a knee to.

It fills you up when you just begin to bow.

It enters your soul when you ask,

Who are You?

It was 15 years ago today. This war bride story of mine.

And all the while, the Son of Man has looked down and poured out the proof of His love.

And it doesn’t matter if we get it.

He. gets. us.

And we bend our knees and we bow…

and we whisper…

Thank You.

 

1 Corinthians 13:4-7, 13

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres…

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Karin Madden

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Filed Under: Faith, Love, Marriage, Military Tagged With: love and marriage, mawwiage, war brides

Meet Karin

Hi! My name is Karin Madden. Writer. Warrior wife. Mom of six pack. Homeschooler. German-blooded southerner. Welcome to the place where I explore what it means to grow stronger - spirit, soul, and body. I write to inspire and encourage - to remind you we are not alone. By being bold with grace and speaking truth in love, we can become who we are meant to be. I'm glad you are here.

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