I’m not pious, I’ve got a foul mouth, I’m ill-tempered,
but in my best moments…I try to make the decisions for love.
Because love wins.
-Cathleen Falsani

As I looked at the six-letter word on its appointed page and thought about the hundreds of hot-off-the-press copies of my first published book gathered around me like a gaggle of unruly children, I sighed.

“Too late now,” I laughed, staring at the unsmudgable ink. Alone and feeling the weight of disapproving voices, I closed my book and left the apartment. I needed a walk.

On my stroll past budding bushes, I thought about the book I’d been working on for nearly two years. Mostly, I thought about the word and the handful of judgments about my choice of verbiage.

“Why did I put it in there?” I agonized and ruminated with each step, frustrated and flustered by the whole matter, angry that it had only taken a little criticism to make me cave. Self-doubt was stealing the happy author joy I had fantasized about since I was a little girl sitting at my Brother electric typewriter. My book was published, released into the world – what could possibly bum me out?

The word, that’s what.

No. Wait. Not the word, but my second guessing the word. Second guessing every word – not just the word. And wondering where I got off trying to be some kind of revolutionary, some kind of radical truth-speaker, an authentic voice in a mass of nicer, conciliatory writers.

I followed this line of thinking in a fearful, nauseating and otherwise self-flagellating way for the rest of my walk. And the better part of a week, for that matter.

But then I came upon a life-altering chapter of Sin Boldly, the 2008 book release from fabulous Chicago Sun Times religion writer Cathleen Falsani. And I remembered something. I remembered my heart. No, better than that…

I remembered my purpose. My passion. And the people I had in mind when I wrote my book. People who have questions, who are searching, who are recovering from addictions, who are getting it wrong and making a hairy mess of life, who are frayed and on the fringes, who are lonely, who are sinners and know it, who are full of glory and beauty and don’t know it.

And, to quote Cathleen:

They are the reason I wrote what I wrote. They are the reason I do what I do…my audience is not the big, bellicose voices of God’s professional bloviators. If they want to read over the shoulders of the marginalized, hurting, scared, ostracized, wounded rest of us, more power to them. But they’re not the point.

Nearly two decades ago, Brennan Manning said the very same thing in his priceless book, Ragamuffin Gospel.

This book is not for the super-spiritual. It is not for the muscular Christians…the academicians…noisy, feel-good folks…hooded mystics…Alleluia Christians…fearless and tearless…red-hot zealots…the complacent…the legalists. If anyone is still reading along, The Ragamuffin Gospel was written for the bedraggled, beat-up, and burnt-out.

As I re-read Cathleen’s own tale of disapproving readers and remembered Brennan’s words, I thought about the people who matter most – the people for whom I wrote As Is. And, among other monumental things, I realized that they couldn’t care less if I use the word.

Still, the fact remains that there are some who may be disturbed by the word as well as some other content that shows up in my book. There are some who think it’s poor taste, who think I won’t sell many books, who think I’ve made myself look bad. And maybe they’re right. I’m willing to plead guilty. I may look back and say the word was unnecessary, poorly placed, downright wrong. Hell, I may take it out in some future edition (but I doubt it).

After several walks, several sessions with Brennan and Cathleen, and several more conversations with God, I was finally able to answer my question. I finally knew why I put the word in my book. I put it there because, for better or worse, the word is a part of my daily lingo. The real me. Not the marketable me. Not the airbrushed glossy me. Not the Sunday-morning-best me. But the Wednesday-afternoon me, the stuck-in-traffic-and-feeling-hormonal me, the fired-up-and-ranting-about-stuff me.

In a book – and a life – with as-is-ness written all over it, that word (and a few others) are bound to show up. And if I can’t be that me along with the best me… If I can’t “speak what I feel, not what I ought to say” to quote Shakespeare’s Lear… If I can’t be honest about who I am as I try to live and love and write and connect with humanity… Then what’s the point of being an artist, being a communicator, being Krista?

But more than this word or that one, I realized what I had been hoping for all along: that love would win. Every time. Because if the sum total of my book isn’t ultimately love, then all the crisp, clean and Christian-y words I could craft are just clanging and jangling and adding to the noise.

And I think we’ve got enough noise.

Because grace makes beauty out of everything.
“Grace,” U2

I was driving down Franklin Road today, my mind caught in a garble of thoughts and contemplations. With just a week to go until we release As Is, my first book, my brain is jam-packed with to-dos, should-haves, and general excitement.

On top of that, throw in the hormones and queasy stomach of this 25-week-pregnant woman who had just come from taking the dreaded glucose tolerance test (pregnant ladies, you understand). And for the cherry on top, let’s add three loads of laundry staring me in the face back at home.

You can bet I was not in my finest form as I unknowingly sped down the rolling lanes a few miles from my home. In fact, I was scowling, feeling the wrinkle between my eyebrows grow deeper with each overwhelming thought.

And that’s where I was, racing down Tennessee byways and mental highways, when I saw the man in the orange sweatpants. If you’re regularly in the Franklin area, you may have seen him. In addition to eye-catching clothes, this older man – probably 60-something – dons a set of old school Walkman headphones and literally dances down the side of the road as he walks.

I slowed down to get a closer look. Then I laughed. Not at him. But at the beauty. At his fluidity and freedom. At the absolute dignity of this spunky little man.

With the memory of his movements still lingering in my mind, I laughed again and suddenly realized I had just encountered grace. This unexpected, unformulated, unplanned moment had found me, me in all my undeserved-ness.

I‘ve just started reading Cathleen Falsani’s brilliant book, Sin Boldly: A Field Guide for Grace. In the first few pages she says, “Life is beautiful. And I’m an idiot who doesn’t deserve any of it. But that’s the thing about grace.”

Those words hit me hard as I slowed to a stoplight half a mile from the dancing man. And it got me thinking about the other graces and beauties I miss. So I started remembering.

Grace has tenderly touched my belly countless times as baby Jude performs his own fetal dance inside my womb.

Grace knelt beside me as I took the Eucharist yesterday, remembering forgiveness and life.

Grace listened in on a good phone call with a friend a couple days ago.

Grace smiled as my midwife hugged me and told me to call anytime with any questions at all, even if I had just called the day before.

Grace whispered truth to me again and again in a week filled with false accusations.

Grace put her arms around my husband and me as we talked late last evening.

Grace even shushed my racing mind and brushed her fingers through my hair while I slept through the night for the first time in weeks (a grand feat for any pregnant woman, I might add).

Yep, grace has been there in so many moments. In all my moments to be exact. And I’ve been an idiot, too blind to see her. But she has been there. And that’s the thing. Maybe the most important thing. She is always there. The bonus is when I stop my madness to get a whiff of her perfume as she enters the room. Or when I shut my own voice off long enough to hear her sing and sigh. Or when I finally look up to see her dancing down the side of the road in her bright orange sweatpants and Walkman headphones.

When the green semi rolled in with twelve heavy boxes of my labor of love, I became something I have longed to be since I was eleven…maybe younger. A soft winter breeze cooled my face in the light of February sun rays as Jason pulled out his pocketknife and sliced through a thin layer of tape to reveal the shrink-wrapped stacks of my book.

I think it was Anne Lamott or maybe Stephen King who differentiated between writer and author. She or he said that a writer writes. (And this is a good thing, to write. Because we must always, always, write.) But an author is published.

As the exhaust fumes of the semi diffused around me, I became an author holding her published book in hand. In so many ways, I can hardly remember the woman I was when I penned my first post, “I am a Writer.” Funny how things come full circle.

As I enter this strange and exciting season of author-ness, it seems the most appropriate occasion to point you to another site. My official author site. KristaFinch.com. (That’s my pen name…don’t wear it out!)

If you’ve enjoyed Pendrops at any level, I think you’ll love KristaFinch.com. It has some of the same hints of quirky observation, current reads, and links to “Finch Friends.” In fact, for a short time, my posts on Pendrops will be duplicated there.

But it will also have a fresh delicious flavor, seasoned with video blogs, info about upcoming readings and signings, and other funky, Finchy stuff.

So please visit often or sign up for an RSS feed.

And if you’re in the Nashville area, please stop by the As Is Release Party on March 24, anytime from 7-10 pm at The Franklin Mercantile. I would love to see you there!

Finally, thanks for being a Pendropper and supporting my writing habit. Whatever I’m called – writer or author – you have encouraged me more than you will ever know.

[click the picture to see Jude's first video]

Well, Jude, I suppose you’re not surprised. But your momma certainly is. Surprised and filled with unspeakable joy. She thought the little life inside was for sure a girl, but when you uncrossed those growing legs at the ultrasound appointment today, you let us in on your secret.

Oh my God, a boy! was all I could say as the technician typed, “BOY” in all caps across the screen. And your daddy was speechless. We cried and laughed and cried and laughed some more while we held hands and learned about your spine, your kidneys, your heart, your feet, your face. That sweet face. From the grainy images on the screen it looks like you have your momma’s nose and your daddy’s mouth.

I went right out and bought you a book today, a real boy book. You already have so many books from all of us here waiting for you. (We think you might love to read like momma and daddy.) But none of those books were just for a boy, so I took care of that. I can’t wait to hold you in my lap and read you to sleep. And read you to dream-worlds and fantasy-lands only a boy with your imagination could create.

I have talked to God about you, talked all about you so many mornings, afternoons, evenings and in the deep mid-nights when sleep wouldn’t have me. I loved you before I even knew you existed. And now, as you are daily shaped into the boy who is my son, I pray this blessing over you:

Jude Adam

May you know courage and tenderness, strength and compassion.
May you worship God from dust to dust, all your days.
May you receive the life-giving inheritance of grace that is yours because you are huios, a son and an heir.
May you always know your name, Child; the name given you by the One who has forever known you.

And “may mercy and peace and love be multiplied to you…and may you keep yourself in the love of God, ready and waiting for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to eternal life. May you have mercy on some who are doubting; and save others, snatching them out of the fire…” (Jude 2, 21-23)

You are a treasured gift, Jude Adam. You are a blessed son.

Photo by jobarracuda at Flickr

Sheez, this is a lot of hard work, I thought after the third or fourth time I’d stood up and sat back down. I grasped the bulletin I’d been handed by a six- or seven-year-old boy a few moments before, reading ahead nervously so I would be sure not to miss another Thanks be to God in the liturgy. I tried to figure out an unfamiliar melody as I mumbled the words of the processional song.

You see, after a few months away from any kind of unified Sunday morning gathering, Jason and I visited a church, a church that lands on a branch of Protestantism neither of us have any experience with. We visited an Episcopal church.

As the service progressed, I found myself wanting to take time to ruminate on all the active-ness of the service and how worn out I felt with the kneeling and the standing and the liturgizing. But the Nicene Creed, in all its truth and beauty, broke through my ragged, self-indulgent introspection.

We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen…

Maybe it was those faith statements bouncing against the high ceiling and stained glass windows. Or maybe it was the chamber choir in the loft behind us singing, “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is…” Or maybe it was the breaking of the bread, literally broken so I could hear it and see the crumbs spray through the air at the altar as I knelt to receive an unleavened wafer dipped in crimson juice.

Or maybe it was something intangible in the room, dwelling among us, dwelling in us. Whatever it was, I decided that the “work” I had been doing throughout the service – the kneeling, the rising, the common prayers, the congregational readings – was good.

So much of my Sunday morning church-going experience has been about receiving. What can I get out of the music? Do I agree with how the pastor has interpreted the Scriptures? Did the prayers move me? To put it bluntly, my churching has been very Krista-centric. And not very God-centric.

Oh sure, I’ve said I’m going to meet with God, but I’ve only wanted to meet with Him on my terms. As long as His truth, His love, His presence was spoon-fed to me while I kicked back in a comfy pew and consumed.

But today was different. Today I gave something. I was awakened to the giving. By a common word, by an ordering, by a tradition. And in the offering I discovered a lightness, a gladness, a new hope born. An extravagant grace in uniformity. A peace in the practice of worship. A joy in the active involvement that worship requires.

“Oh, then you just feel great now, don’t you?” the stranger said as I rested my hand on the growing bulge above my hips. “These are the golden days of your pregnancy,” she said, patting my arm and walking off.

I don’t remember how or why I would have begun talking to a complete stranger about what trimester I’m in, but it must have seemed appropriate at the time. But as I walked away, I couldn’t help feeling that there was something wrong with me.

It seems everywhere I turn, magazine articles, pregnancy books, and random women are telling me that I have now entered the most favored three months of pregnancy.

You’re showing, but you’re not too big yet…

The nausea is gone and now you can really enjoy those cravings…

You’re energized, your hormones are balanced, and you get that pregnant glow…

You’re out of the danger zone; there’s nothing to worry about with the baby now…

Well, if these are the golden days of pregnancy, then somebody please take me back to the dark days of nausea and fatigue in my first trimester. So far, my arrival into glorious second trimester-ness has only allotted me more fatigue than ever, gut-wrenching acid reflux and heartburn, sharp ligament pains, whacked-out hormones, and one quasi-emergency trip to the midwife office to make sure the baby was okay.

Some golden days.

“Maybe there’s a lesson you can learn in all this,” my dad said today. He’s right. There is a lesson. It’s the same damn lesson I’ve fought my whole life to learn. A lesson about expectations.

I live far too much of my life in fear of what others expect and what I expect of myself. If the second trimester is supposed to be golden, well then poo-poo on me if I’m not fully golden… if I’m not feeling what other women felt in their second trimester… if I’m not glowingly energized and dancing a jig. All these expectations for me, for my pregnancy, for my life, must be right. And I must be wrong as I double over from another acid reflux attack.

But what pregnancy, and life, is teaching me is that expectations have absolutely no value. They are good for nothing except increasing pressure and perfectionism while stealing confidence and identity.

So, here’s the deal: Thus far, my second trimester has left me feeling like, well, mustard-green projectile baby poop. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love my precious baby beyond belief. It doesn’t even mean I don’t love being pregnant. It just means that I don’t feel the way everyone (including me) thinks I should feel right now. And that’s ok.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my fourth nap of the day.

I had awakened early. Far too early. 4:40 a.m. early. And laying in bed for three hours waiting for the alarm to go off was not an option. So I tucked my pillow under my arm, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and nestled into the cushions of our couch. It was raining, drips and drops squiggling down the window panes. I followed a few drops for several minutes and rubbed the small bump where Baby Barmer is growing, thinking the glow of Christmas tree lights in the reflection along with the sound of pattering rain would put me to sleep. No luck.

So around 6 o’clock I turned on the TV. As I flipped through infomercials and predawn local news, I happened upon Fox and Friends just as they introduced Dan Barker of the Freedom from Religion Foundation. He was joyfully explaining why his group had recently posted a sign at a nativity scene at the Washington State Capitol that read in part, “There are no gods, no devils, no angels, no heaven or hell. There is only our natural world.”

As Dan discussed the issue with Catholic League President Bill Donahue (was this guy really the best opposing viewpoint they could find?), he labeled the nativity scene as “hate speech” and a “direct attack on good human values.”

I muted the TV after the short and heated exchange and thought about the nativity as hate speech. As I searched my heart and mind, rifled through a vast history of memories and experiences, and considered my own journey of belief and doubt, I realized that I had no paradigm for Barker’s brand of reasoning.

“The nativity as hate speech?” I instinctively reached for my growing belly, silently apologizing to my baby for this world, and listened to the rain splat harder. Certainly, the religion of Christianity has made vast errors in judgment throughout its 2,000 year history. No one can argue with that. We followers of Christ can get it way wrong. I never fault anyone for being frustrated with Christians – I’m frustrated with them most of the time myself.

However, throughout the history of all space and time, the only message God has ever sent us has been a message of love. A message of grace. A message of mercy. A message of redemption. He is endlessly sending us gospels of love. In mountain streams and mountain peaks. In wildflowers and wild seas. In unknown universes and in the grains of sand. In a kiss, a laugh, a tear, a sigh. For all the hate in the heart of humanity, I am convinced that the God of the universe is madly in love with us.

And the nativity is just one of our reminders. A soft December rain on a sleepless morning is a good reminder, too. So is the heartbeat of life inside a mother’s womb.

As I bid my twenties farewell and brave the uncharted waters of my thirties, I am at a loss for what to say or how to feel. I don’t feel much different on my last day as a 20-something than I imagine I’ll feel tomorrow when I wake up a 30-year-old. I haven’t really accomplished anything by turning 30. I can’t claim some great victory or brag about achievement. On the contrary, all of my life has been gift and grace, redemption and reclamation, mercy and blessing.

So, I’m in rare form today. My modus operandi is usually to revel in a week’s worth of celebration as I complete another year, garner gifts and well-wishes, and grow a few more gray hairs. But this year, I prefer something different, I crave something more. And less.

I think what I choose to steep in this year is hope. The hope that I will laugh more, worry less, and love generously in the decade to come. The hope that I will cherish my husband deeply, show my baby beauty and truth, and abide with mercy as I journey.

Most of all, I hope I can smile like the little girl I used to be, the girl in the picture. Because in that smile, in the heart of that red-hooded girl, is a fierce determination to be just who she is. And only who she is. Before lies and fear, insecurity and confusion, unbelief and perfectionism stepped in. So I’m giving myself a hope that I will, with the same determination, be just who I am. And only who I am – flaws, quirks and all. Because that is the woman God designed me to be, regardless of any scowls or frowns around me.

Hope: it’s what I’m giving myself this year. I suppose it’s the best present I can give myself, this year or any year.

As I embark on my tenth week of pregnancy, few things have really surprised me along the journey so far.

I knew I would feel nauseous and tired and irritable.

I knew I would have to endure the uninvited advice of women who choose to share only their horror stories of pregnancy, birth and parenting.

I knew I would have to tolerate the annoying “It’s going to be hard” gazes of weary parents, to which I long to say, “If you think you’re the first person who’s told me parenting is to going to be hard, get in line.”

Most of all, I knew I would love this child before I ever saw his or her face. I knew I would cry when I saw the little heart beat on the monitor. I knew I would read and sing to him or her before ears were even formed.

But what I didn’t expect, what I could have never anticipated, what surprised me most were the men.

“Watch out, there. The weight’s easier to put on than it is to take off,” one acquaintance chuckled as I passed by him at the grocery store.

“And remember, you’re not really eating for two…that’s a myth,” another said as I hovered over turkey and mashed potatoes one evening.

There have been other comments – infuriating, moronic, dimwitted comments – by male strangers in regard to how big (or not big) I should get as well as how often and what I should be eating.

Now thankfully, having fully recovered from anorexia and after dealing with many of my body image issues, these asinine comments don’t leave me one bit insecure about my beautiful pregnant body, my healthy eating habits or my current weight (especially since I haven’t weighed myself in almost two years).

What their comments do is leave me enraged at the expectations men – in general – have for women. Their flippant statements about my body, my weight, my eating habits are quite telling and clearly reflect a bigger issue: the unreasonable standard set for women – pregnant or not.

Unfortunately, Western culture idolizes the stick-figure, paper-thin, two-dimensional women on magazine covers and movie screens. Somehow we have come to worship the airbrushed, perfected, concave stomachs and non-touching upper thighs of 88-pound models and celebrities. But, get this: 100% God’s honest objective truth be told, women were not created to look like porn stars and emaciated supermodels.

Believe it or not, this unrealistic and unrelenting expectation has crept even into pregnancy, where it is actually good and right and beautiful to have extra curves and changing shape and, yes, even an increased appetite (heaven forbid).

I don’t have the answer to this issue. I don’t know how to change the course our appearance-crazed, waiflike-obsessed society is on. I just know one thing: I love my pregnant, growing body. It is absolutely gorgeous. And you know what else I love? I love the new foods I’m trying, foods I haven’t eaten in years simply because I got in a rut of eating familiar favorites. Foods like avocados, Idaho potatoes, sunflower seeds, green olives, chopped walnuts, black beans and brown rice. Yeah, with healthy, vitamin-rich foods like that in the cupboard I’m gonna blow up as big as a house, aren’t I, fellas?

Here’s a deal for you, guys…next time you’re pregnant, let’s talk about your eating habits. About how much weight you shouldn’t gain. About how full your shopping cart is. About your cravings. About how you’re not eating for two. Yeah, we’ll do that.

Next time you’re bloody pregnant.

It’s unexpected, I think, this thing that happens when a woman finds out she’s expecting. Of course, I can’t speak for all women who have experienced the miracle of pregnancy, but for me it only took a few minutes after seeing the second pink line on the home pregnancy test to fall madly in love with the microscopic life inside me. It only took a moment to dream a million dreams. It only took a few hours to start craving strange food combinations like kosher hot dogs with mango chutney. And it only took about a day to succumb to a million fears. But then something lovely happened – that little peanut, that little spark of life, taught me something.

You see, the day after I found out I was pregnant, I was driving after dark, tailed by a swerving, veering, speeding two-ton Chevy jam-packed with rollicking teenagers.

“Little shits,” I said, glancing in the rear view mirror as the car nearly rammed my bumper. White-knuckling the wheel, I pulled off the side of the road, breathed in slowly, and let the twerps and the noise of their rap music pass far beyond me. I clutched my abdomen in the hopes of comforting myself and the zygote inside but, in that moment, realized I would not now or ever be able to protect my baby from danger. From idiot drivers. From sickness. From risk. From disease. From any of the dreadful things we experience in all our living and dying.

Even as a new human being came alive in me, I couldn’t help thinking that, while I may keep many things from hurting my child, I could never fend off hazard, uncertainty, death.

But as I pulled back onto the road, soothed by calming breaths and a lesson learned, my shoulders relaxed and my heart rate slowed. The pressure fell away. The fear did, too.

All I would need to do was love this child, I realized. Just love. It seemed little peanut wanted me to know that as early as possible. It would make life easier on both of us.