about me

This is not a call for crappy unwarranted  facebook ranting argumentative opinion spewing.  This is a call for Biblical boldness. By nature, I am a pretty outspoken person.  If you know me personally, that is extremely obvious to you.  I always have something to say.  As I am maturing, I am getting increasingly better at knowing when not to say something.  My tongue is scarred from biting it so much.  Sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep my fingertips silent, too. But I am also becoming increasingly aware that I am unable to stay silent about certain things – especially when it comes to Jesus. If you’re just opening my blog for the first time, you will notice that I really really really like Jesus.  I believe in God’s Word, and I believe in God because I’ve seen Him move. I also believe I’m right about all of this.  I say that not meaning that I am the ultimate authority on right and wrong, but that I believe in the God who is. You may not believe I am right.  We can go round and round and round about why I am right and you are wrong,

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This was one of my dad’s favorite photos of me, and it was always frames in his office. I see so much of Brooke Allen in this photo. Father’s Day is this weekend, and it is always emotional for me.  I am thankful that I am distracted by the insanely good looking father of my children, and that I have him to celebrate.  But there is still a word that always rings in my head on this weekend each year: Fatherless. I am, in effect, fatherless. My father died when I was 12 years old.  I have lived more years without him, than I did with him.  As much as I have healed from the grief of watching him die, the scar tissue remains.  And the wounds still feel raw on days like Father’s Day, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death. He was a remarkable man.  One who truly should be honored and celebrated on days like Father’s Day.  He was an amazing father in his time here on earth.  We never questioned his love for us, and he was constant.  He was there.  Ever loving, ever present. I wish he could see me now.  I know he would

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To my beautiful mother on Mother’s Day – You always told me when I was older and had children of my own, you would understand the reasons you did things the way you did. I get it now. Every time I look into your grandchildren’s eyes, I feel the enormous amount of pressure on me to do things not only the right way, but to do them well.  I see how they look at me to be their #1 source of their needs and their wants.  They need me every moment of every day to be behind them, encouraging them, leading them, and sometimes making choices for them. I know that when you look at Brooke Allen, you see me all over again – the way she talks, the way she plays, and the way she sasses.  In your frustration with me growing up, you warned me over and over again that I would have a child just like me one day.  I am absolutely reaping every seed that I sowed in my childhood, and will eventually reap my teenage years too. But the best part about that is, you are also reaping what you sowed in me.  I have

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To myself on this Mother’s Day… Look at you.  You look like a hot mess.  Your hair is on top of your head, your 7am make up is long gone, except for the mascara that has started to raccoon around your lower lids, and just how old are those sweatpants?  They probably at some point in your life fit a whole lot better than they do today, but the elastic is all worn out so it doesn’t matter.  Plus, you’ve been sucking in your leftover baby belly all day, so it’s time to relax and let it all out.  The bra is most definitely off, and your t-shirt is a sorority t-shirt that is older than your relationship with your husband. You’re tired.  You’ve spent all weekend chasing after children while your husband works.  You even had to work in the office while you carted the kids over to Gigi’s house.  Then you did church, grocery, Target, meals, bathtimes, and bedtimes all while wrangling children – one who wants to do everything herself, and the other who wants to chew everything he can get his chubby hands on.  You’ve poured countless cups of milk and folded the blanket at least four times.  Every

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Dear husband, I feel like you’re neglected on this blog.  I don’t mean to. I’ve spoken so often about our struggles and what it has taken to restore our marriage, that I often forget to tell you just how dadgum lucky I am that you picked me in the first place. This is no coincidence, of course.  I don’t believe in coincidences.  I believe in appointment. I often marvel at the appointments that led us together.  Had you and your mother not moved to Birmingham – Had you not been Claire’s third grade boyfriend – Had I not decided to go to Troy – Had I not pledged Phi Mu and moved into the sorority house with Claire – Had I obeyed my mother and stayed in Troy that night I drove to Birmingham – Had you not found me on Myspace (ok, so that’s a little embarrassing to mention) a year later – Had you not taken that leap of faith to drive down to see me – Had we not committed to each other that very weekend – Where would we be? I like to think that at some point, we would have still crossed paths.  Somehow, God would

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I was not a good mom this weekend. This was your Daddy’s long weekend, and often on these weekends, I feel completely overwhelmed and worn out.  I don’t get many breathing breaks. On Saturday after work, I knew we were leaving pretty quickly from GiGi’s house to go get a prize for your excellent behavior last week.  You filled up your behavior chart except for two spaces, so that warranted a trip to the Dollar Tree.  I parked my car and ran in the house, leaving the garage door open, but being sure to lock the house door.  I always do this if we aren’t staying at GiGi’s long. You weren’t quite ready to go, so I dressed you and took JP upstairs to change his diaper.  GiGi was getting dressed in her room.  You joined me to help with JPs diaper and then you decided to go back downstairs.  I finished getting JP ready and then went to see how much longer GiGi would be.  She said you had not brushed your teeth yet, so I went downstairs to find you. Your new favorite game is hide and seek, so when I called your name, I figured you were hiding.  I put your brother

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In addition to Jen Hatmaker beating me over the head with words of wisdom this past weekend, she also gave me a new word.  She used it to describe herself, and I have adopted it as my own: Un-precious. You know how there are those people who are so kind and thoughtful when they speak?  Every time you are around them, you just feel like a warm blanket has been wrapped around your shoulders and they stroke your hair by a fireplace and tell you great stories and wise words and sage advice?  Then they pour you a cup of tea and you have hour long conversations about books and current events? Yeh.  I am not that person. If you know me personally, you are probably laughing because you are whole-heartedly agreeing with me. Instead, I am that person poking the fire with a stick yelling LOOK AT THIS GREAT FIRE I BUILT while doing a dance around it.  I am choking on the smoke and adding more logs to see how big I can make it, and possibly threatening to jump across it just to see if I can.  And I will ask you to wager a bet with me

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