Hidden Seasons of Dirty Diapers & Our Legacy

Every time she wakes up I feel like she's grown just a little bit more. It's too much. It's like her birthday was just yesterday and she's graduating college tomorrow. Over exaggerate much Jules? Nah.

I once heard a woman say, "Don't rush the hidden seasons of motherhood. Your little ones represent more than dirty diapers. They represent your legacy." Man that's so profound, I thought.

I heard that before I became a mother.

Now, her words are on playback in my mind everyday. There is so much to be learned about motherhood and raising a baby girl. So much I don't know. So much I can't see.

I tried going back to work, just a couple hours a week, and realized today it's too soon. It's too early for my priorities to get jumbled. That will come, in time. I so badly don't want to lose myself, for her sake and for mine, but I'm not worried. Yet.

For now, I'm taking the advice of that sweet woman and basking in this hidden season. Just me and my babes.

What about you? How did you handle the early years of motherhood? Any advice? 

5 Lessons Church Planting Has (Gently) Taught Me

Last August, Tyson and I moved to Los Angeles. Like most people in this city, this isn't our home. Unlike most people, we weren't here to pursue fame, fortune, or a frat house. We weren't really quite sure what we specifically came here for, but we knew God provided money, time, and freedom to start a journey as church planters in this urban community.

In the past 365 days, our lives have shifted a colossal amount. From small(ish) town to big city, quite a few things have changed, some for the better and others, not so much. 

We drive less and walk more. We feel less convinced about political staunch and more convinced about the power of the people. We drink coffee amongst hipsters and business men instead of pastors and Bible studies. To most city people, we are "so young" to have a family. Whereas back home, we felt like late bloomers. 

And while the majority of visible change has happened on the surface of our lives, there is a deep and raw evolution happening in our hearts and souls. 

I was recently asked by a friend what I felt I was learning in this season of church planting and my response was,"I have no idea." 

"Look closer," she responded. "You might be surprised to find out how much God is actually teaching you." 

So here is my closer look:

1. Vision is everything.

Without vision, people perish. True and tough. In any movement, there has to be a clear vision of where we're headed or we'll get lost, distracted and discouraged along the way. If a team is involved, vision is that much more vital to the unity and vibrancy of that group. The best way to do this? I have no idea yet.

2. A church can't be built on the talent of a few, but rather the sacrifice of many.

A pastor and a worship leader are necessary for church planting, until they aren't anymore. Meaning, if their families are the only ones who show up to church, that is not a church. It's a dinner party. Community needs people, of all different professions, personalities and passions, in order to thrive. I'm lucky to say our church has that.

3. You win some & you lose some.

Sometimes ideas we thought were genius, fell completely flat. And sometimes the impromptu dinner parties and Dodger games are our most effective community builders. 

4. Money is just a means to an end.

Not all, but most church planters we've encountered are learning good stewardship when it comes to finances. And by "good stewardship" I mean how to make a week of groceries last for two and how nifty thrift stores and Craigslist can be. There's something to be said for seasons, when it comes to money. This is a season, it is not the end. And a paycheck can't provide satisfaction.

5. There is no end result; just a journey that changes with time and growth.

I have no wisdom nor how-to's on how to grow a church, plant a church, or fundraise. But I do know one thing: God's hand of guidance is always upon those who seek Him, however the path may not look exactly like our crayon drawn road map. It's much more scary and beautiful.

We are not wise in this thing called "Church Planting." We feel rather inadequate actually. But we are living proof that God can use anyone, He can call anyone, and equip them for the task at hand.

An Open Letter to Celebrities Without Makeup

I don't know why we, the general public, gravitate towards different variations of the headline, "Your Favorite Stars Without Makeup," and then precede to make mental remarks to ourselves about your dark circles, the moles we didn't know you had, or your thinning eyelashes.

I've always wondered how those headlines and photo blogs affect you. Or if you even read them at all.

What's it like seeing your face in an exposed state for the public to see?

What's it like being expected to dress up everyday and never really measuring up to our ever changing expectations?

What it's like being, well, the average woman taking her kids to school or grocery shopping or a coffee break?

From a simple girl living in a one bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, I know I feel the pressure to be skinny; to lose my baby weight as fast as possible; to never let my hair be frizzy or plain and to always be wearing mascara and lipgloss. And no one takes pictures of me or even knows my name.

But here's a little secret: despite the negative connotations the press tries to make us feel for you, we sigh with great relief when we see those photos. 

Our lifestyles may not be the same (or even close to similar), but our womanhood is. (Tweet that!) You might have more access to treatments and spas, but deep down, our fears are the same. Our dreams level out somewhere. Our families go through the same changing seasons and hardships as yours. 

We feel less alone when we see your dark circles, your postpartum baby chub and your crows feet, though it's all none of our business really.

So thank you, for not being perfect and we're sorry those paparazzi are such a pain in the a**.

Sincerely,

An Unmade Girl Living in LA

original image via

Where were you on Sept. 11th?

Where were you on September 11th? Everyone has their story. This is mine: 

I was 13 years old. 

We woke up to my mother frantically tuning the radio dial in our 26ft camping trailer we'd lived in for the past couple months. We were smack in the middle a house building project, my baby sister was 7 months old, and I had no idea what Al-qaeda was. I quickly found out and a whole new world of evil shattered another portion of my innocence. 

We didn't have a TV in the trailer. We didn't have much of anything. We were a bare minimum family for a while. 2 years kind of while. I wasn't even allowed to use my curling iron...for a teenage girl, that was just not acceptable. I got over it. Kind of. 

There's not a whole lot I remember about that day. 

I remember it was like a bad black and white movie. Playing all day. In slow motion. 

I remember crying, out of horror for the people in those buildings and in those planes, and out of fear for whatever might happen next. No one really knew. Anything could have happened. 

But when America woke up on September 11th, the world was just as broken and twisted as it was at 8:46AM. But now, now we were reminded of it. All of us. There was no ignoring the blatant evil that parading before our eyes. No, it was real and it staring us straight in the face. 

Now, 10 years later, evil still exists.

In some cases, worse than 10 years ago. But God...yes, even now He is still greater than this. He is still more powerful and He is still good, though it's ok to question. Even the people of the Bible questioned God's presence in the midst of evil and suffering. Here is the dialogue:

David's Questions & Accusations: Why oh Lord do you stand far off?, Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? In his arrogance the wicked man hunts down the weak who are caught in the schemes he devises. He boasts of the cravings of his heart...his victims are crushed, they collapse, they fall under his strength. He says to himself, "God has forgotten [them]. He covers his face and never sees." {Psalm 10:1-11}

The Response: [But] You hear, oh Lord, the desire of the afflicted. You encourage them and listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed, in order that man, who is of the earth, may terrify no more. {Psalm 10:16-18}

Let's read that again,

[But] You hear, oh Lord, the desire of the afflicted. You encourage them and listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed, in order that man, who is of the earth, may terrify no more. No more. No more. 

For all the injustice that happens in our world, it will come to an end. One day.

My heart swells for the families affected by September 11, 2001. I will be praying for you today. All day. There is nothing we can say to make your loss any less. But we are sorry. So, so, so very sorry.

Worship Without

Worship without compassion is robbery. (<<<Click to tweet the headlines)

It leaves us full and fat with spiritual things. It leaves us over stuffed and selfishly hoarding the message of peace and grace and love of God. Worship without compassion robs those around us from encountering God. 

Worship without compassion is vanity.

It sets up a mirror in front of our faces and never moves. We see only the inward struggle and strife of our lives and never gain perspective on the reality of our surroundings. We become self-consumed, thinking only of ourselves and cut off from the world. 

Worship without compassion is debauchery.

It exploits the sacredness of the relationship between man and God, the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the moving of the Holy Spirit in and through His people because it means nothing if not coupled with redeeming and rebuilding the lives of the least, last, and lost. 

Worship without compassion is unaccepted by God. 

He rejects the worship of those who are not becoming measures of Himself to the world. If we are not acting as the Church, we cannot worship as the Church because they are one in the same. 

"I can't stand your religious meetings. I'm fed up with your conferences and conventions. I want nothing to do with your religion projects, your pretentious slogans and goals. I'm sick of your fund-raising schemes, your public relations and image making. I've had all I can take of your noisy ego-music. When was the last time you sang to me?Do you know what I want? I want justice-oceans of it. I want fairness-rivers of it. That's what I want. That's all I want." [Amos 5:21-24]

"He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, and to love kindness,t and to walk humbly with your God?" [Micah 6:8]

The truth of who God is, what He has done, and who He has created us to be should stir in us a passion and gratitude and a spirit of worship, causing us to be mobilized in compassion towards the injustices of this world. 

Worship must be mobilized by the Church through compassion. That's me and you. (<<<Tweet that!)

Dear God, let this be so of me. 

I want to be Your hands and feet and eyes and ears to those hurting around me. I want to see all wrongs made right and all that is broken be made new. I want to see You more so that I may respond with greater effect. I want to lead people to meet You. I want them to encounter You. By Your truth I will passionately worship so that others can see You. 

Amen. 

Symphony's Birth Story | Part 3 + Epilogue

Missed Part 1 and Part 2?

Since the early days of pregnancy, I'd wondered what life was like for my mom, before me. Who was she? Did she sing like me? Was she adventurous? What was her dating life like? How did she handle being so far away from her family? What did she dream of doing? How did she dream of changing the world?

It was sad for me to think that Symphony might never know the "Ty & Jules" before her. She'll always know us as "Mom & Dad."

So I had my mom tell me my own birth story months before. She'd shared bits and pieces of it over the years, but from start to finish, it was a weird mixture of identical and opposite to my own.


On a wintery Sunday in 1988, there laid a 23 year old girl, alone, in an East Coast hospital. 29+ hours of labor when her baby girl got stuck up against her pelvic bone and a C-section was in order.


Now, 25 years later, that girl was me. Except the fact that I was in a West Coast hospital, surrounded by the most important people in my life. But like my mother, modern medicine and the hand of God were making it possible for my baby girl to be minutes away from her first breath.

For that I am thankful.

You'll feel a little cold and then you won't feel anything at all, the lady anesthesiologist said. Ty was outside the operating room door because they wouldn't let him in while I was being prepped. I was more worried about him than I was about myself. C-sections didn't scare me. I was going to be okay. But he didn't know that. Why? Because I never prepped him for one.

That's right. I was so confident in my diet and exercising that I thought for sure nothing was going to get in the way of pushing this kiddo out. My factors were unexhausted however; muscles (check), stamina (check), flexibility (check), education (check). I never factored in my bone structure (damn).

They called him in, he grabbed my hand, and to be honest, I don't remember much after this.

It's all a blurry collage of blue scrubs, loud beeps and a ton of pressure. I mean a ton of pressure.

I remember Ty peeking over the curtain and marveling at my innards. Don't look at that! I yelled. Disgusting.

I remember him saying it was awesome, though his face said otherwise.

I remember hearing the doctors call out all their fancy tools like something straight out of Grey's Anatomy and then I remember hearing them talk over each other. Someone get down there and push. 

Awesome. I freaked. As much as a numb girl could. She's not going to make it. What if she doesn't make it. 

And then I heard it. The loudest, most excruciating and beautiful scream I would ever hear in my entire life. Even the doctors told us she holds the record for loudest newborn.

She was here.

Ty ran to the table where they were cleaning her up. Symphony, he sang. Symphony it's your Daddy.

Silence. And eyes wide open.

That's when I lost it. She knew him. And while it didn't happen as I dreamed, with me being her first sight, this might have been more perfect.

Her Daddy, her provider, her protector, the first man who will ever show her what real, pure and true love is was what she saw and heard first.

He wrapped her and brought her over so I could see her and through my tears I whispered, She's beautiful. And then, She looks more Mexican that I thought she was going to. Deep, I know.

But it's true, she's her Daddy's girl and I wouldn't have it any other way.

- - - - -

Symphony Mae, from the very beginning we knew you were meant for something great. You are a miracle to us and we'll never let you forget it. Your life has brought joy and hope and faith to so many people, some you will most likely never know.

God formed you and fashioned you to perfection, and while you'll question His handiwork one day, your Daddy and I hope to give you such a foundation that our faith will contagious to you.

He is good. He is faithful. He has created you for something great. And you, my little world changer, are already off to a great start.

Symphony's Birth Story | Part 2

Missed Part 1?

^^^ My sister's face is priceless. The first few moments of seeing Sym's head.

No one could have prepared me for the ocean of emotions I felt that day. I'd dreamed of these moments for so long. What it would feel like to experience labor, the pushing, and its aftermath. That moment when I would push for the last time before my girl's wrinkled little body would slip through in perfection and I'd be the first thing she saw. Heard. Felt.

So I pushed. And pushed. And pushed with that image in mind.

I started pushing at midnight. My nurse was such a sweetie and had so much hope that I would be just fine. She guided each push while Ty cheered me on like a football coach in the last seconds of a victorious fourth quarter. 

Do you see her head?! The nurse exclaimed. 

She was coming. 

They gave me a mirror at one point so I could see her dark hair poking through and that fueled me to push all the more. Just a little bit more. A couple more. 

Here she comes! They said. A couple more big ones! 

Then I fell asleep. The time between contractions wasn't much but my eyes were barely open and my head felt like it was swirling in Alice's wonderland porthole. At the three hour mark they let me rest for 15 minutes, while my mom put a cool washcloth on my swelling red face and Ty mysteriously changed my socks. I woke up to his hand brushing my cheeks and hair. Babe, there's a chance she's not going to come out. We need to consider the possibility of a C-Section. 

Wait, what? No, I can do it. I can see her. Let me try one more time. 

Because her heart rate was steady as a rock, the doctors let me go until something happened. I wanted it that way.

So I pushed again. 

Don't worry baby girl, I thought, I'm going to get you out. I can't wait to see you. Hold you. Love you and kiss the giant nose you inherited from your Daddy. I can't wait to show you around this big beautiful world our God designed. It's just beautiful. Don't worry, I'm going to get you out. 

5AM came, marking hour five of pushing, and between the swelling and popping blood vessels, baby Mo hadn't moved any closer to crowning. 

The OB on call came in and said she believed my pelvic bone wasn't wiggling open any further and the baby's head was stuck up against it. She gave me the standard options of ways they could attempt to manipulate her out but Ty and I both knew if those didn't work, she'd be doubly banged up and a C-Section would happen anyways. 

I'll never forget the look in his eyes; the tears, the fear and worry when he said Baby, it's okay, you pushed so hard. I'm so proud of you. 

He leaned in to give me a kiss and I grabbed his neck with desperation. 

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I knew it wasn't my fault, these things happen and all ten people in that room knew I tried my absolute hardest. But it was all I could think of to say. 

Then, in what felt like a flash, I was wheeled away and prepped for some major abdominal surgery. 

This was it. And the irony of it all? This is exactly how I was born.

...To be continued. // This is Part 2 of Symphony Mae's Birth Story. Missed Part 1? Click the link.

Symphony's Birth Story | Part 1

They all told me, You'll know when it's the real deal. Trust me, you'll know.

I was in early labor for three weeks prior to my due date. Between nightly three mile walks and bouncing on my trusty yoga ball, I was sure I was going early. I tried everything. Primrose oil (which definitely helped me efface), walking ridiculous hills, pineapple, spicy foods, jumping jacks, dance parties, and my last resort was castor oil. Which didn't work. And didn't give me the runs either. #fail and #win.

But on June 26, at 2:00 in the morning, I woke up out of a dead sleep to the "real deal." 

I didn't know if the emotion I was feeling was excitement or nervousness, but whatever it was, it motivated me to shower, clean my house, and triple check our hospital bags. At 4:30 I woke Ty. We timed contractions and at the four minute mark we loaded up the car.

From the beginning, everything was like a movie to me.

Driving down Sunset Blvd was a bit surreal. Our lives were about to change. The sun was just coming up and she was shining extra glittery, as if she knew it too. 

We made a quick stop at Chic-Fil-A (naturally) because I knew once I'd had the epidural, they weren't going to let me eat. So biscuit, egg, and chicken breakfast sandwich it was. 

One hospital gown, an IV and 4cm later, I was in my room, which was big enough to fit our Brady bunch of a family, and feeling as confident as ever.

I wanted to get to 6cm before I did any meds for pain relief. I wasn't going to be a hero, but I wanted to see what I was capable of. Ty walked the halls with me and did counter-pressure like a champ. Seriously, best coach ever. He's for hire if you need.

During contractions, he would whisper sweet things about what our baby was going to be like, how beautiful I was, and how proud he was of me. His encouragement single handedly kept me going. I kept thinking of all the seasons we'd been through as a couple and how this was yet another catalyst that made me love him even more. Was that even possible? Yes it was.

I got to 6cm and the shooting pain, shaking limbs and exhaustion became unbearable. I asked the nurse to call the midwife, who called the doctor, who called the anesthesiologist. My contractions kept their quickening pace during the epidural but the doctor started to worry about whether the baby was going to fit through my canal. We'll let things happen as they want to and cross that bridge when we get there. You're doing great, she said. 

The hours that followed were filled with unexpected laughter, visits from family, and a little bit of sleep.  The room was charged with happiness and excitement. This can't be real, I said to myself over and over. Everything is happening so beautifully. Even my water breaking was dramatic and straight out of a movie. Gushing and a costume change for the midwife may have happened. 

At 10:00pm, Miss Mo had not yet made her appearance and Ty and I started to accept the fact she was going to wait it out til our anniversary. Yes, June 27 was two hours away and while we joked about her stealing the show, I don't think it could have been more perfect timing. 

Our life together started that day and to think that our life as a family would start the same day, four years later, was overwhelming to me. She would make us better, fuller, wholer. 

Midnight came and it was time to push. 

And push.

And push.

And push. For five hours.

This was where things got crazy. 

...To be continued.