One is rude.

The other is mean.

One uses her words to wound, her tone of voice to scar and get her way.

The other uses her four-year-old powers of provocation by taking what is not hers and barring the way out of the room.

My daughters spend all their morning energy getting under one another’s skins until it erupts into a full fledged screaming/whining/crying argument. Why can’t they just get along, I think.

Loud THUMPS on the bedroom floor signal me to intervene. “Downstairs, now!” I call up to them.

Why’s and Mom’s float down the stairs. They deposit themselves on the floor of the kitchen where I am. I gather them up, and begin to brush tangled summer hair {something to do while I talk to them about loving}.

“Ouch! Mama.”

“You MAY not treat each other this way. You cannot.” I say in between brushes.

“Ouch. You’re brushing too hard.”

I tell them, “I have to get the tangles out.”

I’m not brushing hard; in fact I’m using gentler strokes than normal. But they are already in a lather over their argument upstairs so tears are easy.

I turn them both to face me and try to explain to them empathy and love and compassion and how Jesus wants us to act. How He wants us to show each other kindness. I talk to them about forgiveness and living in peace.

Hug each other, I tell them. Their embrace is loose without any emotion. They’ve hugged because I’ve asked them to. No more than that.

“Do you forgive her? And do you forgive her?” I look back and forth, see their faces ready to spill.

Yes, and now there are real tears.They are tired of hearing me lecture them about compassion and all they want is real human, connecting touch.

And what do you think they do? They hug ME. For consolation. For forgiveness. For saving.

And by hugging me, they’ve reconciled with each other. For the moment, I’ve been their bridge.

When we grow up, we hurt each other far worse than a few rolled eyes and a GIVE-THAT-BACK! We steal husbands and friendships and parking spaces. We tell lies and tell people off. We passively and aggressively put people on our black lists and we shun and snub. It seems like we hurt each other all. the. time.

But there is a Bridge. And He’d rather us hug one another, but when we can’t just bring ourselves to throw our arms around the neck of someone who has wounded us in our soul, He is there. We can fall into Him and be reconciled to one another BECAUSE of Him. He saves. He consoles. And He is Grace when we can’t offer any ourselves.

Is reconciliation or forgiveness difficult for you?

The summer I was 12 I tucked my leftover art supplies from ART 7 in my backpack and asked my mother to buy me a few fresh canvases. That summer I tried to reproduce some of the projects I’d done that year from memory. It included a fan brush, some acrylic paint in whites and blues and a mountain snow scene.

I tried for a few weeks at the kitchen table. I wasn’t very good, but it met a need in me.

I just want to MAKE something, Mom. I don’t care if it’s cookies or a collage. I just want to make something.

That was when I was a middle schooler.

When I was 28 and in the middle of the worst year of my life, someone suggest I get out my angst on an art canvas. I went to the art store and plunked down my credit card for some big canvases, some paint in odd colors and a packet of brushes.

I painted with loud music in headphones at my own kitchen table and tried desperately to express the hatred and fear that I was feeling. It did not meet any need in me. I didn’t feel satisfied, but instead felt emptier when I was through.

My eight-year-old went to and art camp last week at her school. She painted and collaged, she mod podged and watercolored. She had a blast. It culminated in an art show at the end of the week and we came home with all of her work.

It inspired me. This week at the Markley House has been home week. I declared it such at the end of and busier-than-summer-ever-should-be week last week. Sigh.

We were so exhausted that I vowed that the last few days of July for us would be spent primarily at home. Aside from the occasional outing to dance class or the stables, we’ve been at home A LOT. So we broke out the art supplies.

I just want to MAKE something, has been Hope’s attitude ever since her camp.

Micheal’s had packages of 10 art canvases (8×10) for $20 bucks and the acrylics were on sale for 57 cents each. Every day this week each of the girls has painted a canvas. We’ve painted flowers, beach scenes, trees in the snow and everything in between. As they dry I’m nailing them up on the wall in a collage format in their toy area. I’m not a decorator but I’m pretty proud of our mutual productivity. We are rested and happy and we are making some cool, no-rush pieces of art.

Our Home Week has turned into Art Week and I’m hoping that between our Mod Podge encrusted hands and the drying paint brushes, the girls will have a week to remember. I’m also hoping that even if the house is a little cluttered this week like all of the art classrooms that I’ve ever sat in in my life, it will be for a good cause: fostering a growing need in them to create something.

To make something last.

To point to something and say, That’s what I did.

And that that need will follow them until they are adults.

For me, creating makes me healthier and more balanced. It lets me give OUT what I’ve taken in. And unlike my angst-filled period when I was 28, when I’m healthy and creating the product only gets better and better. I want to teach my girls this.

Do you NEED to make things? Does your heart and attitude affect your product?

I learned a long time ago that I can’t control everything in my life.

The more people I love, the more things I gather around me, the deeper I fall into them. And the irony is that it becomes less and less possible to control anything.

I can “train up” my children, but in the end, they have to make their own choices. I can be the best wife, but it still is up to my husband whether he hurts me or not.

If I have learned one thing, it is that I AM NOT IN CONTROL.

Oh, I try to be. I can do all that I can to protect my children. Put them in helmets and seatbelts and bandaids. But bad things happen.

Little girls fall of horses and break their necks. Somebody gets into a car after they’ve had too much and broadsides a mini-van. Or someone we trust may, in fact, be untrustworthy.

The Idea Camp bloggers are writing about sexual abuse this week. And honestly, I can’t write from personal experience. I can’t. I vowed a long time ago to NOT write about anything or try to SPEAK about anything that I don’t have something experiential to say.

But I can write about fear.

I can say that I am scared for my daughters. For things and places that I cannot control. I have to come to terms with the fact that the hearts and bodies of my children are outside the realm of my control.

Things are different now than they were when I was a little girl. Or when my parents were 8 and riding their bikes down to the lake or a friend’s house.

No one was afraid.

Not like they are now and not like I am now. I won’t let my girls play in the front yard without me. You might call me overprotective or too-careful, but what other option do I have?

I have two little girls — one who will be developing very soon but both too small and too young to protect themselves.

I can look at the website and find the sex-offenders in my neighborhood. I can look down the street and wonder about the house full of just-guys at the corner and wonder what they do behind their doors. Or I can just keep them inside for the rest of their lives…

But I do know what abuse does to people. I’ve listened to their stories. And if the thought ever crosses my mind during a weak moment of that

insane

panicked

fear of a mother

I can’t fathom the thought of one of my little ones being subjected to something so horrible.

Because all of it is out of my control. All of it.

And the older they get, the more minor freedoms I must give them. I must. It is essential to their development. Every. Single. Time. I let each of them do something else, push another boundary, it just kills me.

The only thing that I can control is how much I trust God. How much I trust Him. And if abuse, God forbidding, becomes part of the Story of one of my daughters, then so be it.

I have to trust God with them.

I have to trust God with them.

I have to.

What about you? Do you trust God with your children? Is it possible to protect them from everything?

Someone asked me a question last week.

And then yesterday morning someone else asked me the same question, almost word for word. I usually take that as a sign that it’s something that should be addressed.

How has the “blogging community” impacted your life?

There are super obvious ways like the amazing women that I’ve met and the lifelong friendships I’ve formed in the past three years. As good and as deep in this brief period as the relationships I formed in college. It’s been one of those pivotal times in my life: sometimes you are completely aware that the choices that you are making and the things that are happening are very important, that they will shape the course of your life, that the paths you take right now are

very

very

crucial.

That’s the way I feel about the last few years and the blogging community.

Blogging has completely shaped my writing, practically speaking. I have disciplined myself to write between 300 and 500 words every weekday and I attempt to write them well. That doesn’t always happen. Some days its a great post, and other days I’m just going through the motions. But even during those days, I think it still helps my discipline: doing something even when I don’t feel inspired or that I have something burning to talk about.

Blogging has also taught me to listen to my life, to watch my children, to hear God speaking to me on my back porch, in my car and during my runs. I observe the world both big and small, and each day I practice is one more day I get to hear the sublime in the very, very normal. There is beauty in that.

But the most important thing blogging has done for me or through me, is that it’s let me get to know so many of you.

Your stories! Your beautiful, amazing, heart-broken stories. I’m so humbled that you trust me with your hearts like that. It’s such a mind-blowing thing: these story-connections.

Thank you for your stories. They are gifts I don’t deserve.

But that’s the community.

That’s the beauty of this internet-craziness.

That is where it all pays off.

How has blogging or reading blogs impacted you?

I feel like our annual trip to the county fair is full of No’s.

Even when there have been so many YES’s, the negatives seem to outweigh the positives in a little girl’s mind. {I mean we did say YES to the parking fee, to the admission price, to the strawberry shakes and the burgers, and we did say YES to the $1 extra admission to see “The Most Giant Horse In The World.”}

No, Hope. You can’t take a pony ride. You ride real HORSES every week.

No, girls, you cannot go on another ride. You’ve used up all of your tickets.

And NO, you may not have a souvenir.

They both played with inflatable purple unicorns attached to leashes next to the exit from the petting zoo. Enthusiastic, even at the end of a long afternoon, they both could envision themselves “walking” these air-filled prizes back to the car.

“Your TRIP here to the fair was your souvenir,” my husband told them. “Maybe we can all say THANK YOU for that.”

“Thank you,” they grumbled. And that was the end of it. Reluctantly they put the purple unicorns back in their places on the $20 rack.

We each grabbed a little hand and weaved our way back to the car through the masses of people carrying funnel cakes and fried pickles. When we got to the parking lot, Hope looked at her father.

“Thanks, Dad. I know what you mean by us just being here being my souvenir. I had fun.”

She’s growing up. Because last year she wouldn’t have said that. The difference between seven-years-old and eight-years-old, it seems, is being able to recognize that her parents had just shelled out fistful after fistful of cash for rides and food and that a purple inflatable unicorn was just not in the budget.

She recognized that the whole day was the souvenir.

That’s maturity: knowing that the journey is the prize.

I hope that at the end of my life, or even at the end of the day, I don’t keep asking for more and more. I hope that I will be able to say Thanks, Dad for making the journey the prize. For the pain and the grief, and the joy and the ease, for helping me see that the changing of my heart is my reward for walking with You.

I want to be grateful for the journey, with a good attitude and a happy heart, and live humbled that He’s chosen me to walk it with Him.

Are you thankful for the journey?

I’m not sure if I need to go all the way to Africa to be wrecked by God.

I mean, I’d love to. Sign me up, okay?

But all my near future plans have my feet planted firmly in the USA. Where we are dependent on ourselves, where we suffer the poverty of Too-Much, where I live. There is this selfish part of me, I’m going to be seriously honest here, that wants to see real poverty, wants to fly away to Uganda or Kenya so I can walk the slums and weep.

How selfish is that? I want to see and experience so that I can be changed.

How voyeuristic, how full of self-interest, how sad…

And what kind of small God do I believe in? A God that must land someone from America directly in the way of suffering so that her heart may be changed.

I don’t trust Him that He could accomplish that here, now and with the resources at my fingertips. Depending upon some idea of an experience that may or may not ever happen means I’m not depending on Him.

Maybe my future will include something like that. And maybe it won’t.

But I do know this: I don’t want my life to be easy. I don’t want to drift toward comfort and build up my money and life so that someday I can retire and have a boat.

And not only that, Sarah Markley, {because now I’m talking to myself} if you want to see hurting and poverty, drive  4 miles down the street to THAT neighborhood. You know the one. And then, Sarah, drive 90 minutes south on Interstate 5 to Mexico. Yes, that’s right, you live in the backyard of some of the worst poverty in North America.

Sigh.

I want to be wrecked by God and I want Him do it in any way and in any PLACE He sees fit.

He can meet me in my bathroom, my living room, my church sanctuary in Orange County, or on my front porch.

I don’t need a plane ticket to see the poverty of my own heart.

Lord, take my heart, my desires and my plans for the future. Make me into who You want me to be and shape me. Wreck me if you have to. Do it here or somewhere else, but let the end result be that I am more like You.

So I’m pretty scared to blog about this because I might really fail at it. {Oh but we LAUGH at fear over here on my blog, right?}

And then you’ll all ask me about it and I’ll say

Wow, I’m a big fat failure.

But I guess, that’s a part of community, isn’t it?

My husband asked me to go on a diet with him. NOT because he thought I needed to, but because he needed the accountability. And because he’s seen me succeed and fail over the years. Namely over the past 2 years.

In the past 2 yrs I’ve gained about 20 pounds. And I know why.

I’ve been writing a lot for you here, I’ve been trying to write a book and I’ve been writing a lot for other people. No one ever told me that writing can make you fat.

It’s because I’m SITTING and pounding away on my keyboard, I’m SITTING and drinking a Starbucks, I’m SITTING and wondering what my next blog post will be. I’ve been sitting a lot. And it has made my, ahem, rear wide.  Better to sit on, right?

No.

Writing makes you fat, I’m convinced.

But what about all the skinny novelists? How can they pursue a sedentary job and stay trim?

Lack of balance is really my problem. I pretty much quit working out when I decided I was going to do a lot of writing. That made me feel sluggish and lazy which added to my lack of kitchen-control. Which leads to peanut butter. Which leads to sleeping in. And that leads to more writing and less running.

Sigh.

Will the cycle ever stop? I’m hoping so.

I’m 10 days into a diet plan that is working, it’s the one that’s always worked for me and I’m {humbly} returning to what I know works. And yes, that takes some humility. I have to admit that what I’m doing is

just

not

working.

There has been a lot of deep breathing, a lot of early mornings at the gym and a lot, a lot of vegetables. There has been some prayer. There has been some grumpiness, and there has also been a looser fitting pair of jeans.

Crazy, I know. Eat less and I’ll fit into my jeans. Who knew?

So I’m going to keep on writing. And I’m going to keep on watching my food intake. I’ll let you know what happens.

Hopefully it won’t lead to peanut butter.

What do you “go back to” that always works for you? In life, in health, in anything??

When I drop them off at Grandma’s

Or at summer day-camp,

Or when my husband rescues me and comes home so I can tuck the car keys into my pocket, slip on my flip-flops and kiss their heads as I take a few moments to myself

I feel like I’m finally not responsible for anyone.

I can walk into a store without holding a little hand, without feeling my heart seize with adrenaline as I watch the end-cap full of chardonnay wave and weave as they walk by it. I can walk through a parking lot without worrying that a distracted driver won’t see the little blonde head walking next to me, or that none of us will see the back-up lights of the SUV parked next to us. I can slide into Starbucks and drink a hot drink without having to entertain anyone but myself.

Listen to my NPR, take a jog outside, talk on the phone to a friend — all of this I can do when I’m not responsible for anyone else.

Gratefully happy to be responsible for little lunches, little laundry and little dirty shoes, this Mama needs a break from responsibility some of the time. So when I’m not responsible, it feels good.

Freedom. Responsibility-free (for a little while, at least).

I just realized something this morning as I walked kid-less into the gym {my girls are spending a movie day with their grandmother}: I am ALWAYS responsible.

Not only am I always responsible for my children even when they are with another person, but I’m always responsible for me. For my thoughts, for my attitude, for my spending habits, my leisure habits.

I, now, have only myself to answer to. It’s not as big of a deal if I’m grumpy when I’m alone because I’m not tempted to yell at anyone, but oh, maybe it might be just as bad! This is why: I still have to take care of my own attitude, that left unchecked, will carry down to my girls when I see them again.

Even when I don’t have another little person in tow, perhaps I’m even MORE responsible.

I’m responsible for what I watch, for what I say, for what I talk about because ALL of it creates who I am. And I want to be a mother who is healthy and kind and loving even when I’m not around anyone else.

I’m responsible for how my words affect others, for how my actions show {or don’t show} the love of Christ, and for how my thoughts turn my heart toward or away from my family. I’m responsible for all of this.

And it’s a good thing.

What are you responsible for? What do you do when you get some time to yourself?

Sometimes I wish I could be left in the dark.

Because I really don’t want to know when the last time I will be able to pick up my eight-year-old is. It might have already occurred last Friday afternoon when I tried to carry her in from the car. Beach-fatigued and sandy she was just light enough for me to carry about 15 feet. I had to put her down.

That might have been it.

Or maybe she’ll jump into my arms next week and I’ll struggle under the weight of her growing limbs. When I think about her warm, baby-body eight years ago, soft head still smelling of infants and breast milk, I want to be able to pick her up at least one more time.

Before time takes over and I have to give her up to the world. I’d rather dream that there might be one last time still waiting for me, that last week wasn’t a last.

Is it better to be aware or unaware of a last?

Last night in a house you are moving from.

Last dinner with a friend who must travel back home.

Last word to someone who is dying.

It’s easier, maybe, to be unaware. It doesn’t sting. It feels better to dream there is still something out there, in the future, that might happen still. Even if I look back later and realize that it was the last time _____________ happened, it doesn’t smart as much because time has passed.

There is so much pain in the awareness of lasts.

Saying “goodbye”.

Driving her to the last day of preschool before Kindergarten.

Looking out of the airplane window and waving goodbye to a continent.

Now that hurts. Wounds, grief and passion well up and come out in laughter and in tears. It’s just so difficult to be aware of the last time you will walk through a place, the last time you will hold someone’s hand, the last time you will kneel down and tie your daughter’s shoe.

But isn’t this living?

As far as it is possible, I want to experience the grief and the longing, even if it is difficult. Living loudly in the middle of the joy and pain is far preferable to living quietly in apathy or unawareness.

It means not lying to yourself. It means thinking that yes, this might be the last time. It means making the most of today and this hour because it may not come back the same way again; today might be a last.

Have you had a LAST recently?

Nothing worth having comes without tears.

Two summers ago it was mommy-and-me. That consisted of me squeezing into a bathing suit, jumping into a cold pool in front of a bleacher-full of other parents and two-year-old arms strangling me for 25 minutes five days in a row. Last summer it was Level One by herself and she screamed for the first four of nine days of lessons. She was scared of the water. She was scared to put her face beneath the surface and she hated her teacher. This year, however, she jumped right in and was swimming by the end of the two week session.

Swimming!

My littlest one can finally swim {if you consider sporadic kicking, wild arm movements and an occasional throat-full of water swimming}. She’s far from “water safe” but she’s well on her way to independence in the pool.

I’m so proud.

But it’s taken her a few summers of fear, tears and then striking out on her own. Every step has been necessary. Completely necessary.

She was patient. I was patient. And finally, when it was time, the freedom and the joy that has come from her being finally able to kick herself over to the pool wall without help are unmatched. She reaches the side of the pool and grins.

“Look Mama! I made it! Can I go again?” She ducks her head under the water and swims back to me.

Joy.

My husband and I have been wrestling with a difficult decision over the past few months. One we didn’t want to make, but one that we had to make.

At first there was fear. What if we make the wrong choice? What if we spectacularly fail? We put our decision making process in a strangle hold of fear and worry.

And then there were tears. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to put my face under the water because what if

I

can’t

breathe?

But then, there has been independence. The struggle, the pain, the fear and the weeping that has been associate with the difficult decision making has increased our faith bigger than we could have ever imagined. It has taught us to trust God more, to do scary things and to swim unhindered and un-held to the wall.

There is a glimmer of joy on the other end of this process. We can barely see it, we can see the hints. And we know that the tears have been worth it.

Faith. Grace. And now, unexpectedly, joy.

I’m up for an adventure.

Have you had to make a difficult decision lately?