Light and Loveliness

Reflections of Emily Sue Allen

Date archives October 2017

Redemptive Motherhood

Digging Up the Weeds

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

*I wrote this entry at the end of this past summer, and have held onto it for a rainy day. That day was today (it was actually rainy) and I was also a day behind on my series, so, ta-da! The rainy-day waiting paid off!

I’m at my wits end. For weeks, I have been holding back tears (sometimes unsuccessfully) over the whining voices, the incessant squabbles, the ungrateful attitudes, and the back-talk.

All the kids are doing it, but one in particular leads the way—agitating the others, catalyzing the conflicts, and generally trying to run the house at 9 years old.

He’s got all the makings of a great leader, but the expression of that within our family system is often challenging. He contests my authority daily, tries to negotiate his way through any circumstance where negotiation is possible (re: all the time), attempts to manage and monitor his siblings, and lacks empathy and kindness in his interactions with them most of the time.

All of this behavior is relatively unseen by anyone outside our family. In public, he is often complimented for his helpful and attentive behavior toward others, but in private, it’s not always quite as rosy.

I know he has the potential for true greatness (which I have pegged as leadership with a servant’s heart) and glimpses of a future that surely involves success of some variety.

I also imagine the terrifying prospect of his obvious leadership ability being nefariously misdirected as he grows. Right now, the stakes are not quite as high as they will be in a few years.

There are so many times I feel lost about how to parent this boy. It is a conundrum. I love him for who he is, and in the same breath, I can’t let him run our home at the expense of the other seven people who live here. Some days it takes every ounce of my attention, love, discipline and patience to keep him moving in a positive direction. Some days, my boiling-over frustration comes out in the form of yelling and emphatic, incensed speech.

We have slogged through a particularly challenging summer full of sibling animosity (largely at the bidding of this one child), and I’m starting to feel desperate for a change, or even a marginal improvement of the constant bickering. I have employed every trick I can think of to stave off the fighting. I’m worn down to the point of staring blankly when yet another sibling squabble erupts in front of me, started by the aforementioned child. Behind my irritated expression, I stew a furious mess of emotions that I keep to myself, for the moment. He complains about his brother without taking any responsibility for his own actions. According to him, it’s always someone else’s fault. Of course it is. 

I close my eyes, draw in a slow breath, and long for an easy way out of this stretch of parenting because I’m not sure I have it in me to be patient or calm.  Help me, Jesus. 

I have to do something to help us change course, but I don’t know what. I feel like I’ve tried everything, and nothing has worked. My eyes dart around the house in search of some way to ensure a small reprieve from the bickering. Work gloves. Weeds. Outside.

I snap up the gloves with determination to help my son start in a new direction  with a little time outside in the yard. I have no idea what we’re going to do out there (I’m not a yard person) but I have to try something. I can’t continue this daily pattern of discord. Fortunately, my husband is home and I can leave the other kids in his care.

We arrive to the dandelion haven outside our front door. An eager crew of children have spread the dandelion seeds across the lawn on many “wish-blowing” occasions, and those seeds have now sprouted up. As we have sown, so we are reaping. The bright yellow, feathery blossoms brushing against my legs, and even though I’ve passed by this stretch of our property dozens of times this week, I see for the first time just how many dandelions there are. It’s been a month since the last mow, and these weeds have vigorously taken over the yard.

Who knew that if you let weeds grow where they land, they multiply at an alarming rate?

We find a dense patch and sit down. At first, I think I’m going to watch him do the task. I’m still wound up from weeks of the challenging behavior he’s displayed, and what I really want is an instant change without any fuss. It’s just not reality. Within a few minutes I realize my son needs me to set my annoyance aside, and yank out the weeds alongside him.

He needs my instruction and my example. He needs my encouragement and my help staying focused. As we sort out the mess of this yard, I realize our hearts–his and mine–are both full of things that need to be dealt with. We are both in need of God’s transformative work in us.

He is bright, interesting, and delightful–and he is also selfishness, prideful, and occasionally mean-spirited. Me? I’m a good mom: attentive, caring, and committed. I am also irritable, short-tempered, and sometimes impatient. In the fabric of every person’s character, there are flaws mixed in with all the good; flaws that hinder relationship if not addressed honestly. We each have to account for our own actions, and choose a different route.

Children are individuals, and the fabric of their personhood deserves respect and care. I recognize my children will also become who I influence them to be. I can’t afford to ignore the ways they require my love and leadership, even when it feels inconvenient or frustrating. They need me to be in the dirt with them, present and patient through the ups and downs. If I am too distant or distracted, I can’t help them recognize or reach their potential. If I raise too high a standard, and I’m not there to help them reach it, they will lose heart and quit trying.

So this is my resolve: I will be close. I will be present and engaged. I will instruct, encourage, and lead by example. This is the work of an intentional mama—digging up the weeds.



For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life.” Galatians 6:8

Redemptive Motherhood

Strength and Resolve

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.


Outside, sheets of rain pelt the ground, the extra runoff from the roof transforming our eaves into urban waterfalls.

Inside, we are at an impasse. It is me: worn down mama, my husband: still in damp clothes from his wet journey home after work, and my son: lionhearted boy that he is—screaming at the top of his four year old lungs.

All day, we have been locked in conflict. I give directions, he immediately contests my authority or attempts to negotiate the situation to his advantage, every time. There is no easygoing compliance like I’m accustomed to from his older sister. In fact, there is no easy-anything if I have “poked the bear” as they say.

The more I discipline, the more he resists. So here we are, me in tears, my four year old screaming at me with fire in his eyes, and my husband trying to sort out what to do next since he just walked in on this mess.

I am exhausted, frustrated, and tears are spilling out of me because I am convinced I am a total boy-mom failure, and I imagine my child one day being in prison, or standing at a podium giving impassioned speeches as the tyrant dictator of a small country. You know; all the worst-case scenarios a worried mom constructs in her mind when things aren’t going well.

He is a brazen, demanding child who seems to be against me at every turn, stirring up my anger in a serious way.

When this behavior started to escalate at age 3 (upon the discovery of a small measure of personal independence), our power struggles began. In his eyes, everything in our home should be done his way.

Unfortunately for him, that is not how I see it. I have tried everything under the sun to change his behavior, but it hasn’t turned out as I hoped. Many of our days are strong-willed-child-meets-authoritatively-frustrated-mama.

Now, I am one stubborn chick myself, so there isn’t any railroading this mom, but I’ll tell you what, not many things will tear at the tender part of your heart as when your young child says something so hurtful, you can’t keep your poker face. On this particular day, he says:


It’s a power grab, but a hurtful one, and he finds the button that puts me over the edge. I lose track of my brave face and cave on the inside.

Upon hearing his demands, my husband swings the front door open and retorts in his most serious dad-voice, “If that’s what you want, son, go find one.”

The rain is still sheeting down along with my own tears, and the boy’s face has fallen in disbelief that his dad is now (seemingly) taking his threat seriously.


This scene is on the extreme side of what I experienced on a semi-regular basis with my first son through his preschool years. From the beginning, he has been a leader, and his presence is probably the most influential in the family, as much as I would wish differently sometimes. If he is having a great day, we’re all having a great day. If he’s on a power trip, we’re all on the miserable ride. It is such an interesting phenomenon to me, because as far as I can tell—from years of observation and experimentation—there is no way to change this dynamic.

I have tried and tried to discipline him into compliance, and I will say, the vast majority of disciplinary techniques have not achieved the desired or intended result. If I discipline on the hard line, he positions himself against me, digs in his heels, and will not budge. When I have tried to extract respect and obedience from him by bending him to my will in an an authoritative manner, I always come up short of what I really want, which is ultimately his heart.

The very greatest gift to me is when my children respond to me with an attentive, teachable heart, and authoritarianism is not the way to get there. For a long time, I saw his behavior as a personal attack on me. I mean, it’s hard not to when a kid tells you they want a new mom after you’ve given it your best, but over time, I have learned that it is not my son’s foremost intention to disrespect me (even though it looks that way).

I have learned that although he is highly intelligent, he is not easily able identify or talk about his feelings—a personality trait he inherited from his father. It takes a gentle approach and thoughtful questions to draw out what is really going on inside him, and more often than not, he is looking for a measure of autonomy that allows him to flex and work his leadership muscles as they develop. Sometimes his outbursts are his way of asking for an opportunity to show me how capable he is. He does really well when I give him responsibilities and challenges that meet him at his level, as long as I take a few steps back and give him the room to tackle things his own way.

Even though it hasn’t been easy to weather the rough patches, the truth is he has been a sharpening force in my life. We have needed each other. He has needed me to set and enforce consistent boundaries without being hyper-emotional. I have learned some powerful lessons about what it looks like to rise to a challenge. In the past when I’ve encountered difficult things, I have begged God to bring me relief, or to supernaturally make things easier on me because it was all just so hard. I wanted a way to escape the struggle and get to a smooth stretch of the road, but I now see that God doesn’t usually deliver me from trouble like that. Instead, He refines and grows my character, giving me opportunities to cultivate patience and perseverance, so I might become a capable, resourceful, lion-hearted mama with a gentle spirit toward my children.

Since those trying preschool days, my son has become a responsible, focused, tenacious, and fairly teachable boy that is a true gift to me. We still have friction here and there, and he continues to test out his leadership muscles on me, but I love the kid with all my heart, and although I would love to have a brief reprieve from his strong-will from time to time, I have grown to respect and admire the strength and resolve in him.

“In the exercise of His will He brought us forth by the word of truth, so that we would be a kind of first fruits among His creatures. This you know, my beloved brethren. But everyone must be quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger; for the anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God.” James 1:18-20

Redemptive Motherhood

The Hidden Gifts of Humility

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

I wanted adventure, intrigue, importance, and excitement. I was younger then, and a bit more foolish. If I could have chosen the words that I never wanted to describe my life, I would have picked words like humble, ordinary, simple, and faithful. These are not things I wanted.

I had stars in my eyes and plans for “big” things, and a plan for how I could show the entire world what a brilliant, valuable, successful, important person I was. Really, I was begging for someone to validate me, and I thought that could only come through my great efforts to prove it. I do see life in a radically different way now than I did at that time, but it took me some years to see the beauty of a humble life and the treasures found within it.

Sometime during college, I was talking to a far-away friend on the phone who was a few years ahead of me: married, with two young kids, living on a piece of property just outside the small town where I grew up. I was in college at the time, and had no plans to be married with kids anytime soon. We were catching up after some years of time apart, and she talked to me about the simple rhythms of their lives, the home projects they were doing and daily-life things. As she shared with me, I felt myself internally recoiling. I could not imagine having her life, and I was convinced that I never wanted anything like it.

I’m almost ashamed to say it, but it sounded boring to me. I mean, I was glad that she was happy, but I couldn’t understand how she was. What are your dreams? I thought. What are your plans?  I was somehow convinced that she must have had something percolating within her that had to do with being more than “just a mom”.

Ah, that phrase; “just a mom”. That one will get you in trouble right there. I put that phrase in quotations because it is one that has revisited me many times over the years. Personally, I have had a range of experiences with the idea encapsulated within that statement, each that has led me to draw very different conclusions.

It started with my ignorance of motherhood, and my inability to see that marriage and the building a life together process as one that could be full of beauty. I associated both of those things with dashed hopes and broken dreams, and I wanted no more of that. I had set my course for success—at least my understanding of it at the time. I didn’t want humble, I wanted whatever was going to make me feel validated, strong, and secure.

I never said anything out loud, but in the quiet of my heart, I unknowingly reduced the value of her experience to something less than it really is. In my own defense, I didn’t know any better. I was not yet a mom (or even married at the time), and there are some things you only discover once you jump into the pool. Now I am that same mom who is learning how to see that being a mom as different than being “just a mom”.

I have learned that there are no mothers who are “just a mom,” even if they don’t do any other professional work besides keeping a home and raising children. Every one of us is multifaceted, layered, and interesting in our own unique ways. It is also true that mothers have the most important job in the entire world: shaping and nurturing the next generation. This job cannot be done in the cracks of a jet-setting life, between all the other “important” things that must be done in the world.

I confess, I myself belittled motherhood, simplicity, and the prospect of cultivating a humble life in earlier years.

There is a line in a song by Audrey Assad (I Shall Not Want) with a line that has re-arranged me.

“From the fear of humility, deliver me O God”

That is the thing right there. I was afraid that if I let go of my big, important dreams and embraced motherhood, and the service that comes with it, I would cease to be worthy of anyone’s attention.

The thing about humility is it requires me to lay myself down, to take the path of selflessness, to be diligent in unseen places where no one is cheering, validating, or marveling at my skills.

Humility brings me close with the cries of my heart I didn’t know were there. It takes the wall of pride I construct to insulate myself–I think it is protecting me from harm, but really, that wall keeps me from the most precious gifts.

A few years ago, I visited a new church for the first time with my family, and the female pastor opened her message with these words, “I always knew that I wanted to be more than just a mom.”

I winced. Having once been guilty of belittling the incredible, courageous, and selfless role of mothers, I understand where it comes from, but I also know too much now about the truth of motherhood.

The truth of motherhood is that strength, stability, wisdom, perseverance, patience, selflessness, resourcefulness, gentleness, and so many other things are forged in the fire of my humble life of service to my family when I recognized the thing I was afraid of (being just a mom) is the very thing that would bring about my liberation, my deeply cherished purpose, and my restored heart.

These are the hidden gifts that come with humility and surrender to God.

“Humble yourselves in the presence of the Lord, and He will exalt you.” James 4:10


Redemptive Motherhood

Praise and Pain in the Same Space

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

I was holding my breath. Everything difficult held in, everything beautiful kept out. I was frozen, avoiding any movement because everything hurt. Everything stung. I let out little bursts of air that caught in the back of my throat because the pain picked and picked and picked. The only way to cope was to pant it out. There was never complete relief, but occasionally there was a little, momentary suspension in time that reminded me that there is something to feel other than pain.

Then came the babies. One and then two. Girl and then boy. I heaved in a breath, filled my lungs deeply, and realized I was not dead. I was not lost. I was anchored in a little family with a man who pledged his life to my happiness, and who to this day keeps his promises to me.

The girl splashed colors on my black and white world, and the boy…The boy brought about discoveries of important things that must be searched out; treasures hidden in quiet and unexpected places.

Before his birth, my life was most significantly marked by sorrow. I was a serious, heavy-hearted girl that found myself a mother a little before I felt ready. My first baby brought a bright streak of joy into my life, but in many ways, I still felt more like an observer of joy than a partaker. I thought in order to be joyful, I would somehow have to say goodbye to sadness, which was never going to happen, not with this over-sensitive heart. Sadness was, and is, here to stay.

At age twenty five, in my home with two little ones, I discovered a truth that has pushed open a door to healing in me that still mystifies me.

Did you know that praise and pain occupy the same space?

Praise and pain are intertwined together, as are the joy and sorrow of our earthly experiences. They cannot be separated into separate, tidy spaces. Praise is an act of faith in the midst of our sorrow and suffering; a declaration that God is good in spite of the wounds that would lie to us and try to convince us otherwise. God is good. God loves. God heals and restores and transforms, but He does so only for those who give Him permission to work in His way, on His timeline.

That sure does strike a blow in the whole “must control everything” or “must be the captain of my own ship” thing.

We are free to say yes, and we are free to say no.

Does it not follow that God’s enemy (whom He tells us prowls around looking for someone to devour – 1 Peter 5:8) would do everything within his power to keep you from saying yes?

It happens right under our noses. The liar, the accuser tries to put every obstacle between us and God.

My son, named Judah (which means Praise) tore his way into the world to bring me a message that I cling to now more than ever.

My praise in the midst of my pain is what frees me from fear.  

It’s not a destination—I have not arrived at a fear-free juncture, but the power fear has over me is no longer crippling. It is no longer the defining, pervasive part of my story.

Praise in the midst of pain is the long, but certain path to freedom, peace, and joy.

I don’t mean to make it sound easy, because it surely isn’t. Simple, but not easy. It requires the excavation of our lives, digging up the dead bones and hard things, and surrendering them up to God. The work of redemption and restoration isn’t a switch to flip, or a microwaveable solution.

It is a daily choice to acknowledge God, give thanks to Him for the good in our lives, and invite Him in to renew us from within. It is a constant conversation, building trust and watering seeds of faith as they sprout. It is to intentionally apprehend true things and digest them slowly.

I used to think that if God was good, He would prove it by fixing all the wrong things in the world. I mean, can’t He see what a mess this is?

The thing is, one day, He will fix all the wrong things.

He says, “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:4

We’re just not there yet.

We’re still in the “former things” stretch, and in this stretch, He leaves it up to us whether we want to discover the fullness of His love, and see His transformative work in our lives.

He dignifies us by giving us complete freedom to choose Him….or not.

The thing is, it’s not a passive choice. We choose to make our lives according to what seems best to us (being wise in our own estimation, leaning on our own finite strength), or we choose to make our lives according to what God says is best for us…a mysterious and confounding journey that unfolds as we step forward in faith and often requires that we see things differently than when we looked at the world with eyes that do not yet know the revolutionary love of God.

If there is a ‘yes’ and a ‘want to’ in the heart, there is a way forward even if the darkness feels thick all around.

For me, seeing differently started with the traumatic precipitous birth that brought my son earthside. It was wild. It was a deeply painful experience—both literally and spiritually. I’ve left out some of the details of that, but on the near side of the birth, I had my little praise-baby. My shout to the Lord that even though I was low, still hurting, and still battling fears on several levels, that I believe He is good to me. I believe that He will uphold me. “For I know whom I have believed and I am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him until that day.” 2 Timothy 1:12 

Before, I thought a survivor survived by muscling through. I thought faith grew from seeds of proof and predictability. I thought praise was something to be offered when the weather was fair.  I never imagined that God’s world would ask me to look at everything upside-down. A survivor heals through surrender to God. Faith grows from praise and thanks offered, even from a humble station…maybe especially from a humble station. God sees us acknowledging Him, inviting Him in, and He shows up.

If we wait to praise God until the pain is over, we will be waiting and waiting, and the deep and miraculous healing we long for will remain out of reach.

“Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you. Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. But resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accomplished by your brethren who are in the world. After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen and establish you.” 1 Peter 5:6-10


Redemptive Motherhood

Fast & Furious: A Repeat Precipitous Birth

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

I am pregnant with my second child, a son, at the ripe age of 25. After the unexpectedly quick birth of my daughter, I know there was a very real possibility that my next birth could be a repeat precipitous labor. As my due date approaches, I watch and wait for any nuanced indication that labor might begin so that I might not be caught in a compromising birth situation, as I imagine I will be in dream after dream for months in advance. This time, I opted for midwife care, and when I share with the midwives my quick-labor history, they casually dismiss me. Birth pro’s: listen to your mamas.

We live in Los Angeles, far away from family, so my mama flies down to help with our not-quite-two year old. I spend many hours with her when she arrives, anxiously walking around my apartment complex, trying to put myself into labor. There is a random, unimpressive contraction here or there, but nothing to indicate any real action on the horizon.

I go to bed around 10pm, disappointed that nothing is happening, but wake with significant contractions around 2am. I time a couple of them, and they seem to be seven minutes apart. I call labor & delivery, reminding them of my history, they tell me that seven minutes apart is still a little to early to come in.

“Wait it out,” they say. “When your contractions get to five minutes apart, just come in. You don’t have to call us again.”

My mom wakes and sits with me on the couch while I breathe through hard contractions. My husband is fast asleep in the other room (I told him to sleep as much as possible in advance), and the toddler is also in her bed, surrounded by stuffed animals.

Mama times my contractions and we keep track of how many minutes are between them.






“You have got to get out of here!” she exclaims, both of us knowing that the time has arrived.

I rouse my delirious husband, and we stumble down three flights of stairs, stopping on the bottom floor because I’m breathing very hard through a contraction.

It is so intense, I can’t move during it, not even a little bit. Husband urges me on.

“Wait,” I say. “I. (pause) Can’t. (pause) Move. (double pause.) Yet.”

I wince and breathe and will my legs to move forward through the courtyard to where our car is parked. I have to stop two more times before we reach it.

I climb in and sit on the towel-covered seat (I strategically layered up a few several weeks ago just incase we had another spontaneous rupture), and my husband screams out of the parking area in our little sedan, brazenly hitting every pot hole up Westwood Blvd on our way to the hospital. I want to yell at him for the dips and jarring bounces, but I can’t talk because I’m hunched over in the passenger seat, eyes tightly shut, white knuckles on the door handle with my contractions intensifying.

It’s after 3am and there is no one on the road, thankfully.

We zoom up to the old UCLA hospital building (our third child, story forthcoming, was born in the new one), which has no easy after-hours entrance for laboring women unless you enter through the emergency room, which is (of course) on the opposite side of the building as labor & delivery. We opt to park in the garage a little closer to the not-so-easy after hours entrance, which requires that I walk through the garage, into an elevator, up a few stairs, across a courtyard, and through the hospital doors in order to reach a security checkpoint. We stop literally every 30 seconds because I cannot walk through the furious contractions. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, pause….

At the security checkpoint, I think I might push the baby out at the security guard’s feet. He won’t let us through until he receives confirmation that L&D is expecting me. A call is made.

“You can go through,” he says.

I shuffle forward as best as I can, stopping every 20 feet because of another unbearable contraction. A man asks if we want a wheelchair.

Darling husband says, “Do we want a wheelchair?”

I answer with a heavy breath, hand up on a brick wall to stabilize myself with my head down with intense focus on the pain I’m in.

“We want a wheelchair,” he says for me.

The man disappears to find one, but I say, “We can’t wait for him,” and we keep inching our way toward the elevator.

My husband is quite aware that this is about to become a dire situation. We are within 2 feet of the elevator and I stop, unable to move. He pleads with me to just step on it, but no. You must wait, kind sir. No can do. 

I’m in the elevator. “What floor?” he asks. Bless him.

“Four,” I blurt out, fully pulling a random number out of thin air. He mashes button number four.

We go up and the doors open to two employees behind a desk with very wide eyes. It is a dark and quiet floor, most definitely not where babies are born. One employee whips a wheelchair around and sits me in it to navigate us to our desired location within a few minutes.

The next thing I know, we are in a tiny, fluorescent-bright triage room. A bubble-gum nurse hands me a gown with a huge, perfect smile and asks me to put it on in a sweet voice. I can’t do it, not by myself. I am resisting the urge to punch her for her perfect sweetness. They help me with the gown.

“Please lay down on the exam table, mam.”

I can’t do it. I can’t stand. I can’t sit. I can’t lay. They move my body for me. She checks and exclaims, “Oh my! She’s complete!”

At that second, I grunt and involuntarily bear down with a guttural moan that scares me. The bed starts moving out the triage door and down the hall to a delivery room. Twenty people appear from nowhere.

“Don’t push yet,” she instructs, and I’m trying but I can’t help it.

I wave off forms that have been shoved in my face. The on-call midwife is bolting through the door with no gloves on yet. There is only one person ready to catch a baby, and it is an observing resident who springs forward to catch him as I wail, scream, heave, and expel my son in two pushes.

That’s it. He’s out. Except I am hysterical, sobbing, shaking, moaning, and babbling myself through the trauma of it. I don’t remember the choice words my husband swears I used at that point. It is 4:05am.

I can’t calm down for a long time. Because I am shaking, they cover my upper body with blankets even though I’m still delivering the placenta down below.

I cry and cry uncontrollably. I can’t stop. My wrapped up son is in my husband’s arms. Fifteen minutes after the delivery, he offers the baby to me, but I’m still hyperventilating, and I tell him I can’t, I’m not ready yet. It takes me a full half hour before I can hold him.

I write this with tears in my eyes nine years later, that is how profoundly the birth scarred me; my first unmedicated, precipitous birth.

A dear friend of mine who had a similar type of birth a few years after mine said to me of her experience, “What happened to me was not ok.” I nodded, knowing well the terror and fury of the experience.

If you ever hear a woman tell of her unmedicated, precipitous labor, please, whatever you do, do not exclaim, “Wow! It must be nice to have such easy labors!”

There is nothing easy about it.

“For I am the Lord your God, who upholds your right hand, Who says to you, ‘Do not fear, I will help you.’” Isaiah 41: 13


Redemptive Motherhood

Holding Space for a Free Spirit

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

Wonder can be lost, and confidence buried. The vibrant spirit can be weighed down and freedom can be taken. Truth can be obscured, strength can be impersonated, and the fear of failure can be deeply tucked away in the caverns of the heart where we barely recognize how it motivates every decision, and colors the lens through which we see everything around us.

Ask me how I know.

At 4 years old, I knew nothing of the undercurrent of the crumbled and complicated lives of adults. I spent my time sitting by the wildflowers my dad and I planted in our back yard, singing songs to myself while I picked a haphazard bouquets of flowers until my heart was content. I was carefree, imaginative, and weightless in the world of wonder I shared with my two year old kid-brother.

By the time I was seven and my second brother was a year old, things were a different story. Some of the trouble in our home kicked up, my eyes narrowed, and I traded the magic of  childhood for an oversized helping of worry for the next eight years, until the depression years began and further compounded the burdens I carried forward from there.

That means that sometime between age four and age seven, I lost some things that I never did see again until my oldest daughter was born. I have spent the last eleven years learning things about her and rediscovering things about myself. I can’t say I’ve liked everything that has bubbled up, but I have found that simply seeing what is there in the recesses of my heart has made me a better mom and a more courageous woman. A child is a mirror for the parent who is willing to see it.

While I’ve always been hyper-aware of social norms (so I can make sure I expertly fit into them), she is unaware or unconcerned with what people think (I can’t tell which it is), and I love that she is not bound to the need for approval, as I have been. She is creative, unafraid to try new things, always busy with a new artistic discipline or technique, always enthusiastic about learning and growing, even when it feels uncomfortable. In short, she is one of the most resilient, intentional people I know.

I recognized early on that she had her own brand of brilliance—the free spirit kind—and because I am acutely aware that free-spiritedness can be easily edged out by worry, I have gone out of my way to fiercely protect that childlike part of her, to hold space for her untamed heart. I see my mama role as one where I can best shape the identity of my children by giving them whitespace—beating back the sea of noise and voices that want to tell them who they are and what they must do to be enough—so they might discover for themselves what it is they have been created for. Let me tell you this: They were not created to stand in a line, to look like all the others, or to be timid, passive players in life.

For this reason, I have oriented my life around how to afford each of my kids the opportunity to explore the wonders and mysteries of the world, both outside and within themselves, by homeschooling them. Before this fair one, full of courage and creativity, turned five, I had zero intention of homeschooling her. I was not myself homeschooled. I actually looked at homeschool as a fairly weird or undesirable choice for my family, knowing that most homeschooled students I personally knew were on the quirky side, and that simply wouldn’t jive with my social norms paradigm.

It wasn’t until we were at the cusp of kindergarten enrollment that I started waffling. Our neighborhood school (the physical space) seemed cold and overwhelming. It was a secondary school building converted into an elementary, and did not have the warmth and design that would make a young child feel at home. I also happened to meet a mom with multiple children who sent her oldest daughter there a year before, and she relayed to me how she watched her vivacious, creative daughter closed in, struggled with challenging interpersonal issues (with other five year olds), and how and the end of that year, she decided she couldn’t continue watching her daughter flounder through the system. She pulled her out to homeschool. This conversation happened a few weeks before I would have enrolled my bright girl in this same school, and it was a critical conversation for me. I had never before considered that might shining girl could be stripped of her outside-the-box thinking and unique personality in a kindergarten classroom. Of course, I have no way of knowing whether that is what would have happened or not, but it set me on a new course.

With a desire to protect her active imagination, capable hands that figured out how things work, and intrinsic desire to learn, we started homeschooling that fall, mostly as an experiment. I didn’t have a lot of faith in myself, and reasoned that if it was a total failure, she could start kindergarten again at 6 in a school situation. We ended up having the time of our lives, learning, discovering many things about ourselves (myself most of all), and that one choice is something I feel has given her the room she needs to tend all her marvelous interests. She started sewing at 6 years old, and pieced together 3D stuffed animals without a pattern not long after that. She picks up creative skills like a boss, all of her own interest and motivation, and the many benefits we have experienced as a family cannot be overstated. She is curious, tenacious, and always is planning out the next mess, I mean project she is going to make.

I continue to guard the space around her because I believe it to be the best gift I can give her in these years before she launches into her adult life.

I don’t want her to spend her time trying to become desirable or praiseworthy in the eyes of others. I don’t want her to shrink to fit in the boxes that other people have constructed. I don’t want her to carry heavy things before she has the strength and maturity to do so. I don’t want her to lose the wonder, confidence, strength or freedom I see growing in her, and so I deliberately put her in spaces where these things are well-tended.

I want her to be concerned with being her most brilliant, fearless, and authentic self; unashamed, undeterred by limitations, and aware that she is loved for who she is, random quirkiness and all.

As I have intentionally held space for her free spirit, I have realized there has also been space for me to rediscover mine. My whole perspective about learning has changed. My approach to life has changed. My experience of freedom and delight in the small things is largely because of her insatiable desire to enjoy everything. It’s true when they say, “A child shall lead them.”

“It was for freedom that Christ set us free; therefore keep standing firm and do not be subject again to a yoke of slavery.” Galatians 5:1


Redemptive Motherhood

Colors through the Gray

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

Before I had a twirling wonder of a child, my world was gray. I was mostly-sunk, like a tired swimmer treading water with the waves pulling me under, my upturned face the only thing still above water to gulp in enough air to stay alive. At that time, everything I did was chosen entirely for it’s function, not for beauty, and even now, I struggle to truly delight and savor things because the muscle memory of trauma skips joy for the substance of whatever is feels certain. I hold to things that feel permanent, even if the thing itself is of no value or consequence, because of the comfort that comes with things not changing.

I locked out joy, and could see only what was necessary for the next breath or the next terrifying step toward healing which often involved learning to trust, learning to love, or letting go of stuff, none of which are particularly easy for a sensitive, wounded soul.

In the seven year period I regard as my depression years (age 15-22), I never did see a counselor or therapist to work through my issues. (Please note this is not my recommendation, just my reality). At the time, I honestly didn’t know that counseling was available or that it might be able to help someone like me. I feel dumb acknowledging that now, because it sounds so silly that I would struggle and struggle for years without help, but on this side of it, I know that this happens far more than people realize. I wonder if my healing journey might not have been quite as drawn out, or quite as painful as it was if I had more proactively sought out help. It has only been in the past few years have I read about symptoms of depression and realize, that was me for so many years. Those are the years I lamented, cried, became numb, robotic, developed a serious co-dependency problem that I’m still recovering from, and found it incredibly difficult to find anything at all to smile about. Every ounce of my energy was put toward staying on the rails and not falling apart.

Never really landed in a singular friend group during high school or college because I was preoccupied trying to not die of sorrow and didn’t have it in me to do the fun things all my friends and acquaintances did. It sounds dramatic, but I’m not exaggerating. My cares weighed heavy on me for so long, I forgot how to enjoy anything, I forgot how to notice, or dance or twirl. I forgot how to let my lungs be deeply filled and let out a satisfied sigh. I couldn’t see anything past the fog in my face.

This child twirled her way through the gray and brought with her bright colors I had long forgotten. When she was still in utero, my mother-in-law offered to make some things for the nursery, a crib skirt and blanket, with my choice of fabric. I didn’t think about it long before I chose bright, bold, nearly neon colors. I can’t say why they especially appealed to me (other than I am truly no decorator), but I think something in me was desperate to cut through the gray of my life with the promise of this sweet girl coming. The first year of her life was something akin to a black and white world that slowly turned into color whenever she touched something.

From her earliest days, she wanted to experience the fullness of everything. If we visited a friend’s house with a new playroom full of toys, instead of finding something interesting to play with for a while, she would search out every bin/drawer/basket that could be moved, and would dump out the entire contents of each one, and look over, touch, feel, and love every last thing in them, without exception.

With her there are no barriers, there is no moderation, there is no dainty or cautious or waiting for permission to love or enjoy something. There is only chocolate smeared across her two, seven, and eleven year old face—still the messiest eater in the family to this day because of her delight in the food she consumes. There is a constant smile of possibility on her face when she’s come up with an idea of something she wants to make or something she has imagined to be. There is an undying commitment to stop, smell every flower, and savor it’s heavenly greeting in the form of a satisfied smile. There is close-the-eyes and spill-the-music-from-her-bones in untrained, unrestrained motion along with the sounds from our speakers. There is, “Twirl with me, mama. Let’s dance,” and I let her lead me on the ever-continuing journey to discover beauty and cherish the small things that make life sweet.

For years, life was all gray for me. Then she burst in—all rainbow sun-shiny and wide-eyed—determined to squeeze the very best out of life from her earliest years forward, and determined to help me do the same. When she was three, a friend asked her to come and join in on a complimentary dance class, and we leapt at the chance because at the time, we didn’t have the means to enroll her in an ongoing dance program. We borrowed some little dance shoes and slipped a leotard and tutu on her, and she joined a dozen little girls in a fairly small studio for a half hour of bliss. She followed exactly zero directions from the teacher but she loved the music and the opportunity to twirl around, chubby hands and awkward toddler body with no grace or form, but all the joy in the world. Pure delight.

She has changed me in ways that are hard to describe, because I’m still not able to find all the words to tell our private mother-daughter story in all it’s layers. It has been a slow, beautiful process of learning from my sweet daughter that soul survival is not primarily about guarding against pain, but whole-heartedly inviting beauty into the gray places to do the healing.

“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners; to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn, to grant those who mourn in Zion, giving them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting. So they will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.” Isaiah 61:1-3


Redemptive Motherhood

First Brush with Precipitous Birth

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

For weeks, Daddy had been randomly asking me why I wasn’t in labor yet. He was excited to meet the baby, but with him, excitement rarely looks like excitement. He bumps the heckling banter-factor, and impatiently but playfully pokes fun at whatever it is he is excited about. He watched me closely at our anniversary dinner on the Seattle Waterfront, enjoying his meal and hoping that I would tell him we needed to head to the hospital to have a baby. Heavily pregnant and more than ready to get things started, I can say it was also my wish to have a first anniversary dinner-turned-baby’s-birthday, but it came and went with no labor action.

I waited two more days before the pop and gush happened. I bolted up from my bed, where I had been stretched out in the late afternoon, waiting for something resembling labor to rustle up, calling various friends on the brick cell phone I used all through college to pass the time. I called to the other room that my water had broken and it was baby time. He sprang up and I waddled my way out of the room. None of the fluid got on the bed (miraculously), but there was a puddle on the floor, and I left a bit of a trail as I inched to the bathroom, fluid leaking and both of our eyes big. It was finally happening. I was enthralled that the day had arrived, and blissfully naive about what the next few hours would look like.

I called my doctor, and she said to get straight to the hospital, don’t wait. I don’t know if she knew something I didn’t, but I was surprised she was so insistent. I mean, I knew I was going into labor, but I hadn’t had any contractions yet, and I didn’t quite understand what the big deal was. We flurried around, exchanged nervous smiles, and snapped up the bag that had been waiting by the door for weeks, pre-packed with all the things I thought we might need at the hospital, of course extracted from every checklist I could find in the weeks prior.

We zoomed across town in our little car to the largest hospital in the area. Twenty minutes into the ride, I was not smiling anymore. I stared at the clock on the dashboard and breathed hard. Really hard.


We shuffled through the doors of the hospital and a nice man with badges around his neck whipped a wheelchair around and sat me in it. We arrived in L&D triage a few minutes later. The room was white, several alcoves around a circular nurses’ station, separated by curtains but not all that private. I was connected to a monitor and the nurse tried in vain to collect a sample of the amniotic fluid on a pH paper.

“You’re 3cm dilated,” she says. I had actually been 3cm for week, so I wasn’t terribly excited to hear that through the contractions that were furrowing my brow and making me more irritated by the minute that they wouldn’t just admit me. They were still trying to decide if I was in labor, because if you are a 23-year-old first time mom, apparently you don’t know anything.

Ready to swear if I had to, I wanted them to get me to a room, pronto.

When they finally directed us out of triage around 8pm, I couln’t walk to the room (steps away) on my own. They wanted us to sign papers and put on a gown and settle in, but all I could think was to get myself to the toilet, where I found comfort through the contractions by relaxing my pelvis and rocking back and forth.

For months, I had primed Daddy with all the different techniques I’d read about for labor support measures so he could jump in, but when I was in the thick of things, I couldn’t handle anyone talking to me, touching me, or being too close. I drew intensely inward and had to do this part of it by myself. It was not really a voluntary choice, but the pain and intensity were so consuming that I couldn’t communicate or respond to much, and just waved everyone off.

Later he told me it hurt his feelings that I didn’t involve him more. It was a sorry/not sorry situation. I did feel bad that he felt hurt, but I literally couldn’t do any other thing than what I did at the time. A woman in labor cannot be concerned about other people’s feelings, even if she wants to be. Sorry, dads.

Labor was furiously intense. I spent an hour in that bathroom groaning and swaying with an unsnapped hospital gown (I couldn’t get it all the way on), before they coaxed me out to a birth ball at the end of the hospital bed. I wasn’t totally happy to be on he ball, but I couldn’t move myself anywhere, so I dealt with it.

I was comforted by the monitor, and Daddy took to letting me know when a contraction had peaked and was on the descent. Finally, a job I would let him do. We kept at that for a little bit. Around 9:30, two and a half hours into labor with my first baby, I was deep in my own world, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders up to my ears to get through the contractions that were coming every 2 minutes with barely a breath in between.

Everyone in the room (my mom had arrived, a nurse was there) spoke in hushed whispers. I heard the nurse say, “She probably has 4-6 more hours of this,” and my spirit broke at that moment. I could NOT do this for four more hours, I knew it. I blurted out that I needed an epidural. NOW. The anesthesiologist came soon after, stuck me a few different times while I hunkered over during unbearable contractions, and I was blissfully free of pain within minutes after that.

I lay on my back, oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, free of the excruciating pain I’d been in knots about only minutes ago. Within ten minutes of the epidural, I started grunting and involuntarily pushing the baby out. I couldn’t stop it. They urged me to try and wait for the doctor (who whipped into the room about that time), but it was go-time.

With a full-bore epidural on board, I did not feel the pain (or the tearing I had so desperately feared). The doc said I could do it. I could push my baby out. Put my legs here. Tuck my chin. Bear down with the counting. Twenty minutes and there she was; my sweet wonder child with a little nose smashed to the side, born in a wild 3.5 hours from the spontaneous rupture.

“Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.” James 1:17

Redemptive Motherhood

The Power of Yes: Embracing New Life

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.

We had a deal. I would keep the calendar, and he would always ask if we were in the fertile window. I have a deep-in-my-bones aversion to taking anything, be it birth control, Tylenol, or ironically, prenatal vitamins, so that left us with natural family planning as the most appealing option for sorting out our reproductive lives. Is anyone really surprised that there was an afternoon that he didn’t ask, I didn’t speak up, and biology happened?

Afterward, standing in the shower, I casually mentioned that maybe we might be a little bit close to the fertile window. There was an incredulous, “WHAT?!” followed by a shrug of the shoulders, which is also par for the course in our marriage. We roll with things. It’s the Allen Way. It has served us well and spared a whole lot of unnecessary grief about a great many things.

We still tease each other about the fact that he didn’t ask, I didn’t say a word, and that is why we’re now up to our ears in children.

I know we chose natural family planning and all, but the idea of becoming a mother did not seriously cross my mind until the lines blinked at me. Or I blinked at them with a thrill and gasp and a resounding yes within me. I embrace you, little one, I wrote in my journal that day. I let my usually-heavy heart soar in those first weeks, daydreaming my way through the evening grad-school classes I was taking at the time (and could barely stay awake for because of first trimester exhaustion). When the semester ended, I bounced from school to turn my full attention to preparing for motherhood. There was much I had to learn; as in everything.

I was nervous, but not really afraid. I take that back, I was afraid of one thing: tearing during birth. The sheer thought of skin tearing—down there—oh dear. I couldn’t handle the thought of it, even though I knew it was pretty likely to happen. When I wasn’t fixated on that, the knowledge that I was going to be a mother and the swell of my belly filled me with a sense of purpose and a will to flourish like nothing else ever had. I pondered how great it might be to be a mom, but I didn’t anticipate the way this growing child would be deeply healing for me; a triumphant declaration that the hollowness I had felt in my soul for years would be filled with the teeming life of a little girl who would win my heart with a nose that was smashed to one side upon her arrival and a personality that still can’t be pinned or pegged into a category. I didn’t realize that what was broken would become life-giving, life-bearing…that what felt fractured in me would prove to be productive, fruitful—a meaningful realization that embracing the new life of a child might also mean embracing a new kind of life for myself. I would not be like the person who counts up all the things they’ve lost or given up in the course of parenthood, but instead be someone who keeps a tally of what has been gained in the full surrender of saying yes to God, yes to adventure, yes to motherhood. There are now a host of tally-marks on my slate.

Saying yes—and living into that yes—was the start of a beautiful, unexpected new season for me.

“And Mary said, ‘Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to Your word.’” Luke 1:38

“God sets the lonely in families, He leads out the prisoners with singing…” Psalm 68:6a

Redemptive Motherhood

The Start of Us

Welcome, sweet friends, and thank you for spending a few minutes to check out my 2017 Write 31 Days series: Redemptive Motherhood. I hope this glimpse into my motherhood journey makes you laugh and cry (the good kind of tears). I hope to surprise and delight you with the stories of these tender years, and I hope that if something you find here sparks a question or makes you curious about some part of my journey, that you will send me a personal note to connect. Thanks for reading.


He made his very serious intentions clear early on. I was the girl he wanted to love forever. I was not as certain as he was, mostly because my heart came with some hefty baggage dragging along behind, and I was convinced that if he discovered just how messy it was, he’d want out. It’s not that I didn’t recognize at the beginning that he was quite the catch. I did, and that’s what terrified me. I knew this could be it.

Following weeks of conversations and “chance” meetings in the cafeteria and other places around campus, we went out on our first date. We sat on a bench at the top of a hill overlooking the Seattle skyline, me nestled in the flap of his jacket to shield me from the stinging November wind. By that point, I had learned enough to know that I was sitting next to a remarkable individual. Unfortunately, I was also sitting in a war zone—caught between a desire to respond to his kindness and attention, and the slightly-more-convincing desire to run. One moment, I hoped he would kiss me, and the next, I stuffed down these frightening feelings and slammed a lid on that in a flash.

The prospect of loving and being loved wasn’t something I was ready for, so I made a valiant effort at maintaining walls around my heart. I kept a tight reign on the love coming in, keeping at a slow drip what would otherwise have been a tidal wave. Too scared and too sensitive to take things any faster, I made him stand in the figurative mud with me for three years before I agreed to marry him.

It seems like it should be easy to receive and bask in simple, uncomplicated love, but that is not so for the broken-hearted. The cracks in my soul sucked in and leaked out what my husband-to-be poured in. There was no reliable reservoir where trust could pool up and show me a consistent waterline, and because I was fixated on proving that I was truly too broken to love, I tried everything I could to sabotage our blossoming relationship so he might give up, and thus validate my fears. Except he didn’t give up (although he does admit that there were times he wanted to, which I don’t blame him for).

People that knew him wondered why he continued to pursue me. I wondered the same thing. He tells me there was something in him that wouldn’t let him quit; the whisper of a voice urging him to not give up on me. I attribute that voice to God, who already knew His plans for us—that we were a good match and that together, we would heal from broken homes, broken hearts, and find a flourishing way forward.

It was slow progress at first because I was not only running from love, I was running from God too. I didn’t yet trust that this man, or the God who had whispered hope to me, would love me (or could love me) no matter what. I thought love was earned, kept by doing all the right things, and was something that hinged on me holding myself together (which I was unable do at this point). I also thought that— stats against us and confidence shot through—the likelihood of a marriage “making it” was slim, so I wan’t exactly eager to jump in. Somehow, this incredible guy won me over anyhow. When he asked me to be his wife, I didn’t answer, started crying, and crumpled over his shoulder (while he was still on his knee) and answered with uncontrollable sobs. Does this mean yes? he timidly asked. Oh yes. Yes, through tears. That pretty much sums up most of our marriage, I guess.

At the risk of giving you details you never wanted to know, I’ll tell you about the wonderful wedding gift given to me by years of 90’s purity culture. When I was finally made a wife, I spent my first weeks (and honesty, first years) as a married woman trying to face and overcome the deep shame I had come to associate with my sexuality, a pursuit emphatically marked by me literally throwing up after sex on our honeymoon. It was traumatizing for us both. He was as patient and loving as a freaked-out new husband could be, but for me, that event was an indicator that not only was I an emotional wreck, I was, in fact, actually broken.

This is right about when motherhood came into view. Three months after our wedding, I took a test that gave me back two pink lines. Surprise!

Before we met, I did not desire or plan to have any children. (Insert irony into this all-too-serious-story). I had reasoned that there was just too much risk and pain to bring a child into the world, and at the time, I was all about risk-management. After we met but before we married, I decided that maybe we could have some kids after we had been married a while. I knew this guy would make a really great dad. I was right. We had a five year plan that turned into first anniversary baby instead. Best laid plans.

In the years since our humble beginning, I have learned that while there are no guarantees, our marriage will be whatever we make it. The point is not certainty or even a sense of control. The point is daily, faithful commitment to see the good in each other, surrender the offenses we shoulder, ask for forgiveness, and laugh ourselves silly when the opportunities arise.

We are individuals; each regarded with dignity and respected for who we are, as we are…and together we are us, the Allens, on a grand adventure—trusting God to work in us and through us as we forge a legacy that is worth facing our fears to achieve.

“The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” Proverbs 16:9

“Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it.” Psalm 127:1