Carol the Owl

I am a night owl. Always have been. I come alive at night, I get creative at night, I get excited at night. I am fun at sleepovers. But this is not conducive to mom life, I have learned.

For example, every day at about 5 p.m., I think I’m going to die. I start cooking dinner, which makes me sleepy because sometimes I have to read directions (recipes), and I hate that. Meanwhile, I have a kid attached to each leg, chanting a little chorus of “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” They are cute and PERSISTENT. At this point, my nerves are totally shot because I’ve had one little person or another constantly touching me for something like 9 hours, and you probably already knew this, but they aren’t really asking me to respond when they chant my name. They just like to say it over and over. It’s the toddler version of the co-worker who taps you on the shoulder a million times while you're talking to someone else until eventually you turn into the Trunchbull and toss them out the window and your brain explodes like a volcano and lava leaks out of your ears.

When my husband gets home, he perceives the impending ear lava and lures the kiddos away for some play time. I abandon dinner and escape to our bedroom for five minutes of deep breathing and scripture meditation. (Just kidding, I stare into nothingness or look at my phone, which is kind of the same thing.) Of course, on the other side of the house, husband started to look at his phone, too, and the kids, ever the little geniuses, see their moment of escape and find me again. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” So I get up, wearing one toddler on each leg (I am very fashionable), yell at husband, and finish dinner. We pingpong back and forth between adorableness and madness until eventually everyone has been served dinner, rejected dinner, had dinner forced upon them, been bathed, pajama-ed, kissed, and sent to bed, and I collapse on the couch, fully intending to rest. Except I can't because now it's dark outside, and I'm excited. I am no longer Trunchbull. I am Giselle from Enchanted, and I am singing to forest creatures. This night holds possibility! What could I do with all this fun free time? GISELLE, NO. You will stay up all night and then be tired tomorrow, too. Just sit. Except I need to clean up really quick, and then I'll sit. So I clean a bit (just a bit, I'm not completely insane), and for the first time all day, I feel productive. This gets me jazzed. “OH NO I’M GETTING JAZZED,” I say to my husband. “Do not get jazzed,” he says. I ignore the jazz, and light a candle. I will relax! But this candle smells so good an looks so cozy. “I LOVE THIS CANDLE!” I proclaim. “No, Caroline,” husband says. “You are getting jazzed. You always get jazzed.” “I can't help it,” I say. “I cannot stop the jazz. I feel the jazz deep in my bones.”

And then we're doomed. I get hyper and joke with him too much and he has to run away. I write something ridiculous (this), I paint something unnecessary, I pin everything Pinterest has to offer, mainly pictures of pink Christmas trees. And also I really want a white Christmas tree. “CAN I HAVE A WHITE CHRISTMAS TREE?” I yell to husband, who is in the other room, attempting to escape me. But my toddlers have taught me perseverance, and I turn into the 30-year-old version of them: Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke. What are you doing? Are you mad at me? Do you like me? What show is this? Is it good? I hate zombies. Do you like white Christmas trees? Don't you think you have too many t-shirts? Can I throw some of them out? Will you read this thing I wrote and tell me if it's weird?

He walks away but I chase him with my laptop. He makes a snack. I continue: I’ll make nachos if you want! I am so into nachos now. Have I told you about the nachos? Can we talk about your peanut butter and jelly sandwich making strategy because I have a few pointers, and also do you think it will help our marriage if I buy you your own jug of milk so that I don’t become enraged when you drink straight out of the gallon?

I begin sixteen projects, some necessary work or ministry related things, some not even close, research at least one bizarre historical figure or superstalk someone I barely know, until eventually I am finally tired and therefore grumpy. I sit around and complain for a while that I’m too tired to get ready for bed, but I finally summon the energy. It's after midnight when I finally fall into bed, and I inevitably start feeling stressed about how tired I will be tomorrow, which tempts me to make a list of all the things I need to remember to do tomorrow, but no, no, owl Caroline! Just rest, do not make lists! The self-lecturing makes it hard to fall asleep, but eventually I do, mainly because I stole my husband’s pillow, and his is much, much better than mine. “Tomorrow I will buy a good pillow for me,” I think, adding that to tomorrow's to-do list, which I wasn't supposed to do but did anyway.

I wake up the next morning with a jazz hangover. “I will not do that again tonight,” I say. “I will not get jazzed.”

(But I do. I always do.)

Written by a jazzed Caroline, at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. Whoo whoo!

The God Who Sees Me

Originally posted on my old blog in March 2014. Sweet baby girl Adelaide is now 2.5 years old.

Well, two weeks ago, I had a baby. And the entire thing makes me giddy, and I take one thousand pictures of her a day. Sometimes I post a picture or two (or five…) of her, and I absolutely love being able to share that sweet face. But every time I do, I hear a little soft whisper. It reminds me that even though everyone loves a picture of a soft, squishy baby, it’s a hard thing to see sometimes. Because for some people, that tiny little bundle feels like a slap in the face, a reminder of the thing that hasn’t happened, the thing you’ve prayed for, but the prayers feel like they smack into the ceiling and refuse to go any higher.

My husband and I had a hard time getting pregnant. It wasn’t the years-long struggle that other people have endured—dear God, please comfort those precious couples—but it was hard for us. There were tears and doctor’s appointments and tests and medicine, and then there was the month that the medicine didn’t work. They said, “Well, we’ll have to try something else.” And again I felt my heart drop to my feet. Because trying to have a baby isn’t the kind of endeavor where you progress. It’s pass/fail every month, and sometimes the fail stings a lot more deeply than you think. Because this is your family you are fighting for, and even when you don’t know your family yet, you still have that deep desire to hold them close. So when you see other people announcing a pregnancy or posting pictures of a perfect sleeping newborn, you feel slighted. Sad. Sometimes angry.

But that was the month—the month where the medicine didn’t work—I found out I was pregnant. Cautiously and fearfully, I walked outside and called the doctor’s office. Can I trust this test? Am I allowed to be excited? The nurse said, “Congratulations!” and I cried in the middle of the street. And then these words leapt into my mind, “You are the God who sees me” (Genesis 16:13). God had seen my tears, and he knew my hurt. I wondered why I ever questioned it. Perspective is easy once the prayer is answered, I realized. Lord, strengthen my faith.

The doctor said, “Well I can’t explain it, but the proof is in the pudding.” But I realized that I could explain it. It’s so like God to give me a baby the one month that science said it was impossible. He likes to do things we can't explain. He likes to remind us that life is in his hands, not ours. We call it “birth control” and subconsciously develop the belief that having children is up to us, but it’s not.

And that’s when God really began to work in my heart. My entire pregnancy I battled more fear than I ever had in my entire life. Would God give me this baby just to take her away? At one point while singing at church, after hearing multiple prayer requests for women who had endured miscarriages—God, please wrap your arms around those dear women; heal their wounded hearts!—the fear overwhelmed me, and I had to let the microphone fall to my side and let the tears fall. It wasn’t the time to sing. It was the time to be held. And God held me with lyrics I still sing to myself in moments of hopelessness:

“There’s no life apart from you.” 
(“Lay Me Down” by Chris Tomlin)

“I know who goes before me
I know who stands behind
The God of Angel’s Armies
Is always by my side” 
(“Whom Shall I Fear” by Chris Tomlin)

“All of my life
In every season
You are still God
I have a reason to sing
I have a reason to worship” 
(“Desert Song” by Hillsong United)

I had to sing these lyrics to myself through every scary moment—the fifteen days she was overdue where I worried my body was failing her (“You are not normal,” a voice whispered), the week of contractions where I worried if she was okay (“God will take her away,” it whispered), the days I battled infection and was hospitalized when she was a week old (“You can’t provide what she needs,” I heard). I had to cling with everything I had to Isaiah 26:3, which says, “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Caroline, focus on HIM, and you can have peace.

The lesson is this:

God is the CREATOR and SUSTAINER of life. 
No breath is without his permission, 
No heartbeat without his blessing. 
Life is in His hands.
He knows what’s ahead, 
He knows what’s behind, 
and He provides.

There’s a verse that people always use to celebrate the birth of a child: “I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him” (1 Samuel 1:27). It’s a beautiful verse that is dear to my heart because it’s my story. But the next verse is the one I walk in when I’m afraid: “Now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord” (1 Samuel 1:28).

Adelaide belongs to God more than she will ever belong to me. She is his more than she will ever be mine. I can trust God with her because he loves her more dearly that I can ever imagine. She is his masterpiece—as if I could ever take credit for something so wonderful. (Seriously, she’s really cute.)

I wrestle with fear all the time, just like those days when we were struggling to conceive. The illusion of control is a hard pill to swallow. I have to give my family back to God over and over again. So this is my mantra: “Now I give Adelaide to the Lord. For her whole life she will be given over to the Lord.”

I can trust God with Adelaide. I can trust God with my family. And for the times when I fall short, I thank God for 2 Timothy 2:13: “If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot disown himself.”

Sweet friend,
Wherever you are in your life, you can trust God. 
He knows where you’re going, and he knows where you’ve been. 
He hears you, he sees your tears. 
You are seen.


A video about our story was shown at our church the Sunday before I wrote this post, and the way a few people responded made me realize the value in being honest about the hard things we go through, and that has been my commissioning ever since. You can watch the video here.

To the Young Ones

“Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, and in purity.” 1 Timothy 4:12

To some, we are kids: foolish, reckless, unsteady. 

But that’s not what we are. Don’t let them say that.

Are we sinners? Yes. (But this has nothing to do with age, and we can’t forget that.)

Yes, we are most definitely sinners. I think we’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who is not. But do you know what else we are? We are example-setters. 

Young ones—you are called to this, and you must not let yourself be characterized by anything less. We are to set an example for all those who follow Jesus—whether young or old. The way we talk, the way we act, the way we treat one another, the way we follow Jesus, the way we guard against anything that dishonors God—we do these things in our youth, and if we are faithful, we will still be doing them as the skin around our eyes begins to crinkle and our joints begin to creak.

We will not neglect the gifts we have (1 Timothy 4:14), but instead will practice them, immerse ourselves in them (v. 15), keeping a close watch on ourselves and on the scriptures (v. 16), ready to show ourselves approved (2 Timothy 2:15).

Young ones—if you write, write for the glory of God no matter who prefers that you would shut up. If you speak, speak for the glory of God no matter who prefers your silence. You are not too young to do these things—not if you are seeking the Lord’s wisdom rather than your own.

Does Jesus’ blood not cover the sins of youth as well as the sins of the elderly? Does God’s voice not speak just as loudly to young ears as to the ears of the old? Does the Holy Spirit not dwell just as fully inside young hearts as in the hearts of the old?

God has always had a soft spot for youth: He told the little children to come, said that the kingdom of heaven belonged to them. He built his church and changed the world with a troupe of men who were probably in their twenties. He sent his son through the womb of a teenage mother, and he saved the world through the death and resurrection of 33-year-old Jesus.

Young ones—do not let anyone look down on you because you are young. You ARE the church, not just attenders of the church. People say you are the next generation, but you are THIS generation. Your time is now, not later. Your kind fills the scriptures, and Jesus fills your hearts. You are called to set an example, and this is fully within your God-given capability. Show us how to live for Him. We need you.

For the Birds

Hi, Birds.

We need to talk. I have thought for years that I was most afraid of heights and Anne Frank and Nazis and snakes and Amelia Earhart and the people that run carnival rides. But that's because I had never seen that many of you up close. In most of our encounters, you’ve just been sort of flying around tweeting (how tech-savvy!) and being red or whatever, and that was charming and pleasant, and plus you helped wring out Cinderella’s big yellow sponge and sat on Snow White’s finger to sing a duet, and that’s all quite lovely. Yay, birds! Aren’t you quaint!

Except—NO YOU AREN’T. You have transformed from your flittering cartoonish cuteness into feathered fiends who want to peck out my eyes. I KNOW YOU WANT TO PECK OUT MY EYES!!

Let’s start with the worst of you: the ostrich, obviously. You are supposed to be cute, quirky, silly creatures, but the stuffed animals at Anthropologie have grievously mislead us. This summer we decided to do a cute thing and go to a local safari park, and the lady at the entrance is very casual like, "Here are your buckets of feed and keep the windows rolled up or the ostriches will peck the babies and have fun," and we're like, "Haha, okay! What an adorable activity!" and then we drive in and suddenly everywhere there are OSTRICHES, and they are looking at me right in the face, and in their eyes I see SATAN HIMSELF. Because, seriously birds, ostriches have RED EYES, and this is not okay. THEY ARE RED. RED!!!!!!!!! And they looked at me with wide open beaks and unblinking red eyes, and I can tell that the lady was not joking around about them pecking babies and also that they DEFINITELY want to suck my soul out of my body like in Hocus Pocus. This is when I realized: Ostriches are way, way, way worse than carnies. Obviously, I cried/hyperventilated/screamed the entire time while my husband laughed because probably an ostrich grabbed his soul, and it made him forget how to act like a kind human. Or something.

And then on our way to the beach a month ago, we stopped at a quaint petting zoo to let our 2.5-year-old daughter pet the llama and wave to the goat, and then suddenly my brain siren goes off: ALERT ALERT, THIS IS NO LONGER QUAINT! I REPEAT, NO LONGER QUAINT. Yeah, there’s an ostrich on the scene, and I witness him PECK ANOTHER LITTLE GIRL RIGHT ON THE ARM, and her mom didn’t even care. The little girl cried, the mom shrugged, and I nearly threw up. Then a parrot says, “Goodbye now!” and I’m like NOT NOW PARROT ARE YOU INSANE and BYE GIRL, BYE. We haul babies out of there, and I eat like 600 Oreos to recover. 

Oh, but birds, you did not stop with the ostriches and that horrible parrot. Two days ago I thought I was being neurotic (it happens) because I kept hearing a strange pecking sound. I brush it off, like “hey Caroline, it’s fine. You are having ostrich PTSD.” Then I go into our bedroom, and there you are BIRDS, pecking on the bedroom window like you need to get in and take my soul. I do the little wiggle dance that I do when I’m feeling creepy-crawly, and I shut the door and forbid anyone from going in the master bedroom. Oh, but you are determined, birds. You start pecking on the front room window, and when my husband comes home, he says there’s one of you pecking on the van window. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND, BIRDS?! The van?! The love of my life?! Leave Jean Claude Van Damme alone!

Then he tells me something else: There’s a weird purple goo all over the driver’s window. It’s a pretty color, and it reminds me that at one point in my life I cared about and could articulate the difference between magenta and fuchsia. I dwell on this for a second and then notice the same purple goo on the front window. And the bedroom window. What kind of devil bird magic is this?! “ALFRED HITCHCOCK, I KNOW YOU ARE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE,” I shout to no one, but I can’t find him. I do the creepy-crawly wiggle dance and try to focus on something else, like cookies. You are driving me to eat a lot of cookies, birds.

The babies and the cookies and I head back to the playroom to read books and play with blocks and forget about birds and whatnot. I look up and spot a tiny purple dot on the playroom window. “Is that…?” I start to say, and then BAM!—a little bird head pops up into the window and starts to peck. I scream, and it makes a baby cry. THANKS A LOT, BIRDS.

And now, birds, right this very second, you are zooming around my yard like you are possessed by tiny bird demons. You are totally freaking out and one of you is ping-ponging his weird bird bod back and forth in the carport and RUINING MY LIFE.

What is happening? My house has an adorable yellow door and a yard gnome, and you are turning all of it into a horror movie. We are like the first scene of Law & Order: Birds Edition over here, where life is happy and normal until there’s some purple goo and suddenly everything becomes dark and terrifying. PLUS I KEEP TYPING IN ALL CAPS AND USING A ZILLION EXCLAMATION POINTS AND THIS IS YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!

You are the absolute worst.

On Jesus and Slut-Shaming

Are you reading this because the word “slut” is in the title? (Wondering if I should retitle all of the stuff I write? Just kidding.)

What is it about that word that jars us? It’s truly awful—crude, demeaning. The kind of word that makes you forget that someone is an actual person, a soul with skin. I know some people who will not like that I used that word, will not like the way that the black letters affixed on a white screen causes their teeth to clinch. 

But I have something to say about the clinched teeth—that sometimes it’s a little out of whack. Like the way we viscerally react to the word “slut," yet we can treat someone or witness the treatment of someone as the living representation of that word and be pretty unaffected. Or worse, we lean into the conversation a bit: “She wore what?” “She did that?” Or perhaps we aren’t viewing a woman as a slut—perhaps we demean her personhood in other ways. We just think she’s inconsequential. Silly. Overly emotional. Maybe that other jarring word that starts with a “b” and only ever applies to women. 

I’m taking us into some choppy waters, and I’m going to go ahead and admit that I am not qualified to write this. You may want to get out of my boat. I do not have a vast knowledge of women’s issues, just a collection of stories and a heart that longs to protect women, to preach their worth, to invest in their knowledge of and love for God. 

One of the reasons I love to study the Bible: Over and over again I am brought to tears when I see the way that Jesus treats women. When the other men in the scenario are ignoring, judging, or demeaning women, Jesus draws women into meaningful conversation, using words full of gentleness, not condescension, fully acknowledging their person-ness in a society that loves to deny it (John 4). He speaks up for them when others are shaming them (Luke 7). He warns that indulging sexual thoughts about women, as if their bodies are available for mental ownership and degradation, is every bit as destructive and sinful as adultery (Matthew 5:28). 

“Don’t look at her like that,” he seems to warn. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he seems to caution.

He wasn’t supposed to be talking to her—“They marveled that he was talking with a woman” John 4:27.

He wasn’t supposed to let her near him—“If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner” Luke 7:39.

And yet he did. The world pushed away what he pulled close, and it did not go unnoticed. His love evoked a strange new strength and dignity from them. In his eyes, they were not silly. In his eyes, they were not sluts. In his eyes, they were not drama queens. They were just loved. And when someone looks at you like that, speaks to you like that, speaks up for you like that, it changes you from the inside out. It makes you brave.

It seems like it’s the curse of women to look for love like that (Genesis 3). Maybe that’s why some of us have been labeled sluts—because we hoped that what we had to offer would inspire a man to love us forever. Maybe that’s why some of us have become angry and hardened—because we have become so weary and cynical of the search, so hurt by the violations. Maybe that’s why some of us have chosen to dive into the superficial—because things of meaning are too painful, too difficult.

But we were looking at the wrong men. There are certainly many wonderful men out there, men that are a lot like Jesus (marry one like that), but none of them are Jesus. He’s the only one who can love us like that. It’s the kind of love that brushes away tears, that tucks flowers into our hair, that clothes us in a white dress, even though we don’t qualify for the color. And yet, we step out, with that special strength and dignity that comes from being totally unqualified yet loved all the more. And we walk forward, to the one who unfailingly loves us, in that white dress and make this promise: I will always follow you. I am always yours.

And so the women—the silly ones, the sluts, the drama queens—they gathered at his feet as he was being crucified (Matthew 27:55). Most of his disciples had fled, but they stayed, faithful through his most painful moments, ministering with nearness despite certain fear and darkness, weeping over the brutality.

They stayed because he spoke up for them when others debated their worth. Because he was gentle when the world was harsh. Because he spoke words of peace when the world spoke words of violation.

Praise God for the woman who stays, who ministers with nearness, who weeps when she sees pain! Let us not speak a word against her. She is not silly. She is not a slut. She is not dramatic. She is His. How beautiful and brave is the woman whose sin the Lord will not count against her! "Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame." Psalm 34:5

And if she is not His? Surely it goes without saying: Let us not speak a word against her. We must be gentle as he is gentle. We must defend her as he does. Perhaps it’s through us that many hurting, defamed women will be able to finally rest in the love and kindness for which her soul aches. Dear one, “come out of hiding, you’re safe here with me. There’s no need to cover what I already see” (Steffany Gretzinger, “Out of Hiding”).

Praise God for His kindness to us, for his love for women! Even when the world forgets it, he could not—that he created us to be image bearers, too.