well, i’m starting a new adventure. seems like forever ago that i set out on the writer’s path, but in reality it’s only been a few years. i suppose i’ve lived a lot of life in those few years: pregnancy, birth, moving, publishing a book, raising a toddler. yeah, that’s a lot.

but now pendrops couture beckons me & i’m thrilled to take these new steps. my feet just seem to fit on this uncharted trail. not that writing didn’t fit or that i’m closing the book on writing, but this pendrops thing, well, it’s the right thing at the right time. & i am filled with such joy in my creating, sewing, designing…even the tedious tasks of packaging & ordering office supplies are a delight.

but what i want to say as i officially begin down this new path…

i have loved – loved – sharing bits & pieces of my journey with you here at krista finch. this is where i shared my book, as is, with you. this is where i wrote about my pregnancy & waiting for jude to arrive. this is where i related the joy & wildness of jude’s early days. i have been humbled by your kind comments, your encouragement, just by the fact that you have taken time in your busy schedule to see what i have to say. that is an honor & i do not take it for granted.

for this season, i am stepping back from writing at krista finch. however, fresh & wonderful stories abound at pendrops couture. i sincerely hope you will visit me there.

thank you always for your kindness.

cheers…

if you haven’t had a chance to check out pendrops.com, please stop by the blog and say hi. i’d love to hear from ya. the official site will be up in a couple weeks, but for now all updates will come through the pendrops couture blog, facebook page and twitter feed.

speaking of updates…

ok, i’m on cloud 9. can i tell you? i mean, this is exciting. it’s just too good to keep secret.

so, you know that the pendrops couture online boutique opens monday, april 25 (mark your calendar!), but what you didn’t know is that pendrops is going to be a vendor at the franklin farmers market starting in may!

that’s right! it’s really happening! i’m so excited i could do a round-off backflip into the splits (and i haven’t done one of those for years). i’m thrilled to make my lovely, earth-friendly cards available locally at the market while continuing to support our tennessee farmers and other vendors i’ve come to know these past several years. pendrops couture cards and the franklin farmers market are a perfect fit!

as the market opening approaches, i’ll let you know my booth location and dates. hope to see you there!

cheers…..

next month, i will open the online boutique doors of pendrops couture, cards with a re:purpose. but before i tell you about all that, let me back up.

several months ago, i happened on an article about shabby chic interior design. i was smitten. i fell in love with the lovely, relaxed, elegant style championed by the inspiring rachel ashwell.

so i set to overhauling our home – painting, sewing, dragging old furniture and bits and bobs out of hiding. and in a few months our home went from cookie-cutter and bland to enchanting and cozy. my creative juices had just begun to flow, but i was out of projects for the most part.

then, one day, at random, i sat down to make a birthday card for a friend and ended up with the first pendrops couture card. a spark had ignited and, fueled by my passion and jason’s unfaltering belief in me, i began the fun and funky work of research and development. could i realistically do this, what materials would i use, who would my suppliers be, how could i offer the best value for these frame-worthy cards, how could i care for creation each step of the way…these were the questions i asked. i found tons of answers. and i’m very proud of the end result!

so now, here we are…several months down the road, and i’m about to swing the doors wide open on this venture. so, let me introduce you to the cards.

pendrops couture cards are one-of-a-kind collections of handcrafted cards designed by me from the stuff most people throw away: vintage fabric scraps, tattered antique books, used burlap coffee bags, old buttons, second-hand jeans…you get the picture. i’m upcycling, trying to keep a few things out of the landfills and creating something beautiful instead. the paper and envelopes are 100% recycled stock. and the pieces of every card are sewn together on the 30-year-old sewing machine my mom and auntie shared.

at pendrops couture, the mission is simple: create beauty & grace of discarded treasure while inspiring you to tell your loved ones how special they are to you. i look forward to bringing you pendrops couture cards in a few short weeks.

in the meantime, will ya follow me on twitter and fan me on facebook? i’d love to keep you updated on the online boutique grand opening, local retailers of pendrops couture cards, and special offers!

cheers, friends……

I scrambled for an answer to my friend’s well-intentioned,”I’m-keeping-you-accountable-and-you’ll-thank-me-later” question. I embellished my latest scribbles.

“Oh yeah, I’m working on this thing…oh, and that project, it’s going well…and have I told you about my children’s book idea?” Jude played at the perimeter of my outstretched legs as I lied.

Truth be told, I have fought it. I have grieved it. I have not wanted to believe it, the Type A, can-do go-getter in me doubting to the end. But I cannot deny it any longer. I can’t have it all. It is the bitter fact of the matter. Of course, if I had the means to employ a butler, a maid, a nanny and a groundskeeper, maybe it would be possible. Maybe I could have a toddler and pursue all my dreams while keeping my house immaculate and entertaining friends and family every weekend. But even then, I’m not so sure.

I say all this partly to explain why I haven’t been posting much lately, why I won’t be posting very often for the foreseeable future. Because I’ve tried. Tried to blog, tried to keep up with the cleaning, tried to cook more, have friends over, join mommy groups, put all the laundry away, return calls, keep up with Swerve business, come up with crafty ways to market my book, do house projects… And it has driven me to the point of insanity. At every turn, something has had to give. And that something is quality. Sure, I can do all the things I want to do, but when I’m juggling so much, multitasking my life (not to mention my son and husband’s lives as well), the quality of my investment goes down fast.

The way I see it, I get a few short years of putting in very long days to write the pages of Jude’s early childhood. These are days that science tells us he won’t tangibly remember, but they are in fact the most important days of both our lives. How I engage these mundane moments lays the groundwork for our future relationship, for his physical and emotional health, for the wholeness of our family. It is a full-time job with a daily requirement of overtime and night shift duty. And when I get a few minutes to me – just me – I’m tired. How am I to focus with any depth, devotion or consistency on pen and paper, or house renovations, or entertaining guests, or landscaping projects, or travel, or marketing my book, or…

I’m done trying. From now on, I will be Krista. I will be wife. And I will be mother. I will become exemplary at mono-tasking those few roles. And I won’t apologize for it anymore. Or feel guilty when a friend asks if I’ve been writing. Of course, being me includes things like writing, having friends over, and keeping up with the laundry. But I won’t be very good at any of it. Chances are, for a little while, I will be an unexceptional friend, a negligent writer, a lax church-goer, a mediocre cleaner, a lapsed Twitterer, a lazy cook, a scattered daughter, a forgetful daughter-in-law, a late arriver, a non-joiner, a poor hostess, and myriad other socially unacceptable labels. Nonetheless, I will be me, lover and fighter, no apologies. And the two most important people in my life will get the best of me. I won’t regret missing out on their lives because I had to write or because I had to get the garden planted or because I had to fulfill some banal commitment to a lesser thing. I’m choosing the good part now. I’m choosing relationship. I’m choosing, ultimately, to die to myself.

So, the next time my friend asks if I’m writing, I’ll tell her honestly and without hesitation, yes. I am writing. It’s just not the kind of writing you do with words.

Does anyone else see the trouble with this proposition? Maybe it’s because I recently watched the documentary Food, Inc, but my sense of awareness regarding the foods we eat has hit an all time high. There are countless injustices in this world that enrage me, but when huge corporations and big government get together to dangerously tamper with a commodity that no one can live without, you get my attention.

Since it burst onto the market in the mid-1970s in products like Coke and Pepsi, high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) has left a deadly trail. The US readily allows – nay, encourages – putting HFCS in hundreds of food products now and leads the world in the use of this “corn sugar.” And guess what: we’re the fattest, most unhealthy we’ve ever been…the fattest and most unhealthy nation in the world.

Of course, back in the 70s and 80s, HFCS was seen by everyone in the food industry as a way to save money. Good intentions, right? Sure. But now that we know some of the dangers of this corn concoction, does the FDA (a government-run regulation agency meant to protect us) really think it’s a good idea to simply rename one of the most controversial, dangerous and addictive substances in our food today? Really? Come on, FDA, we the people are not that stupid. We get it…corn is the most government subsidized food in the US by a long shot, but can you put your pocketbooks away for a second and actually do something in the interest of the American people just this once?

Renaming HFCS is the absolute wrong move on the part of the FDA. What they need to do is connect the very obvious dots and take this toxic product out of our foods and off the shelves of our grocery stores. Or at the very least, put a cigarette-style warning on every product that contains it. (Warning: you are about to consume a chemically manipulated food that has been linked to cancer, liver disease, and insulin resistance, to name a few.)

But since money and a few big industry voices talk very loudly, that probably won’t happen. So we as consumers, the ones who actually hold the power, need to protect ourselves. We can start by being more aware of the ingredients in our food. One easy way to do this is by eating simple foods. You know, the stuff we ate as kids: apples, bananas, orange slices, almonds, carrots, celery sticks slathered in natural peanut butter, raisins…you get the picture.

We can also make a visit to the farmers market, where we see the faces and shake the hands of the men and women who grow the foods we eat. If you think prices are a problem, just stop by…you might be surprised. Many farmers are even taking food stamps at our local farmers market these days. Fresh food that tastes like home is for everyone – not just the wealthy.

Should the FDA decide to change high fructose corn syrup’s name to corn sugar, attempting to dupe the American public once again, we don’t have to eat it. We can vote with our dollars. We can choose to buy foods without HFCS. In May 2010, Hunts took HFCS out of its ketchup because customers demanded it. If these men and women in the food industry and in our government understand anything at all, it’s money. So lets start speaking their language.

And while we’re at it, let’s take back our table.

A monster recently crossed my path. A big, hairy monster with a heavy shadow to boot. And the monster said that I didn’t have any “real” grace to offer because I hadn’t given birth to a mentally handicapped son. Because I hadn’t nursed a dying loved one. Because I hadn’t endured financial hardship. Because, in monster’s opinion, I hadn’t really lived. So how could I dare to write about messy grace – a topic that has “been done before and done better by others” in his opinion.

You see, monster decided to read and review As Is for TheOOZE’s Viral Blogger platform, a platform that has earned As Is mixed reviews at best. But in many ways, it’s been refreshing. I have invited the comments and suggestions from peers and have been inspired to work that much harder at my craft. Until this review. Truth be told, monster knocked the wind out of me with his assumptions and judgments as he questioned the authenticity and validity of who I am.

So, as is my MO, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about this book review. Thinking about my writing. Thinking about my story, my life’s story. And most of this thinking has been good because it landed me in a place I needed to be. A place where I was forced to unearth truth and beauty again. And it was there that I discovered we – all of us – have something to say about grace. Because we all have a story. Some stories are grittier than others. Some stories are, on the surface, a little tidier. But not long after we’re out of the womb, life on planet earth collides with us and brings us face to face with moments when grace, mercy, peace, love and truth must show up if we are to go on.

Some of us have cancer.
Some of us have eating disorders.
Some of us have anxiety attacks.
Some of us lose our jobs.
Some of us bury children.
Some of us suffer deep betrayal by the one who said, “till death do us part.”
Some of us are raped.
Some of us endure racial hate.
Some of us are physically abused.
Some of us are bullied in school.
Some of us have barren wombs.
Some of us endure the tragedy of front-line warfare.
Some of us have multiple sclerosis.
Some of us lose limbs in car accidents.
Some of us go without food.
Some of us are sold into sex trafficking.
Some of us are alcoholics.
Some of us suffer depression.
Some of us don’t have clean water to drink.
Some of us lose our homes in floods.

We all need grace. And we need it spoken to us in a variety of voices.

Maybe monster has the luxury of being choosy about who he’ll allow to speak “real” grace into his life. Me – I’ll take grace anywhere I can get it. I’ll take it from the 16-year-old kid at the grocery store. I’ll take it from U2 or Hoagy Carmichael or Beethoven, Annie Dillard or Joan Didion or Frederick Buechner. I’ll take it from my single girlfriends who have no idea what it’s like to be married with children. I’ll take it from my husband who has never suffered a panic attack or battled an eating disorder. I’ll take it from my 13-month-old son who has barely been touched by the tragedy and pain of this world.

I’ll take it from anyone, anywhere, any time. Because if I demand that anyone who speak “real” grace into my life go through the hardest, most catastrophic life events or the exact circumstances I have experienced before they’re qualified, I’ll never receive grace.

I’ve lived long enough to know that none of our storms are the same. And the minute we go around comparing, judging and deciding whose got the biggest, baddest, most hardcore life story, we lose sight of what grace is all about. We lose sight of something whole-making and powerful. We lose sight of coming like children – clamoring, hands open, excited to receive whatever is given.

No, I don’t have the luxury of being picky about where grace comes from. I grasp for it. I inhale it. I gulp it down like a beggar at a feast. And I find it not only in the hardest and most tragic moments that life hurls at me and those around me. But I find it in the mundane and monotonous. Because grace is for all of us in all our moments – not just for those whose stories are the deepest or darkest.

So it turns out that even in a malicious review and personal attack, grace found me. She reminded me who I am, whose I am, and that life is grace (as Buechner says). So thanks, monster. In spite of your shadow, grace won. Real grace.

Grace finds beauty in everything.
U2, Grace

I remember you -
the way you felt when your
daddy laid you on my chest,
soft and slimy and
perfect.

I remember the midwife -
the way she told me how
beautiful you were and how
perfect your butt was and that I should
kiss it…so I did!

I remember everything about the night before -
the way my water broke at one,
the ride to the hospital at two,
three contractions at the admissions desk,
the way your daddy held me up through
every pressure wave,
the water pouring over me,
going to the furthest threshold of pain without any barrier of relief,
the way you turned after all our hard work.

And I remember the moment -
too sacred to tell.

I remember the light -
the light of your life and soul
so new and fresh,
the light of you in a world wanting for brightness.

Happy Birthday, sweet Jude. I will always remember your story and love your life.

I laughed as Jude cuddled up close to me. It was his new way of letting me know he was making the poo-poo. As his poops become more solid, he is becoming more freaked out by the whole “number two” thing. So he cuddles.

I looked at the clock. I had time, or a few minutes anyway. “Alright,” I said, “let’s go change that diaper, let’s go change that diaper….” I sang our made-up diaper song as we cha-cha’ed to his room and proceeded to swap out the hot mess. I got him all cleaned up in time to prep a little for my podcast interview.

But as we sat on the floor a few minutes later – me with my laptop and Jude with his blocks – it happened. Jude crawled quietly over to me and climbed into my lap, again, wrapping his arms around my neck.

“Aw, buddy, what’s going on?” But I already knew. More poop. Big time poop.

I sprang into action with just a few minutes to spare before I’d be chatting with Josh Case of the Nick and Josh Podcast. But not only was this the messier of the two diapers, Jude wasn’t even remotely interested in being on his back for another diaper change. He was so opposed, in fact, that he rolled over before I could catch him, dragged his leg through the stinky mass, crab-crawled toward his blocks and laughed.

With about sixty seconds to spare before my interview appointment, I chased Jude down, cleaned him up, put on a fresh diaper, and scrubbed the carpet. Then I did this interview. An interview I’m proud of if for no other reason than that it was born out of a very authentic, very as-is moment. There’s  just something about a laughing, cuddling, pooping one-year-old that keeps you real, humbled and completely incapable of posing.

Jude keeps saying Abba. All the time Abba. While he’s playing with his blocks. While he’s eating his Toastie O’s. While he’s riding in his car seat. Even as he drifts to sleep.

I know he doesn’t know what he’s saying, what his baby talk means. But there’s something in it and it is not wasted on me.

“Whoever becomes simple and elemental again. like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
- Gospel of Matthew 18:4 (The Message)

Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.

And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.

Was it dangerous?

Sure.

Was it risky?

You bet.

But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.

As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.

Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.