Month: September 2017

Grief, Gratitude, and the Grace of Pumpkin Spice

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

4 years ago, I wrote the following (thank you, Timehop):

“I’m in a season of celebrating one new life, while remembering the short life of one gone far too soon. It’s conflicting, celebratory, sad, & a beautiful dichotomy that is not lost on me, even in my current chaos. Hello, Autumn-you remind me again of what is lost, even in the midst of great, wonderful, amazing gain…”

If you’re new to my blog and haven’t read the “About Me” section, then you may not have picked up on the fact that my husband David & I lost our first daughter, Hannah, at 29 days of age, to late-onset Group B Strep with Bacterial Meningitis. I could wax loquacious about the details, but I will spare you (and me), and stick with the general, “Google It” response that I tend to give in order to stop reliving the worst 5 days of my life.  Our daughter was a preemie (34 weeks), and could not fight off the flukiest-of fluke diseases (even though she was born completely healthy). My pregnancy with her basically wrecked my heart (physically and emotionally), and it was nothing short of a miracle that we conceived and successfully delivered our rainbow baby, Jericho, 7 years later. My pregnancy with Jericho was spent partially in the peripartum “spa” (if you’ve been “incarcerated” into peripartum care long-term, you know I’m joking) of the amazing Missouri Baptist Hospital, under the care of phenomenal doctors (shout-out to Michael Paul, MD, life-saving and baby-loving perinatologist) and nurses that I couldn’t have survived (physically and emotionally) without.

Bringing home a newborn after losing one, is a strange, difficult, conflicting process…For Jericho’s first month of life, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep (which led to some serious post-partum issues, that I am neither ashamed of nor silent about. Post-partum depression is real, and if you’re suffering from it, save yourself and your family, and get help), and I’m not so sure my husband did, either. I had a full 8 weeks at home with my little guy, and I think I spent most of my time crying happy tears, crying sad tears, swearing about a lousy milk supply, praying that I didn’t screw this up, and thanking God for how He keeps His promises….while also praying with everything within me that we could just get through the first 30 days. I think when Day 30 hit, I finally took my first post-partum breath. It felt like the oceans receded (proceeded? Words are hard) after being held back for a month…like all of the tension flew out of my body with that breath, and I finally, finally, could rest.

I didn’t, of course—hello, sleep training!—but I knew that I COULD, and that made a huge difference. After 30 days, I think I finally went from handling motherhood like a Swarovski crystal spider-web, and began to actually embrace that this really was my life now…he was ours, and he was everything I prayed for. The reality of the answer to years of prayers was staring me in the face, and he wasn’t going away. He was real…my precious boy…and I could truly, sincerely be happy.

After that first 30 days, through the spring and summer, I began to struggle with the “we nevers.” Jericho would have a milestone moment, and I’d think, “We never got to see Hannah do that.” I tried to turn it off, tried to celebrate what was happening, but the thoughts would creep back…”He giggled…I never got to hear her laugh.” “David, he flipped over…we never got to see Hannah do that.”

At one point, I dreamt that Jericho was lying on my bed, and a little red-haired girl was sitting there with him. Even now, as I type this, I can feel the tears at the back of my eyelids…that image was so, so powerful, as was the sentiment with it: “I will never, in this life, have a picture of my children together. What has happened to us? We will never be a normal family.” I woke up from that dream absolutely hysterical…I was deeply, deeply grieved. I can remember that intensity as if I’d dreamt it last night. Family pictures with one boy, one girl? They are still hard for me to see, even amongst friends…You just never have that sense of completion. You learn to accept it, to view it as your “normal,” but as a parent? You will always recognize that missing person in your family picture.

Anyway, the first year with Jericho was tough, as it is for all parents: You’re learning how to be a mom, learning how to juggle a full work-week, and finding trustworthy childcare. I had further complications that first year; my heart still wasn’t functioning correctly, my gall bladder required 2 different surgeries to remove, and my recovery post-C-section caused scar tissue to develop that would later result in a full hysterectomy just one year after having my son.

However, one of the greatest joys of that year was how often David & I would look at each other, or look at Jericho, and just know how great was the love of Jesus? How amazing was it that this tiny little person came about because of healing, grace, and love? We could look at this child and see tangible evidence that when you have a dream in your heart, and you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God is NOT finished with you, despite what modern healthcare says– He can make miracles happen!  We could look at this child and know that you cannot accept the things men say, when you hear in your spirit the things God says!!  My son is nothing short of a breathing miracle, and frankly, I am, too. He has that legacy—that legacy of prayer, of hope, of determination. There is nothing in this world I am more grateful for, except my husband and my salvation.

Yep—I’m officially crying now. Jesus, I am so thankful! You can’t know how my heart blows up at just writing these words…I am grateful, with every cell of my body.

Even as I write this, though, I come back to how this blog started, with that quote from 2013: “Hello, Autumn—you remind me again of what is lost, even in the midst of great, wonderful, amazing gain…”

The spring and summer of 2013 were full of new-mom fog, surgery, work, etc. We were just trying to get our feet back under us to charge ahead on our new life together as a Party of 3. But then….

Then came Autumn.

And then came The Hardest Part.

When I went into Missouri Baptist Hospital in October, 2006, the fall leaves were still on the trees. My room overlooked the highway, so I really didn’t get a good handle on watching the season change to winter; when I left my hospital room in November, 2006, winter had come, and the world was bare.  I missed the entire season in a 4-week span, and we brought our little girl home the week before Thanksgiving. By the day after Thanksgiving, she was in a coma, and then she was gone…we buried her on December 1st, the day after one of the worst ice storms Missouri has ever seen. The sun shone, and the world was crystallized for my winter princess.  I’ve never forgotten the beauty of the day my child was buried…it was like the Lord decided to cover the trees in diamonds in her honor. It was stunning, even in the darkness of our grief.

But that year, 2006, I missed the fall. So when the leaves turned in 2007, something hit my heart, and I could only think of that Fall I Had Missed…and every year, I am reminded as such.

In 2013, the reminders came as I was looking into the eyes of my son…my miracle boy…and I was so totally conflicted in ways I hadn’t realized were possible. I had so much, but had lost so much, and the season reminded me of all of it, combined with gutting guilt. HOW dare I mourn, when I had so much to be thankful for?

How could I not, when that world was staring me in the face every day I walked out of my door?

I found myself not necessarily regressing in my grieving process, but really struggling with the dichotomy of grief and gratitude. And I’m writing this not to say that I have ever found an answer to that conflict, but to say that every year, I’m reminded of Hannah’s precious life in so many stronger ways than in my usual daily thoughts.

There is no season like Autumn, in all of its symbolism and glory…it’s a season of death, but a season where colors come alive….where we breath in the dust of the trees as they make their fiery curtain call for the year. It’s a season of living at bonfires and parks, a season where photographers revel in making memories, and where families gather to celebrate all things together…

We know death is coming…that winter is coming…but there is no day like today, and today, we celebrate the abundance of the harvest.  Are we near-sighted, to not hunker down and prepare for the winter? Or do we understand the breath/breadth of life, and own the day with its undeniable charm?

We cram our calendars with activities to take in every moment. That first year? We did it all. And we did the second year, and the third, and I’m getting ready to do it all again in the fourth year with our Rico-Bean. We celebrate the Fall, and we run ourselves ragged with the memories we make…and we make no apologies. I celebrate the Fall season with my little guy, and I never let on that I am internally fighting the conflict of that grief and that gratitude.

And I realize through it all, that there is no “conflict.”

There is only cohabitation.

I miss my little girl. Fall reminds me of her birth, of her death, and of the 29 days we had between…of the crunching of the leaves as I walked into the hospital, and the Christmas decorations as we came out…of that first day home from the hospital with her in our arms…and of the last day, where home was a place I never wanted to go back to…I wish I could separate her birth and her death, but her death came so quickly that I simply cannot. It all happened in the same season…this season…and every day is a reminder…

But every day is also a gift.

Every day, I look at Jericho and marvel at who he is, who he was born as, and what possibilities are to come…Every day, I am so grateful, and so genuinely happy. Every day, I praise God that I get to be that boy’s mother…Every. Single. Day.

This fall, we have adventures planned…it’s his first year in Pre-K, so there are school events (field trips!), fall festivals, our annual events with Parents-As-Teachers, and my favorite, Halloween!!!!!!!! This year, he’s going as Harry Potter for at least one event (he wears glasses, so it’s perfect!).  We celebrate this season; don’t be surprised to see me in my Uggs with my leggings and some S’mores, cradling a Pumpkin Spice Latte in my monogrammed fleece jacket,  as a shining example of Suburban White Chick Bliss (that’s an entire other blog).

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I love this season. I love that it has multiple meanings, deep significance, and a beautiful, melancholy soul. I love the constant reminders of grace, which hovers over the grief and the gratitude. Grace envelopes both feelings, and makes them walk side-by-side instead of in mental conflict.

Grace is how we had our Hannah…how we said goodbye…and ultimately, how we will say “hello,” again…

Grace is how we had our Jericho…how we said “hello” for the very first time…and how we embrace each new day and sleep peacefully each night.

Grace is what brought David & I together in this crazy world—two kids with no idea of what was to come, and no idea how to engage on this life or on this journey—

Grace is what keeps us together, and is what pulls us through the tough times. It pushes us constantly toward the Father Who bestows it in abundance, and works in us independently to keep us engaged…to keep us from throwing up our hands and breaking our hearts in this process.

Grace is what binds our hearts, and binds our hearts to each other.

And Grace is what leads us home…

There is a beautiful loss in the season of Autumn, but it is part of the journey to a beautiful rebirth…and we are constantly on that journey, surrounded by grace, with eternity in our hearts….<3

Ecclesiastes 3:11 “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.“

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Not Like the Movies (AKA, Why Rosanne Barr Can Never Be Liam Neeson)

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / 1 Comment

 

Ever want to drop a drink on a 6’4,” 300lb overgrown gorilla, and be able to live to tell the tale?

Like, why can’t we just knock people out and walk away, like they do in the movies??? Every now and then, life should just work that way.

Every now and then, you should get a free pass, to take the swing and drop the drink…the Free Pass to knock the rude gorilla out on his rear. Someone should hand out the occasional Free Pass to be Karma, Incarnate.

Sigh.

Of course, this means that someone would eventually take THEIR Free Pass and knock ME out, but I almost think it’s worth the risk (KIDDING!!!).

Anyways,  violence is not the answer…

But sometimes?

Hmmmm…..

The Bible says to “bless those who curse you.” That sounds pretty easy, until you have to live it. Although it’s much more fun to lie in bed and think of all of the amazing insults you could throw back at a person, it’s not what we’re supposed to do, regardless of what we WANT. I’d much rather slash someone’s tires or put sugar in their gas tank. But that’s not very Christian-like of me, now is it?

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Just because we’re Christians, doesn’t mean we don’t get angry. It doesn’t mean we don’t shoot off our mouths, think stupid things, or act like idiots sometimes. I’m guilty of this as a wife, as a mom, and as a person. I certainly have one heck of a temper. Learning to keep it controlled is a lifelong struggle, and I think I’ve seen one too many action movies where Revenge goes off without a hitch, to fully understand the consequences of when we act out our anger.

In my head,  I see myself as Mel Gibson or Arnold Schwarzenegger, when in reality, I’m probably more like Roseanne Barr….and I don’t see anyone casting her in the lead role of “Taken #10” (maybe they should!! It might be scarier, to see the suburban Baby Boomer go all “Snapped” on a Bosnian cartel!!!!).

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In my head,  I pour the drink on the insulting gorilla and walk away, head held high, basking in the glory of my liberated female bravery.

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In reality, my anger grieves the heart of Jesus,  and shows a lack of faith. He fights our battles, right?

Sigh.

Darn it, Jesus.

Why You gotta be so RIGHT?!?!?! (stomps foot…pouts…throws toys)….

My blogs are generally based on my real-life experiences. This one is no exception–someone made me super-angry. Like, break-a-beer-bottle angry….like, “I wish I Knew PEOPLE,” angry.

They made me the kind of angry where I had to force myself to walk away, and I was actually (wait for it)….AT A LOSS FOR WORDS.

Aaaaaannnnnnggggggrrrryyyyy.Image result for angry

And I spent the better part of the other night, thinking of ways to stealthily ruin their life. 🙂

Finally (duh, Cass), I prayed about it, & Jesus said, “bless those who curse you,” which loosely translates to, “shut up, Cass”.

Seriously, though, He got me. He’s right (again, DUH, CASS). We bless the haters. We bless those who hate. Bless those who hate us. Bless those people, and pity them, because the world they live in is sad and dark to them, and to everyone around them that gets sucked into their vortex of misery. And I foolishly let them suck me into their vortex last night, and cast their shadow over a beautiful evening.

Foolish.

I really am my own worst enemy, more often than not. I think that’s pretty typical of the human race, though–if we’d get out of our own way, and Let Jesus Handle Our Business, we’d be so much better off. I know I would be.

I know this woman at church who is nothing less than a stick of dynamite. Like, she’s maybe 5’2,” very petite, and has that kind of natural “blue steel” presence when she looks at you. You KNOW she knows Jesus–not like, “hey, yeah, I love Jesus.” Nope–Mona is a legitimate Friend of God. She’s an armor-bearer, and is the kind of woman you want in your corner when you have questions. She said yesterday that she will tell you the truth, and not many people like her, for it. Man, I need those people in my life. I don’t like hearing it, but when it’s said with true intention and love? You can’t deny it. She caught me in the middle of writing this, and told me about how she used to be “that” kind of person. She said she was the kind of person that would take on the gorilla in the room and knock him the heck out with one punch, if she got good and mad.

I don’t even care about the logistics of that–I believe her.

She told me about the love of God, and how it washed her anger clean…When you look at Mona, you wouldn’t think, in a million years, that she could ever have lived that life. She radiates peace and determination, she prays with purpose and intention. I believe she knocks out spiritual gorillas, for sure, but to think of her tackling them in person, in a bar? Man-oh-man, how the love of God can change a heart!!!

Goals, man.

I’m not the same person I was at 21, or at 25, or at 35. I’m a continuing work in progress that doesn’t always make the best decisions. I let my emotions get in the way, and I waste my time obsessing over things that I can’t change. I don’t let Jesus do what He needs to do, either for other people, or for myself…I can do a lot of things, but I can’t fix ME, or anybody else, so I should stop wasting my energy, trying.

I want to have the kind of trust that lets me not just physically walk away from gorillas, but mentally walk away. I don’t want to have the “I Could Have Saids.” I don’t want to lose sleep over things that are that stupid and wasteful. I have better things to do.

I have a better person to learn to be.

I should spend my time on that…and maybe, with one better person in the world, there will be one less gorilla hulking in the corner.

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“Push.”

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

Push.

Shove.

Break Through

Deal with the hatred

But keep pushing.

Pushing is how you got here….

Pushed from your mother’s womb…

Breaking through to life…

Breathe.

Confusion breaks like a gray cloud over the city,

But you push on

And those that don’t understand

Say they do

But they never can

And you push on.

On the ground,

Cattle call

Sounds familiar as history recalls

Gathered off and carted off

Your anger has teeth.

FearLeadsToAngerLeadsToHateLeadsToViolenceLeadsToFear

The cycle

Perpetuates

Systemic

Failure.

Those that control

Are not controlled

And change must come

If pushing leads to break through

If breaking through

Changes history

That has yet to be made…

They look down from their podiums

Wide-eyed and afraid

Afraid not just of you

But of the truth you represent

Of the truth that you

Push

Past

Their

Borders.

Telling the truth means

Changing the game

And opening the doors

To the Boys’ Club

Don’tAskDon’tTellYouDidn’tSeeAnythingBut

I

Can’t

Breathe.

Push.

Shove.

Break Through.

I stand in unity.

I stand for change.

I stand for peace…and I stand for

Conversation.

Action.

Answers.

I cannot understand,

But I will listen to you…

I will push with you.

Change WILL come.

 

 

 

Solidarity in the Midst of Confusion

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

Most of y’all know that I typically present as a regular ol’ Conservative, suburban mom…I (albeit, begrudgingly) have voted a straight Republican ticket since I was 18, and consider the issues of being Pro-Life as the pinnacle decision maker in any political choice. I know a lot of people are posting in anger about the protests. People have had trips ruined, concerts cancelled, businesses damaged, and the fear that is running through the veins of this city is suddenly palpable to everyone (not just the folks who live here).

When Ferguson happened, I started out just like everyone I knew: The protestors are horrible people! They’re ridiculous! They should all be jailed!!! However, our church began working with other churches in a prayer tent in Ferguson, and the longer they were there, the more stories and truths began to come out.

The more time I have had to reflect on Ferguson, and on working in the city during the process…the more cases that have come out that raise the questions about police accountability…the more my heart has changed. I don’t stand where I stood when Mr. Brown died. Do I agree with every case that has been brought to the press with the accusations of police brutality or racism? No. No, I don’t.

However…

The outcry is so great…the volume is so loud. How can we ignore the cry from the hearts of the African American community? We can say, “Well, just do what the nice police officer says, and no one will get hurt.”

Sure—makes sense…

Unless…

Unless you’ve done nothing wrong. You instinctively want to plead your case.

Unless you’ve done something wrong. You instinctively do not want to get caught; is dying, worth it? Why is death the first option?

Unless you’re scared that your name may be the one on the protest banners as another person who fell under the banner of, “my life felt threatened.” How flexible is that reason? And where is the outside accountability? Who holds the police department accountable? Internal Affairs? Who monitors IA?

Never let it be thought that I do not support the police department and law enforcement—I 100% support the police. I believe you can support a cause but ask for reform. I support the Republican party, but look at that hot mess! I most DEFINITELY support reform for that cause! So, yeah—I support the police. I’ve been pulled over before, by a cop who was having a bad day, one time—it was 1 out of the 5-6 times I have been pulled over—but that little encounter was enough to make me not like the police in a particular part of town, and I know good and well that if another one of “those” copes pulls me over? I’m probably going to have a ‘tude. And that’s after just ONE encounter.

When he’s older, I can let my son walk down the sidewalk in my neighborhood—even in my redneck neighborhood—without fear of getting derailed by police.

There’s no derelict building in my subdivision that houses drug dealers and addicts. There’s no abandoned building that we’ve BEGGED the city to take down, where a man abducted a little girl from a bus stop, and raped her.

When my son gets his license, I most likely won’t have to worry about him getting pulled over and never coming home again.

When my son gets his CCW, he most likely won’t have to be afraid to tell a police officer that it’s in the car.

My son’s school doesn’t have a breakfast and a lunch program through the summer, because I can’t provide food for him year-round.

I have a good job, I received a decent education, and I had teachers in my community that helped me succeed. No one side-eyed me because I was “different,” or wrote me off when I struggled, because I didn’t look quite like them.

I don’t get funny looks when I walk into a high-dollar store in the mall (as long as I haven’t rolled up in my sweats and a ball cap, LOL—they do look at me, then). No one usually looks at me like I don’t belong there, or follows me around the store. Frankly, if they did, I’d confront them, and the situation would be sorted out, and I would leave the store in my own vehicle, on my own terms.  Security most likely wouldn’t be called, police wouldn’t be called, and the drama would be over…for me.

During Ferguson, I learned about this concept called “white privilege.” What a crock, right? I mean, I worked hard for what I have. My mom worked her ass off, as have I—I grew up with a single mom, then a stepdad, and they worked hard every single day. We didn’t have a single thing handed to us…however…

I received scholarships based on academic performance, talent, and interviews. I’ve received job offers based on face-to-face interviews.  Things weren’t made particularly easy for me, but I’m learning that the simple fact that the opportunities were made available, is a form of privilege. I’ve never felt racially oppressed or profiled—that’s a form of privilege. Have I felt discriminated against? As a woman, yes. As a white woman in particular, no. My race has never once played into any feeling of oppression, hostility, etc. Not. Once.

I don’t know how that feels.

So how can I say that I can’t understand or empathize with those that do? How can I discount their cries for justice, when I have never felt their INJUSTICE? How can I brush them off, because I don’t see, or don’t know what they’re talking about?

WE CAN’T.

Jesus tells us to love. He tells us to listen with “gentleness and respect” (I Pet. 3:15). He tells us to have compassion, and to let our hearts break with what breaks His heart. I promise you, His heart breaks over racism.

He grieves for St. Louis, right now.

He grieves for the police who are being treated terribly right now…for those brave men and women who are dealing with the worst kinds of disrespect. He grieves for their families. He grieves for the African American community and their anger, for the injustices they have suffered throughout history, and for the children who are seeing this behavior as part of the “new normal.” He GRIEVES for the civil destruction and for the hearts that are being hardened by the fear that cloaks this city.

Our inconvenience—our ruined trips, cancelled concerts, blocked streets—are NOTHING compared to the hurting hearts of every person that is out there right now.

As a white chick, what in the world can I do? My own family disagrees with my positions on this issue, and that’s okay—they deal with things in their own ways, and God will work within them, if they listen.

I can listen.

I can tell my African-American friends that I do not discount their pain because of the things that inconvenience me.

I can stand for peace and discourse, over destruction and violence.

I can stand for compassion.

I can love.

And that’s where I am.

Do I understand where they’re coming from? Nope. I’m white. That’s an automatic, “no, you just don’t understand,” regardless of the environment or place you grew up. You’re white. Stop playing.

I don’t have to understand in order to have compassion.

I don’t have to understand, to show love.

I don’t have to understand, to be like Jesus.

 

*Dip, Trip, Flip Fantasia….

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

*I reserve the right to quote obscure rap lyrics, any time, any place,  and any way I can possibly fit them in. 🙂 I love rap music; I always have, and I always will.

I took the day OFF. Like, OFF. Like, NOT AT WORK. I love my job, but it’s really intense right now, and the weather is GORGEOUS, so I am OUT. I took a long-ish drive, got some mums, and met some groovy chicks at my favorite consignment shop (Kaleidoscope Consignment, Pacific, MO–check it out!), and flipped some clothes and jewelry.  Now, I am sitting in an Irish coffee shop, drinking Guatemalan coffee, watching the people of this little town go about their daily business. I like Pacific; I wouldn’t be against moving here. They do a lot of family events that are in my anxiety wheelhouse to come to (meaning, they’re busy, but not like St. Louis Family Event busy). It’s a comfortable, sweet town that feels like home, even to an outsider.  David grew up here, and I love hearing the same stories about his life, every time we come to town.

So today, I am here on my own. 

I like it.

It’s a simple, relaxing day in a beautiful town, with the windows down, and the cares are temporarily thrown out the car windows. 

It’s a blessing….it’s a few hours of a personal vacation, a few hours to restore my mind and my soul, and I am grateful.

And Leigh Howard was right….This coffee is DELICIOUS! Shout-out to Little Ireland Coffee Shop!

Whatever you are doing today, my prayer for you is that you would have a few moments in the sunshine…that you would take, even if it is by “force,” a few minutes to step outside or relax with some good coffee, and BREATHE.  Sometimes, you have to, or the consequences affect your family and friends. I guess I have seen the results of people not taking that time, and just exploding. You HAVE to do it, not just for yourself, but for everyone you love. 

Take that time today.  You won’t be sorry.

“Holiness in the Shadowlands,” AKA, “Listening to Praise Music while Wanting to Throat-Chop People in Traffic”

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

Sometimes, when I talk about my faith, I feel like a giant hypocrite. Man-oh-man, do I make mistakes…I mean it when I say, “I love Jesus but I swear a little (somedays, more than others).” My filters are occasionally nonexistent, but I promise you, I am working on it.

I’m grateful for grace.

This morning, as I was on my walk around the local university, a kid (Millennials, LOL) with a man-bun, who was wearing those ridiculous Adidas slides with socks (they’re only ridiculous when worn WITH SOCKS), was texting and walking, and somehow walked OUT of their shoe, and tripped…because they were texting and walking. Did I respond with compassion?

Nope.

I laughed, and posted about it on Facebook, with the hashtag, #WhyDoesJesusLoveMe

I’m grateful for grace.

Last night, I was driving home with my windows open and my stereo BLARING a Brian & Katie Torwalt CD (BTW, what’s with mixing worship CDs with a crap-ton of bass? Are people gettin’ down in the club to worship songs?!?! I mean, Lord knows I love my bass, but it seems weird to have it bumped up in a quiet worship interlude? Is this for Da Youts? Am I just getting OLD?!?!?!?!?!?!?). I was singing along (loudly–sorry, other drives. Okay, I’m NOT sorry), and driving through what’s known as The Depressed Section of the city. It’s where the highway goes under the streets and pedestrian overpasses of downtown; it’s very congested, and dirty, and LOUD, and stands in direct contrast to the song about holiness that I was singing along with….

The juxtaposition of Holiness and “The Depressed Section” was not lost on me, and as the music (and the drive) went on, I could feel a fire erupt in my chest…

You see, this city–Saint Louis–stands on the brink. We stand on the brink of decisions that could potentially change the course of this city. We stand on the brink of once again, being the center of attention of this nation…this nation that is already so divided, and so on edge.

Everything is uneasy…

Everything is disjointed…

But the music in my car plays on…and I drive by the dirt and the graffiti, by the trash and by that glorious Gateway to the West…I breathe the fumes from the exhausts, but I refuse to roll up my windows, because I feel like the words to the song are a healing balm to this city….because I feel like maybe if I play it louder, someone–anyone–will hear it, and remember Who Reigns…

“Holy Spirit You are welcome here
Come flood this place and fill the atmosphere
Your glory God is what our hearts long for
To be overcome by Your presence Lord”

He is welcome in this city…there is still a remnant left, and we cry out daily for the hearts of St. Louis…

The song plays on, and my mind is taking in the scene around me as the traffic comes to a standstill…

My heart cries, “Holy.”

The dichotomy of Holiness and helplessness…the struggles in this city, the poverty, the glut of resources and the lack of communication in getting them out…the children that cannot fend for themselves, and the adults who are too selfish to help them stand on their feet…my brain and my heart are arguing, but the music answers the questions:

“Let us become more aware of Your Presence
Let us experience the glory of Your goodness”

That is my prayer, for myself, for my church, and for this city…that we Understand a Glimpse of the Grace of God….just a glimpse….

The traffic is thick, but the song says to “sing Holy,” so I do…because I HAVE to, because it is what I was made to do…I get cut off in construction, and I wonder, “Lord, where do these two worlds meet?!?”

And He says:

“I

Am

Greater.”

God is greater. He is greater than every mess in this city. He is greater than the violence and the fear; He is greater than the racism and He knows better than anyone that it is real. He is greater than the traffic that is sucking my soul; He is greater than the accident that just happened. He is greater than the storms and the hurricanes and the earthquakes. He Is Greater.

God is greater, and His holiness exists, regardless of where we are or where we live. His holiness reigns supreme in this microcosm of a city, and it reigns in every corner of every house in this nation. Our mind CANNOT HANDLE IT, so we try to drown Him out.

We fail.

He simply cannot be dimmed, and when we pause for worship, we are reminded that His holiness is the greatest Light. Everything else is in shadows.

My mind is ready to throw a stick at the next car that cuts me off, but my soul still cries in harmony with the music playing in my car…I cry “Holy,” with the heart of a grieving mother…with the heart of a stubborn wife…with the heart of a Daughter of the King, with the heart of someone who is struggling to reconcile what He sees in me, with what I see in myself. He is greater than all of my insecurities, my judgmental behaviors, my filter issues. He is greater.

I don’t understand Him, but I will not stop worshiping His Name, even in traffic…

Even when I laugh at falling Millennials.

I am so, SO grateful for grace….

 

 

 

Fridays….

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

I love Fridays.  I love that I have a shorter work day, but far more work to to in my office, and that the time flies…..which means that I always, ALWAYS over-schedule myself, and that I wind up hangry….which is where I am, at the dealership, waiting to get my tire fixed and put back on my car.

Oh, yeah–I blew up my frickin’ tire yesterday,  and due to my husband’s work schedule, NO ONE COULD COME SAVE PRINCESS CASSIDY.

Sigh. #Spoiled

Now, seriously, had I been able to get the stupid jack centered, I could have changed the damn thing myself, but no, Princess here had to get all caught up in being mad at her husband, and couldn’t calm her crazy enough to get her head out of her rear. So, I called State Farm’s sad excuse for Roadside, and thought I was going to reach through the phone to choke someone because evidently, no one teaches the Roadside people HOW TO USE GOOGLE.

Did I mention that I’m hangry?!

Anyways,  an #EagleScout came to my rescue and changed my tire. God bless ’em.

So, today, I am back at the dealership, waiting for my tire, and trying to figure out how exactly I’m going to have time to cram in a doctor’s appointment, a pedicure, being on time to pick  up my son, and getting him to the pediatrician,  all before 3:20 p.m….and how to do it all without having a #panicattack?!?!?

Oh, wait….pause, my car is ready (saves draft with every intention of completing this post last night, but now it’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m trying to finish this while my husband teaches our son how to fly a kite with no breeze at the local park)…

Last night, almost all of those things did happen, except for the panic attack & the pedicure . I actually managed to survive a completely packed day without totally freaking out! That’s kind of a miracle. Anxiety is definitely an issue for me, which a lot of people don’t understand, because on the surface, I seem pretty outgoing and fairly confident. It’s a total ruse.

If you are new to reading any of my blog posts, you’ll find me to be pretty transparent. My writing always takes a complete free-fall whenever I start being super religious and fake. It’s hard for me to put all of my dirty laundry out there, but since we all have pretty much the same dirty laundry, I’m learning to get over myself and just tell the truth. One of my goals in writing this blog is to show how we are all the same regardless of outward appearance, upbringing, financial success or failures, or places where we live. We all have so much in common, and the best way to figure that out is through loving honesty. So, yeah, I struggle with anxiety and panic attacks. I’ve had a complicated medical history, combined with some pretty stressful situations, and things have not been the easiest. However, there’s a verse in Proverbs 31 that says, “she can laugh at the days to come.” It’s one of my favorite verses, and it’s one of the goals for my life. There is always a reason to laugh.

Even when you’re stuck at the car dealership waiting on a blown up tire.

Anyway, I made it to every single appointment on time yesterday (I had to skip the pedicure, which to me, is a BRUTAL sacrifice). Someday I’m going to figure out why it’s okay for doctors to be 15-20 minutes late, but it’s not okay for patients to run 5 minutes late. I have worked in health care for almost 18 years, and that has always driven me absolutely crazy. Why can’t people just be on time? When you really respect something or someone, you make it a point to be on time. It just burns me up. It’s gotten a little bit harder to keep my schedule now that I have a child, but now he’s four, and I think I’ve got it sort of figured out. I think that I am on time probably 80 to 90% of the time. My biggest issue is that I’m usually too early for things, and I’ve learned that can be just as annoying as being late. Most of my friends are late to everything, and it really does drive me crazy. If you are one of my friends and you are reading this, yeah, I’m probably talking about you. I did run really late to a birthday party recently, and it messed up my parents and it messed up my little sister and it messed up everything for the rest of the night, and I felt terrible. But my lateness is rare.

(Please do not think I am tooting my own horn here. I am a complete failure in plenty of other areas. Time just happens to be one of them I managed fairly well. But, like I said, I have worked in healthcare for 18 years and everything is done by an appointment book. I should be good at it by now.)

I caught myself being really petty and douchey yesterday when I went to pick up my son. I wasn’t running late, but I was trying to get out of there by a certain time, and I had a million questions for the teacher, since we have never put a kid in school before, and I have no idea what I’m doing, what she’s doing, or how my kid is doing. So I am that annoying parent that asked a million questions anytime I happen to see the teacher. Sorry, Miss Leslie. Anyway, as soon as I am walking out of the classroom, I run into her. HER. She is everything I am not, and never will be. From the neck up, she looks like she just walked out of a hair salon, and was headed to a formal. Her hair was perfect, her makeup was perfect, and her use of highlighter should have won her some kind of an award. I think she even had her eyelashes done. She looked like a movie star. From the neck down, though, she was wearing a sports bra crop top, and a pair of high-waisted Capri leggings that hugged her size zero booty like a second skin. From the neck up, she said, “I’d like to thank the academy for this award,” and from the neck down, she said, “I’m on my way to a pole dancing aerobics class.” I was  instantly judgmental, completely confused, completely jealous, and completely self-conscious of my size-16 ass.

What is wrong with me?

The worst part of it all, was that I instantly started telling my son, being sure to be within her earshot, about all of the work we had done that day for underserved kids in the local school district. Like she cared! It was like I had to declare myself in some way to make her think that I wasn’t a total fat loser, when the reality was, she probably didn’t even see me, and if she did, she didn’t care about me! What is wrong with me? And why in the world would I care so much about what she thought of me? Sometimes I wonder if my brain is ever going to get out of high school.

When I decided that I wanted to start writing a Blog several years ago, I always said that I wanted to be totally honest with myself, and anyone that wanted to read what I had to say. I’m wondering how possible that is when I can’t get out of my own head space, and stop assuming that everyone that sees me is passing some kind of a judgment on me. Or when will I stop doing the same? I get frustrated with my own stupidity.

I am a judgmental, slightly-OCD/paranoid wreck of a woman who struggles with anxiety, loves Jesus, and eats too damn much chocolate.

I think that sentence pretty much sums up who I am, if you’re reading this for the first time…and I forgot to mention the Most Important Part, and my whole reason for blogging in the first place:

Jesus.

Loves.

Me.

He loves you, too.

You don’t have to be perfect–you don’t have to be anything other than who you are. You can be that Size 0 Mom walking into her child’s school, looking more perfect than the Venus de Milo. You can be the Size 16 Mom walking into her child’s school, feeling hideous and invisible, struggling with your self-esteem. You can be the Single Mom who fights to make ends meet, or the Married Mom who cries in the shower because her hormones are whacked out. You can be all of the above, or in your own, uniquely-beautiful category.

You can be a Grounded Optimist….Flawed Believer….An Opinionated Wife…A Helicopter Mom….

Or A Well-Dressed Hot Mess.

He loves you.

And if it takes me pouring out my good days and my bad days…if it takes me showing off my mess….If it takes everything out of me to show you and I, and everyone in-between, that He loves us where we are, that He created us the way we are, then I am all in.

Are you?

Stay tuned!