2017 gift list

Christ child 2017 giftsStill and reverent, I lay in bed Christmas morning before the sun reappeared. I listened to heart-stopping versions of my favorite carol, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and enjoyed hot coffee, wrapping my extremities tightly in blankets. The piano keys and cello sang out with my spirit.

Nietzsche once said, “Everything matters. Nothing’s important.”

Each year I make a list of gifts received. This morning I reflected on the year’s gifts, Nietzsche’s words, and another key phrase.

Either Christ is everything, or He is nothing.

Charles Spurgeon and Hudson Taylor both echoed this sentiment—and both lived as if He were everything.

The entire year bore gifts.

gifts daughter father


I held my mother’s shaking frame, soaked in tears, while she struggled to let my grandma go Home. I talked to my mentors for hours via video conferencing, on the phone, and face-to-face over the best hash browns I’ve consumed. I meditated on Truth while sipping fresh coffee every single morning, fueling my spirit and becoming better. I cradled countless kittens. I watched, panic-stricken, as my daughter barreled through a riding barn on an agitated racing horse at full speed. I rejoiced when I realized she and her little friend were holding one another in the saddle, God going before them and planning in love. I wiped away Maggie’s snot while she told me she wanted to keep riding, the bravest soul I know. I nearly skipped out of the breast specialist’s office, celebrating benign results. I applauded my tiny angel, proudly parading up the church aisle during the Christmas pageant. I walked away from my daughter’s preschool classroom for the first time and returned to find her too happy to leave. I led clients to greater joy. I shed tears. I shared silence. I waited for justice. I listened. I caressed my husband’s weathered crow’s feet, solidly at home. I stroked my cowgirl baby’s smooth forehead as she slept, whispering comfort and love in her ear, the most important part of my day.

Each night, as I tiptoed out and stumbled for my glasses atop piles of bedtime stories, I marinated in Light.

Christ shone beside me all year and carried me through.

Let me perceive You in every matter.

The question


Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

I entered The Pinto, a trendy vintage coffee shop/eatery in downtown Batesville, and ordered my favorite caffeinated beverage—café breve—while waiting to meet with my FOFO (formerly online friend only) for lunch, coffee, and conversation face-to-face for the first time.

Half an hour later, deep into a great chat about grace and relationships, a mutual friend greeted us and stopped to talk. While discussing potential dates for this mutual friend, the topic of abstinence surfaced. The mutual friend asked us, “Did you have sex before you were married?”

This time, I only felt a slight sting before responding to this version of the age-old question, “Tell me about your first time.”

21 years ago, a family friend raped me when I was 16 years-old. It was the first time I’d had sex.

Immediately following this traumatic experience, I did what many PTSD-infected, confused, depressed teenagers do who’ve been sexually assaulted: I acted out. I used drugs and consumed too much alcohol, engaged in sexual activity with multiple people, and moved in and out of understanding God’s role in my life.

Prior to this horrible experience on July 11, 1995, I nearly bragged about my virginity, wearing it like a badge of honor while skating a thin line of promiscuity. I wore a freaking True Love Waits ring. I attended youth group twice per week and thought I really had it all together, and that if I just continued on the straight and narrow path, I would certainly succeed in absolutely everything I attempted. I believed that good things come to those who wait and that God rewards good behavior.

Obviously, those maxims proved themselves false. My world felt shaky, and I have plenty of poorly written poetry scribbled in my high school journals to demonstrate this.

One night, nine months after being raped, a boy I loved (who knew all about my assault) asked me if I believed in God and pointed me to the sparkling stars in a black, clear sky as evidence of His existence. I responded, “I do believe He exists. I just don’t believe He cares anymore.”

But that brief spiritual conversation served as a catalyst which sparked change in my soul, and a few months later I accepted Christ while standing all alone in an Oklahoma hay field, watching fireworks on Independence Day.

But I wasn’t set free right away from my past, my feelings, my PTSD, or my inability to make choices that reflected an ounce of self-worth. The chains were heavy. It was just the beginning of my spiritual journey.

I’m still taking it step by step.

I used to hate it when the topic of “firsts” came up in conversation. It isn’t so bad today, even though it’s still not the most pleasant thing to discuss. I’m content today to reflect on the past, knowing not even God can change the past and that I only have to mention my past wounds or mistakes if it will benefit someone else, for I “do not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it” (Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous).

I am not glad I was raped.

But I’m grateful for the many opportunities God’s given me to serve and love other sexual assault survivors.

I’m grateful for my brokenness because God proved His love to me by putting me back together again.

I pray He does the same for you.

Treat yo’self


I gotta hand it to you this year. I’m really proud of you for following through on the decision you made last year at this time to “treat yo’self,” as Donna and Tom proclaim on one of my all-time favorite shows, Parks and Rec.


You deserve to be treated well. After all, Mother’s Day and your birthday always fall within a few days on the calendar each year (if not on the same day). You’re a mom. And you inevitably grow one year older each year, unless you’re not reading this since you’ve already died (*crossing my fingers that’s not the case*).

Your husband is a great man who loves you, protects you, ensures your safety and well-being, and would literally take a bullet for you. Holidays, however, aren’t really his thing. You should have accepted this the very first Mother’s Day you celebrated together when you were pregnant, when at 9 p.m. he admitted to having completely forgotten about the holiday (and your birthday), with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his handsome face. But you’re always hoping for the best and expecting better things might be around the corner; holidays are no different. Last year, three years after that first Mother’s Day you celebrated together, you threw a miniature pity party, yanked on your big girl panties, and made a list of four things you’d do every Mother’s Day/birthday henceforth.

Here’s why: expectations are premeditated resentments. If you sit around waiting for him to treat you in a certain manner, you’re going to grow to resent him if he doesn’t.

11836789_595568329992_4649913107534984823_nLife is too short to live that way. And why expect someone else to do for you what you can do for yourself? You know your worth—you’re the best mom you know. You bend over backward (sometimes literally) for your daughter on a daily basis. You make sacrifices in every area of life for her. You think of every moment as a teaching opportunity. You pray for her continually and seek to guide her in the best way you know how. You give her all the love she could ever want.

You’re rocking the mom thing.

Of course you should celebrate Mother’s Day.

And life? Don’t even get me started…

I think we’ve established that there are a myriad of reasons you need to treat yo’self. And here’s how.

  1. You shall bake your own cake.

This cake is for you. It is not a Mother’s Day cake to share with the other moms you love. You are to bake a cake you like (or pie, because sometimes pie is better than cake) and eat as much of that fattening, sugary piece of work as you darn well please. And you are not to make excuses for it, feel guilty about it, or allow other people to talk you out of it.

2. You shall go out to dinner or lunch on the day of your birthday.

You deserve good food, regardless of the price, and you deserve a break from both cooking and cleaning up from other people who do the cooking (which inevitably happens if your husband does the cooking, even if he’s trying to be nice).

3. You shall purchase a gift for yourself.

You have to purchase something just because you like it. Don’t buy something you need and call it a “birthday gift.” That doesn’t count. This is treat yo’self time, Mama! You don’t have to spend a certain amount of money; it’s about purchasing something that makes you feel appreciated and a little extra special.

4. You shall write yourself a kind note or buy yourself a card and send it to yourself in advance.

Say some kind words to yourself. Force yourself to dig deep and express gratitude to yourself in the same way an outsider might. If you can’t acknowledge, appreciate, and enjoy yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

I’m glad to see that as you write this blog post, you have a little dab of chocolate cake batter under your fingernails; this means you’ll be able to mark two of these items off your “treat yo’self” to-do list after today.

Remember: you’re stuck with yourself for the rest of your life. You better like you.

Happy Mother’s Day/birthday, my friend.


The best and worst of 2015

The truth is I’ve never read The Tale of Two Cities.

After spending 20 minutes scouring SparkNotes—yep, SparkNotes (the shame of it)—and reading quick online plot summaries and popular quote interpretations, I found myself sitting at my white handmade desk at 11:15 p.m. the night before Christmas Eve, tissuing away tears. It might have been the mention of the Christ-figure Carton and his martyrdom, or maybe it was Manette’s inability to tear himself away from making shoes even after being released from prison that got me choked up. I don’t know. But I decided to order a copy of the old classic and conquer it in 2016.

What drew me to the text in the first place was my recollection of the infamous opening paragraph and how well it reflects my sentiments regarding 2015.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way. . . .

I won’t even begin to apply the quote to the universe or to philosophize about the state of the Union or the world at large, ISIS, global warming, technology and its effects on Generation Z (or the rest of us for that matter), or the countless other sociopolitical problems we face.

For today, I’ll stick to my own neck of the woods and my little life.

I wish I could not relate to the opening lines of The Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I wish I considered these lines ridiculous and over the top. But I relate—I relate very well.

Each autumn, I attend a women’s conference that renews me spiritually. I participate in a group meditation that’s particularly meaningful to me and am handed a phrase which seems to always ring true in the coming year. Call it self-fulfilling prophecy, if you like, but I consider it a positive promise of sorts from God, or something hopeful to work toward or claim. In 2014, the phrase I was handed was “Blessings fill your life.”OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Indeed—blessings have filled my life this year. Some of them have overwhelmed me with their enormity. God has blown my expectations out of the water in many ways, redefined “miracle,” and allowed me to observe others’ miracles, too.

But this year also brought bone-crushing, soul-splitting grief. I lost several friends whom I dearly loved—and the means of loss were ugly, confusing, and left me with more questions than consolation. When I asked, “Is there no balm in Gilead?” I didn’t hear a pretty piano playing a sweet hymn in response. I heard nothing.

In those times, I tried to keep doing what worked for me spiritually—to daily maintain my spiritual condition. But sometimes, many times, I just sat outside at night and looked at stars and said nothing at all, and I think He was okay with that. Other times I hated Him and all but spat at Him. I’m pretty sure He was okay then, too. He is God, after all. He is a Big Boy and can handle my humanity, even when I am embarrassed by it.

During those times, I had no idea how “Blessings fill your life” applied to me, but the card emblazoned with the phrase haunted me from my bulletin board. I wanted to throw it in the garbage but never did.

I’m glad I didn’t.

The best of times made their way back around again, and when they did, they did not disappoint.

There’s too much of the best to spell it all out, and quite frankly, some of it is too personal to share. A long time ago God somehow explained to me that we’d share many amazing moments that would blow my mind and steal my heart along this journey together. I learned that if I shared all of them, or even most of them, they’d lose their power somehow. So I pick and choose what I share.

One of the biggest miracles and strangest turn of events occurred in relation to employment. In June, I reconnected with a friend/business acquaintance, and dozens of prayers, careful decisions, and two months later, he and his wife offered me my current position as Content Manager of their company. I’m not joking when I say that I’ve dreamed about working for this company for a decade; seeing God fit multiple pieces of a complicated puzzle together seamlessly this summer was nothing short of breathtaking.


With my bosses/mentors/friends, Steven & Faith Rothberg

I recently traveled to Minnesota to train for a few days. We worked like dogs, but I never felt tired until I closed my eyes at night. While recalling specific conversations and moments with a team member recently, I realized that not once while training and brainstorming did my bosses say, “Oh no, we just can’t do that,” or “That’s not a good idea.” Perhaps THIS is why I’m overcome with gratitude every time I think about work.

This year I also realized that losses and flaws are often my greatest gifts.

While driving back from the airport after traveling to Minnesota, alone, tired, and ready to see my little Maggie who I knew would be ready to see me, I hurriedly drove at sunset while chugging cheap coffee. I suddenly felt a moment of panic when I realized I couldn’t recall if I’d taken the right exit or not. What if I didn’t, and I am heading in the wrong direction? I really have no idea where I’m going. I paused, took a deep breath, and prayed for guidance. I decided to call my husband for help even though I hated asking for his help while driving because believe it or not, he can be a little cocky at times.

When he answered the phone, he was calm and helped me right away. I was heading in the right direction after all.

Something in my mind clicked; God seemed to be saying If you never felt fear, you would never trust Me.

Oh my God. You’re right. Thank You for my fear.

I couldn’t believe I was driving down the road thanking God for my FEAR. What a gross thing to be thankful for. But for me, an egotistical, independent perfectionist, a little fear may be necessary to keep me coming back.

That got me thinking about the rest of my “best of times and worst of times.” The most painful moments when I have been smothered by grief have felt the worst, but those moments led me to seek the Comforter, the only One who can fill gaps in me. I’ve felt frustrated and at a total loss when my toddler doesn’t comply and goes in the opposite preferred direction, but this reminds me I’m not in control and Who Is. There have been many times this year when I felt too overwhelmed to speak or write. I learned that God and I communicate just as well as two silent beings.

Blessings have filled my life after all.


Doing motherhood like a dude

My closest friends may snort laugh in agreement when I admit that I’m a bit of a dude. I’m not just referring to my somewhat crude sense of humor or ability to belch with the best of them. I’ve also been accused of being cold and calculated when it comes to communication, choosing the content-only approach in terms of listening response styles, and often deferring to my analytical and critical nature, not just in the classroom, but in relationships as well. I will admit that I’ve been more in love with jobs than with men in the past and have found more fulfillment in climbing the ladder, corporate or not, and have thus poured myself into becoming smarter and better.

About eight years ago, my life took a turn for the worse—but ultimately for the better—when I faced challenging personal obstacles while going through marital and financial problems. I chose to become better, not bitter, and embarked on a journey of personal growth and recovery. Part of that journey involved me letting go of some of my die-hard defects of character which I’d never identified as defects—including that desire to run faster, jump higher, and fix every problem in the workplace. But old habits die hard, and I still find myself adopting that mindset in the here and now.


Maggie savoring a cupcake from Mama, April 2015

A few days ago, I found myself scraping gunk from our hardwood kitchen floor beneath Maggie’s high chair while she ran back and forth between the kitchen and living room, pushing and slamming her huge yellow dump truck into the furniture and front door. I use the term “gunk” because I have absolutely no idea what the gunk consisted of. Yogurt? Maybe. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

After about two minutes of scraping gunk off the floor with a plastic putty knife—I’m not joking. It is the only tool that would remove the stuff.—Maggie decided I’d had enough of a break from play time. She grabbed my arm with her pudgy hand and forcefully demanded that we play together. I am sure there’s some fool in the world who would sigh and deny requests made by my precious princess, but it’s not going to be me. I give that baby what she wants.


Maggie with one of her baby chickens, April 2015

So off we go to Maggie’s room, moving from books about rainbows and chickens to Melissa and Doug sound puzzles to pretending to blow bubbles from Easter eggs (I have no idea how she came up with that game, but it’s a cute one) to cooking potato chips in a skillet on her little kitchen stove… all in a matter of 20-30 minutes. I try to smile the whole time, come up with ways to insert little learning activities and lessons about life and emotions and God and the alphabet into conversations, and feel exhausted almost the entire time we are playing.

I am beginning to think I suck at this job of being Maggie’s mom; I used to think I was so good at it.

I remember when I worked at McDonald’s in high school, standing at the counter on a slow Friday night, our only customers choosing to use the drive-thru lane aside from a few families who’d come in to eat together. I remember wiping off the tables every 30 minutes and cleaning the bathrooms once an hour, only to have something to occupy my time and keep myself busy. For some reason, that feeling of killing time and staring at the clock in McDonald’s and waiting for the next shift to roll around reminds me of the feeling I often have as Maggie’s mom when I’m here alone with her—just waiting for her dad to get home from work, or waiting until nap time, or waiting until bed time so I can unwind and go to bed myself. I feel guilty writing this, but it’s the truth.

And then it hits me—I’m allowing the dude in me to be Mom.

Therein lies the problem.

I’m applying my analytical and critical, fix the problems in every workplace, run harder and jump higher and be smarter and better, lean in and dig my fingernails in and grit my teeth and work work work mentality to my RELATIONSHIP with my daughter. I’m approaching my relationship with my daughter as if it were a job.

But it’s not a job. It’s a relationship.

God did not interview me and hire me to be Maggie’s mom. I’m not being paid a salary to do the millions of things I do as her mom. I don’t undergo performance reviews, and no one manages me.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMaggie is not a product of my hard work or an end result or trophy for me to put on a shelf or parade around in Facebook photos. It’s not my job to ensure brilliance before she attends Montessori Christian Academy so the staff will be super impressed by my ability to educate Maggie while also working full-time.

I’m going to try to remember that I’m not on the clock. Every second I have with my daughter is a blessing, but if I’m viewing my relationship with Maggie as work, I’m going to approach it with a tight jaw and will most likely place ridiculous expectations on both of us. And life is too short for that.



Love is certainly
girl’s best friend, glitter pawned
for tears

It is not awkward
holding its breath between
us, heavier than the other
shoe suspended above
me, ever threatening
to fall.

It isn’t laying my body down
for the sake of relationship
a live carcass
my soul featured as missing–
plastered on cardboard milk cartons and
glanced at during morning coffee
then forgotten.


Photo by Say Cheese Photography

Photo by Say Cheese Photography

love is

In the six hundred seventy two swings
of your axe, wood split
to stoke our stove
to kindle flames
into fires
inside our walls.

In the forty five thousand nine hundred
minutes spent smoothing
my only flesh
and blood’s auburn curls
while nursing her, singing dimly lit
tunes from Methodist hymnals.

In the three-pound
catfish, wriggling and flailing
its way to your parents’
house. In the smile you
kept while I showed
my prize-willing catch
to your dad, never deflating
my big-fish ego.

Our love is not

By Bethany Wallace, 2015


The skinny clothes I kept

023I gained 60 pounds when I was pregnant. I was pretty sure I’d never lose it all, and certain that I’d never get back to my “skinny clothes” from when I met my husband. You know which clothes I’m talking about—the cutest clothes I’d ever owned. The clothes I’d danced in, flirted in, and okay, honestly spent several lonely nights in while reading classic literature on my own couch with cats crawling around in my lap.

In college, I never gained the freshman 15, but I certainly gained the Wallace 15 when I began dating my husband. After going through a stressful divorce, and quitting a rather stressful job, and after ending a very stressful period of financial woe, I entered into a true state of relaxation and ease and began to understand what The Eagles meant when they sang about takin’ it easy. My butt grew that year, but it probably needed to grow.

One of the first pictures I have with my husband, just a few weeks after we met. We're pictured with the couple who introduced us, Tony & Sarah Wang. August 2010

One of the first pictures I have with my husband, just a few weeks after we met. We’re pictured with the couple who introduced us, Tony & Sarah Wang. August 2010

I eventually started feeling a bit self-conscious about my growing butt, and I started hiking with my dogs every day in the woods behind our house. I noticed a difference in my butt size, my heart rate, and in the way my clothes fit almost immediately. About a month later, I became pregnant with Maggie.

I decided I’d better come to terms with the idea that the “skinny clothes” would probably never fit again. I’d watched many of my friends and “Facebook friends,” many of whom are not much more than acquaintances (let’s be real about that), kill themselves over losing every single pound of baby weight just to fit back into their pre-baby clothes. I’ve just never been that kind of person. I knew that wouldn’t change. I also know that I have never enjoyed exercising very much, and that I love to eat. With those odds stacked against me, I decided to kiss the cute skinny clothes goodbye.

So I either sold them all or gave them all away, save a few items that were either too expensive to part with or too emotionally significant. I guess there was something inside of me that was holding on to a tiny bit of hope.

I couldn’t part with the outfit I was wearing when I met my husband. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a pair of shorts—very short white denim shorts, size 0, and a chartreuse button-up top. I can wear the top again, but the shorts… think fat guy in a little coat.

I tried selling my grey pants suit, but no one bought it. I’m now thankful it didn’t sell because it fits me now. Who knew?! There are a few more items that fall in this category of items I didn’t get rid of and never thought would fit (and now they do). Old scrubs from when I worked in a medical office with my friends (these make fabulous pants to wear around the house if you have a toddler, by the way). A gray pinstripe skirt that is the epitome of sexy librarian. A cute Asian print shirt that I have no need for but that I just can’t seem to part with.

_DSC1797I don’t know if I’ll ever have the occasion to wear it again, but I also saved a coral cocktail dress from our friends’ Tony and Sarah’s wedding. I wasn’t at my absolute thinnest when I wore this dress, but I was certainly completely happy. I can’t say I was at my happiest, because I believe I’m at my happiest now.

I believe I’m at my happiest every day because life gets better as it goes along. I am with the man I love, and we’re raising our daughter together, and I’m doing what I’m meant to do with my life, and God loves us.

Every day I am at my happiest because every day I’m growing and getting better, whether I’m wearing my skinny clothes or not.