Get wrapped up in His love.
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Katie SwiftPHOTOGRAPHERToday I went to Starbucks to waste my daily three dollars on a drink and sanity.
A car of three teenage girls tried to cut in front of me but I wasn’t having it.
They gave me dirty looks and pulled around behind me.
I was praying for one of them to get out and say something.
I had all three kids in the van.
They were whining for cookies and screaming for unwanted feet on the seat.
We had just left Chuck -E -Cheese.
I was in the perfect mindset for an all out brawl in the Starbucks parking lot.
Please God, I thought, let today be the day.
These three spoiled brats had it coming to them.
The teenage girls I mean.
But the bible and all that stuff about loving your enemies got the best of me.
I remembered my angelic husband telling me a story about a grumpy old man at Burger King.
The man was waiting in the car behind Josh and got impatient.
I can’t imagine why.
My husband is Swift, but nothing he does is.
So the man, most likely a long lost cousin of mine, started cussing and yelling at Josh to hurry up.
My husband took his time to the first window and than proceeded to buy the man breakfast.
The man was still cussing as he drove out of the parking lot.
My husband just smiled and waved.
And stories like that are the reason I married Josh.
He is so good.
And I want to be like him.
So I bought the dirty looks behind me their lattes and I headed to Wal-Mart.
If there is one place that I love to take my children it is not Wal-Mart.
It is Bill’s donuts.
If you are ever lucky enough to catch me and my three beautiful offspring at Bill’s, you will be so impressed.
My kids are amazing.
They say please. They say thank you.
They sit and spin so darling on those little circle stools.
They make endearing conversation with the elderly regulars.
The workers ooh and ahh over them.
The children gobble up their mammoth, sugar glazed, deep-fried, doughy, dough donuts.
And then we leave.
My kids are so well-behaved at the donut shop.
But Wal-Mart-
Wal-Mart with my three kids is like going to battle.
A battle that I can never win. And yet I continue to wage war.
War for my children’s hearts to grow larger than their eyes.
For their character to grow stronger than their knowledge of how to get to the next level.
For their resourcefulness to outweigh their boredom.
I fight for their creativity and their capability to live with purpose.
I want them to know that life is about more than being entertained.
I wage war against the power of meaninglessness.
I am bold and fierce and I’ve got the scars to prove it.
I said no.
No to that thirty dollar stuffed Lightning Mcqueen car that will end up in the back of the closet.
No because I am striking the Pixar people who hate parents.
Who charge insane amounts for all things “Cars” just because they can.
I said no.
No to that ginormous doll that creeps me out because only in America are babies that big.
No to paying six dollars for that greeting card that plays the chicken dance when you open it.
No because a little rectangle that plays that song over and over again is like another version of hell.
I said no.
And I have the scars to prove it.
In the checkout line, my three year old screaming and snotting and trying to climb out.
My four year old running away from me into carts and old, angry mothers who’ve forgotten what it’s like.
My six year old arguing economics like he’s the president of America.
Like all you need to do is go to the bank and they’ll give you money.
I said no.
But I don’t really want to.
I want to raise the white flag in surrender.
I want to go to Bills and eat sugar dough for the rest of our lives.
I want to be the nice, fun, easy-going, happy mom.
I am tired of being the enemy.
But instead I drive home with three ungrateful children, and turn the music up and over their complaints.
I try to drown them out along with the feeling I am always trying to avoid.
I don’t like my children.
They are nasty, dirty, clingy, spoiled, rude, selfish little leeches sucking me dry.
Something is seriously wrong with them.
Or me.
When Josh pulls in the driveway Savannah runs out to meet him and he almost runs her over.
He can tell by the look in my eye where I stand. Where he stands. He hugs me.
Tells me he can’t imagine what my days been like.
I tell him congratulations. He’s finally figured out the correct response.
And then we get the mail and go inside.
And we find ourselves a letter from our son David.
In the letter, he tells us all the things he is thankful for. Something his teacher had him do.
But it feels like something God had him do.
Like God knows what my day was like. Like He has a heart for moms like me.
He knew that I just needed a little thanksgiving.
A little proof that I am not the enemy, I am the mom who is choosing her battles.
Some battles are worth fighting.
Some are worth lattes.
And too many donuts will make you fat…
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Everything I need to know about taking great family pictures I can learn from Jenny.
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Family is who we hang up in our hallways.
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The faces we want to see on our way to the kitchen.
We collect our time together in rectangles.
Find our lost loved ones in frames.
Flashed out and faded.
Awkward poses.
Cheesy smiles.
The picture hardly matters.
It’s the people that do.
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Read more musings
I was driving down Stroop the other day when I remembered a time in my life that I thought I had forgotten.
I was around 19 years old and I wrestled with depression, an eating disorder and my Nanny had just died.
I use to take power walks around the neightborhood to make myself feel better after binging on boxes of cereal.
This one time in particular though, I was walking less powerfully and more aimlessly.
And I wondered at all the tiny houses that lined the street.
I longed to know who lived inside of them and if they ever felt the way I was feeling.
I had the strangest and strongest desire to go knock on on of those doors-
maybe if I asked they would let me in, they might even offer me a cup of coffee.
Desperate.
Trapped inside myself.
On the outside looking in and on the inside looking out, I was a door without a handle.
It’s kind of what hopelessness feels like.
And I think it’s where people go to kill themselves.
I was driving down Stroop forgetting the time but remembering the feeling.
I never killed myself because I didn’t have to.
I realized something on those powerless power walks that saved my life.
I was already dead.
And Someone else was living my life for me.
The revelation came as sacred as a sidewalk and as supernatural as a walk down the street.
I found that though I couldn’t go on, my feet kept pushing me forward.
Though my body was heavy with depression, my lungs were light with air.
My eyes smoked with regret, but my vision was on the future.
I was listening to that same old loop but I was singing out a new song.
Hands numb. Heart reaching.
My soul a graveyard but my spirit dry bones dancing.
I was dead but something inside of me was shouting out live!
Someone inside of me was saving my life so that I didn’t have to.
I was dead.
I had died over 2000 years ago. I was buried in a tomb with a man who loved me.
A man who was murdered for being God, for being Jesus, for being the one who saves.
For having the power to heal the sick-the power to forgive sinners.
And I rose again the day I believed that I was one.
But I had forgotten all this until I remembered.
I was dead.
But God wasn’t.
And I was never made to be a doorknob without a handle.
I was made to be a house where God can live.
And I am. I am temple.
And wherever I go, there He’ll be.
The revelation came as sacred as a sidewalk and as supernatural as a walk down the street.
My mother came over the other day right as I was lying the kids down for their naps.
She waited for me on the couch and when I finally sat down beside her,
she looked at me in a way she never had before.
She told me she was sorry.
I don’t remember if she grabbed me by the hands but it felt like she did.
Like she led me up to a dark, dusty place in her heart.
An attic filled with boxes of things from the past.
To the clunky projector,
regrets like old silent movies spinning over and over again in her mind.
We sat there together holding hands in our hearts and we watched.
See Katie, I lived my life like it was mine, and you kids were just along for the ride.
But what I know now is,
you were the ride.
My mother came over to tell me she was sorry, but I wanted to tell her thank you.
Because in her apology, in her honesty about her past, she was giving me a future.
She was giving me something that only a mother can.
Life.
The gift of right now.
All the little things that are happening are really the big things that are happening.
The place I am trying to get to is where I already am.
This is it.
This is the ride.
I don’t want to miss it…
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Last night Josh’s grandpa passed away.
His name was Frank.
His grandkids called him froggy.
He was a man obsessed with politics and peace and he wrote a children’s book.
He was a father of two boys and a whole lot of girls.
He was a kisser of cheeks and he lived right down the street from us.
He was a lot of things to a lot of people.
And there is much to be said of him, much to be remembered about his life.
But right now, I am remembering the time he came by to get his picture taken.
And I am remembering his smile.
And I am realizing, as I look at his grandson standing next to him, I don’t have to.
He lives on.
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Peace, love and joy to you Grandpa Froggy.
We’ll see you again soon.
Parenting is not a religion.
It is not a list of rules I can follow and be made righteous.
A library of books I can read and understand.
A way of life that can make my family more Holy.
It’s not about whether we homeschool or let our kids watch tv.
The nurturing mothers don’t all have food in the crockpot and crafts planned.
The respected fathers are not all detached and stern.
The good children are not always quiet and obedient.
Parenting is not a religion.
It’s a relationship.
It breathes and it grows and it changes.
It’s a tiny newborn, an awkward ten year old boy.
It’s a defiant two year old, a lovestruck teenage girl.
It’s moving away from us.
It’s coming in closer.
It changes more than it stays the same.
Parenting is not a religion.
Because the goal is not obedience.
The goal is trust.
And we find ourselves parenting when we find ourselves.
Our humanity.
Our tendency to get it wrong more than we get it right.
Our need for someone to please help.
Our reaching out.
Our reaching in.
The love we give is the love we have been given.
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My grandmother passed away. She was my father’s mother.
I didn’t know her very well.
The truth is, I have a whole family that I don’t know very well.
On the way to the funeral my big brother and I talked about our childhood.
We talked about how alone we felt, the way we were neglected.
How much we fought with each other, the violence we felt towards being abandoned.
We talked about the things we shouldn’t have seen, the ugliness of addiction,
about the family we never had.
We talked as parents of our own but we felt like children.
Nervous, uncertain, we prepared to greet a family of strangers.
The funeral home was a funeral home. Lots of curtains and wallpaper.
Made to feel like a home but who wants to live there?
The service was nice. It was closed casket and there were flowers.
There was an oval picture of her when she was young next to the casket.
She was pretty.
The man talked about her life and read letters that her children had written.
I listened as one who is searching for clues.
And I tried to remember.
I spent a few weeks with her one summer sometime around third grade.
I really liked her. Her name was Ruby and she was funny.
When she talked I liked to listen to the grittiness underneath her voice.
She was rough around the edges but soft in her eyes.
She had a phone in her kitchen with the longest, curly chord I have ever seen.
And she smelled like Merle Norman face cream.
And the food.
Chicken and dumplings, cherry strudel and coffee always percolating.
Velveeta slices, saltine crackers and pepsi.
I was in 8 year old heaven.
She wasn’t very religious and neither was I but I remember lying in bed in the guest room.
I remember singing prayers for what felt like hours.
I don’t know what I sang but I know how I felt.
Safe. Warm. Happy.
I could’ve lied there singing prayer-songs forever.
My grandmother was a good woman. And I know that she loved me.
But those few weeks in the summer somewhere around third grade is all I really have of her.
And as I sat there in that funeral home where nobody wants to live, I felt numb.
In a room full of family, a room full of strangers, I felt out of place.
But sitting there, at my grandmother’s funeral, squished up next to my big brothers beside me,
I felt something else too.
I felt pride.
In my big brothers, strong men, fathers with children whom they take to football practice.
In myself, a woman wearing a dress and combat boots, a mother of children, a singer of prayer songs.
And for the first time in a long time, I did not feel alone.
It was sad that my grandmother had died.
It was sad that we didn’t know her.
But it was a tragedy that she didn’t know us.
On the way home from the funeral my big brother and I talked about our childhood.
We talked about the times we stood up for each other.
The way we fought with each other did not compare with way we fought for each other.
We talked about my mother’s love and tenacity. How she kept us and wouldn’t let go.
And we realized that even though we have an entire family we don’t know, it doesn’t matter.
Because we have a family that we do know.
We have each other.
We talked as parents of our own but we felt like children.
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The older I get the longer the road becomes.
And can I look back.
And the paths that were winding, seem straighter.
The view that was clouded, seems clearer.
The directions that were daunting, so simple.
And it’s like it all makes sense.
And yet at the same time, I feel more lost than I ever did.
And yet at the same time, I don’t feel lost at all.
Because now that I see things as they are,
I can no longer see them as I wanted them to be.
And I can no longer be somebody that I am not.
Because looking back means that I’m not there anymore.
I’m just looking back.
And the older I get the longer the road becomes.
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My son David put it best,
He’s the light that never blows out…
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This Christmas,
Let Jesus fill all your dark places.
For me, growing up was a lot like the ocean.
I was born and raised in Florida and the salty air still hangs in my memories.
The waves were much bigger then.
I can still remember…
I am small and looking up.
I am anticipating that which is greater than me.
The foamy water breaks over and around me, swallowing me up.
Taking me in, carrying me out, cradling me in it’s arms.
I am a child.
And I can feel that. And it scares me.
Everything fits in cardboard boxes. We are moving again. I am the new girl.
But I don’t feel new. I just feel strange.
People are looking-
the neighbors, the teachers, the kids in my classes, the parents of the kids in my classes.
I am a little girl in a big place.
And their looking feels more like watching.
Their curiosity feels more like suspicion.
Their questions more like an investigation.
I am a criminal.
I have done nothing wrong, but I am wrong.
And they all know it.
Or so I think.
The waves were much bigger then.
But I grow and I stretch and I lengthen.
I dig my toes in the damp sand and stand tall.
I look up and anticipate that which is greater than me.
High school.
Boys. Friends. Am I good enough?
One boy. One best friend.
No.
The truth breaks over and around me, swallowing me up.
And I am drowning.
I am walking down the mile long hallway and I see them.
The teachers, the kids in my classes, the boyfriend, the best friend.
We are all underwater. And none of us know how to swim. We are all drowning.
We are all dead.
I look up at that which is greater than me.
Taking me in, carrying me out, cradling me in His arms.
I am a child. I am not a criminal. The answer is yes.
And I can feel that.
And I can float.
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There is something empowering about getting rid of toys.
It’s like a proclamation.
A declaration for my children and for myself.
A bold statement to all the advertisements, the billboards and the commercials that never shut-up.
We don’t need your stuff!
Your stuff does not make us happy.
Because the things you promise will bring us hours of fun,
only bring us hours of fighting and whining over whose turn it is until it gets broken.
And then we spend the majority of our days picking up the broken pieces of things-
sanitizing them, organizing them, keeping them contained,
that we rarely have enough time to sit down and actually play with each other.
We have too many things to worry about.
So I am taking a stand.
I am throwing away all the things that are wasting our time.
And it is amazing how much space we really have.
I am not sure if our house looks different or if I am just seeing our house differently.
And you’ll never believe it!
After I threw away most of the toys, the kids began to play better,
with each other and with the toys they got to keep.
And I am wondering if life is kind of like that.
The more we free ourselves from all the things that we think we need,
the more we can actually enjoy what we have been given.
And today we have been given trash bags…
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And today we have been given more than enough.
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I know it’s been a while since I’ve written.
I want you to know that it’s not personal. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you.
There is so much that I want to say.
I have met someone.
Ok well technically I met Him years ago and He’s known me since, like, forever.
But I am really getting to know Him now.
And I think the reason why is because I finally said yes.
I finally made myself available to Him.
And I am not talking about a pledge or a prayer or an altar call moment.
I am talking about a tangible, practical, get my kids in daycare for a few hours so I can really be with him moment.
I am talking about my busy life and the need to get alone with God.
The need to be in relationship with Him.
So every week He takes me for coffee. Sometimes He buys me breakfast too.
So far we’ve been to Bill’s Donuts for glazed pretzels, Central Perc for a window to watch the rain,
Boston Stoker’s for the best caramel latte I’ve had yet, Press for a grassroots cup of coffee,
and Butter Cafe for a food revelation.
We’ve also gone to places I’m not sure we were supposed to.
We’ve sat on top of an abandoned speaker in a parking lot filled with broken bottles.
We’ve found ourselves wondering in front of the old, out of business Wonder Bread Store on Wilmington Pike.
We snuck into the Fraze Pavillion stage a few weeks ago so that I could sing Him a song.
He wanted me to feel like a star. He knew that I needed the attention.
And He really is the best kind of audience.
So I tell Him all about my crazy new schemes.
And He tells me all about His.
I ask Him what I should do about these things that confuse me so much.
And He tells me stories. He sings me songs. He paints me pictures in the sky.
The other morning, He took me on a ride.
It was a rough one with the kids and I was feeling drained and numb.
I had so many things that I needed to get done.
Life was pressuring me.
I began to question these silly God dates.
Should I really be spending all this time and money on coffee and donuts with God?
God knows we’ve got bills to pay and childcare does not come cheap.
God knows that I have grocery shopping to do and laundry that never ends.
Maybe I was just being irresponsible and immature. Maybe I was just running from my responsibilities.
Maybe I was flaking out.
I needed a drink.
I was on my way to Boston Stoker’s for a latte when the Swell Season’s I Have Loved You Wrong came on.
And I had to keep driving.
If you’ve heard the song before, then you’ll understand why.
Forgive me Lover for I have sinned
For I have loved you wrong…
But this estranged organ in my chest
Still beats for you
It will not rest, so
Meet me in our secret place
When the time has come
I turned East and headed towards Feedwire.
Sometimes I need buildings and downtown Dayton. That morning I needed backroads and Bellbrook.
Rest your head in my lap
And I’ll lead you out of your own trap
And I’ll show you how much
You have missed through the
Time we weren’t right
And I began to cry. Because all at once I realized how very sad I was.
How alone I had made myself. How busy I had become.
How trapped I felt in my own life.
I turned onto Lower Bellbrook Road.
And as I kept driving, as I kept listening, I realized that without knowing it, I had been chasing the sun.
Literally.
As I cleared the top of the hill, the trees opened up and the sky did too.
And the sun was waiting for me.
Like a secret waiting to be told.
A road waiting to be travelled.
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A world waiting to be discovered.
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Like a creator waiting for me to come.
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God knows the bills need paid, the bellies need filling, and the laundry it never ends-
But He also knows the deeper need.
To be called. To answer. To be taken for a ride.
To chase the sun…
Is there anything better than pancakes in the morning?
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What else can summon us to the table tops?
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Fill us with joy and wonder?
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Make us lose our inhibitions?
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Is there anything better than pancakes in the morning?
Maybe…
When I was 12 years old my father showed up at our little house on Watervliet and I can’t remember why.
I must’ve said something to upset him though because he looked me straight in the eyes and said,
“You know Katie, you ain’t shit. You ain’t nothing but me and your mama put together.”
And the strange thing is that even at 12 years old, I knew he wasn’t talking to me.
In his younger years, my dad was a very talented man.
A drummer with a song that got played on the radio.
A personality and a face that stopped the room.
He was gonna be big.
He was gonna be somebody.
But somehow he had found himself in the living room in our little house on Watervliet.
Somehow he had found himself telling a 12 year old girl that she was nothing.
Somehow he had found himself.
And he was filled with anger and regret.
I think the first time I felt God’s presence was when I was about 5 years old.
I was on the swings at Indiatlantic elementary school.
And I was singing Madonna’s Like a Prayer with a kind of intensity and passion that only a child can have.
I was all by myself (as much as a 5 year old can be) but I just knew that someone was listening.
And to this day I just know that someone is listening.
So I sing. Loudly.
And when I think about that day when my dad came over to our little house on Watervliet,
it makes me want to sing even louder.
And it’s not because I am angry.
And it’s not because I want to prove him wrong about me.
I just want to prove him wrong about himself.
He is something. He does matter.
And though he never got big, he never became somebody, he was somebody all along.
He was my father.
And him and my mama put together made everything.
They made me.
They made me sing.
And I just know that someone is listening…
Has anyone ever really been convinced by a bumper sticker?
Or been changed by a church sign?
Can a facebook comment really be that profound?
Do I really need to take a stance?
Maybe I should just take a seat. Next to you. Relax.
Enjoy (turn the phone off).
And be convinced by your laughter.
Be changed by the sound that your voice makes.
Be inspired by your company…
Read more musings
I once was afraid of the dressing room, the things I could not fit into.
The lights, the mirrors, the mockery. A thousand girls made of magazines.
A thousand friends with knives in their hands. A thousand sisters, a thousand demands.
With shiny hair, poked out ribs and sunken in bellies. Staring, comparing they’d find me there and tell me:
You’re pretty girl but it’s not enough.
You’ll never be one of us.
I once was afraid of the dressing room, the things I could not fit into.
So I ran and I starved and I choked out the fat. I beat up the curves I made myself flat.
I stood in aisles for hours reading the backs of labels. I counted and controlled until I was no longer able.
Until I binged and I purged on tubs of whipped cream, peanut butter jars and late night tv.
With shiny hair, poked out ribs and sunken in bellies. Staring, swearing, they’d find me there and tell me:
You’re pathetic girl, give it up.
You’ll never be one of us.
I once was afraid of the dressing room, the things I could not fit into.
The lights, the mirrors, the mockery, all at once grew very tiring.
So I stopped and I stood and I stayed there awhile, with nothing to try on, without any style.
Naked, exposed, I looked rather plain. Nothing to fit into, nothing to attain.
Like a little girl I felt a need greater. For someone to know me. I felt a need for my creator.
With hair like the sun and fire in His belly. Caring, bearing, He found me there and helped me.
He didn’t say a word, He didn’t give commands. He just stood there with me and held me by the hand.
Doctrine, religion and theology have never made much sense to me.
But the day He came and took my hand is the way I understand.
I am the bride and He is the groom and I am no longer afraid of the dressing room.
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It was easy to see that cigarettes would kill me until I was nic’n for a smoke.
And to have a candy bar until I was afraid of food and the sickening compulsion to make myself throw it up later.
It was so easy to talk about how people are overmedicated until it was me who had fallen in the pit of depression
and Prozac was keeping me from falling any deeper.
It was easy to say that my kids would never act like that when I didn’t have children.
And to plan on homeschooling them until I actually had them and was counting down the days until they
started school so that I could breathe again.
And to think that being a good wife meant that I had to be quiet and meek and submissive
until I got married and had things to say and things to do.
It was easy to quote bible verses until I wrestled with doubt and needed more than words to save me.
To think that I had it all figured out until I realized that I didn’t.
To judge others until it was me who was being judged.
And I have been judged.
And I am not who I thought I should be. I am not even close.
I have been addicted and nic’n and purging and prozac’ing. And those children that you hear screaming are mine.
The only thing that comes easy to me now is grace.
And for this, I thank God.
I would have never known grace without first truly needing it.
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I think the hardest thing about life is death.
And I believe in Jesus, I believe in heaven.
I believe that someday I will see my Nanny and Papa again.
Cousin Joe, Uncle Jack, Marquis, and all the people.
And really I can’t imagine not seeing them again.
I don’t think I have enough faith to believe that.
But faith isn’t what makes death the hardest thing.
Because when you lose someone,
you’re not thinking about heaven and what you believe and whether or not you’ll see them again.
You’re not even thinking.
You’re just feeling.
My mother wrote a poem years ago about what grief feels like.
It’s called Melbourne Nights:
I want to talk about grief
And how it washes over you
in sharp splintered waves
Yet–that’s not it
Because it’s really a swell or tidal wave
that’s heading straight in to shore
But you’re the shore and
Being the shore
You have no where to go
So you stay put–a million flecks of sand
huddling and waiting for the final assault
that never comes and yet keeps coming
And your grainy heart
anticipates …
anticipates…
anticipates…
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The hardest thing about life is death because there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.
Like my mother said, it’s a wave.
You can never get over it.
You can only go through it.
I remember spending the weekend in the mental ward at Miami Valley Hospital. I was suicidal.
And really it wasn’t like I had plans to kill myself…I just didn’t want to live anymore. So my doctor asked if she could pray for me and than I was admitted.
The walls were padded and none of the doors had doorknobs. There was a man that walked the halls talking to himself and a girl that made loud, sexual noises by the phones. Then there were the lobby people who sat in front of the tv like zombies.
I’m sure there was some kind of counseling but I don’t remember. I just laid in my bed and read Harry Potter and ate graham crackers and then I went home.
I wish it was a cooler story and really I am still not sure of what the point of it was. Except that after spending the weekend in the mental ward, I wasn’t suicidal anymore.
I started to think maybe I had a lot to live for.
And sometimes when things get really hard, I think about those padded walls and doors without doorknobs and I thank God for my life. For the freedom He’s given me to live without walls and for the power and authority He’s given me to open my own doors…
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serving Springboro, Dayton, Cincinnati, Ohio & Beyond
katieswiftphotography@gmail.com
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