Author: Lindsey P. Brackett

When I'm not wrangling four kids and a middle school classroom, I sit on my back porch in the mountains and write southern fiction that's short and long. I believe in Jesus, library fines, supper at the table, the Edislow life, and strong coffee. Pretty much in that order.
motherhood · organizing

The Great Clothing Purge of 2013

Lindsey P. Brackett2 Comments

The other day I had this major meltdown over the grocery budget and trying to figure out how to buy diapers and paper towels and toilet paper and actual food with the amount we take out in cash every week.  And then when I had calmed down and was headed to the backyard for some reason or another, I had to pause and move aside the boxes of hand me downs blocking the door.

And I realized if there’s one way God has provided for us in excess, it’s in my children’s closets.

We’re often gifted hand me downs, love that, and I can rock a clearance or a consignment with the best of the money saving moms.  So if you look at how my kids dress, I wouldn’t imagine someone would think we ever struggle.

There are shirts from Justice and jeans from Gap and dresses from Children’s Place in that pile.  There are brand new winter boots and three winter coats and complete Gymboree outfits down to the hairbow. There are clothes to cover Amelia until first grade.  (fyi, she’s only three.)

When I finally got motivated to start sorting and purging, I was amazed at how much there was, and how something as simple as hand me downs could multiply into such a blessing.

I know I keep more than we need because I play the “what if” game in my mind.  What if one of them suddenly grows and nothing fits?  What if there’s a fire and all we have left is what’s been put in storage? What if we actually take a family vacation and I don’t want to do laundry?

What if I’m a hoarder of God’s blessings?

What if He wants me to bless someone else who struggles with day-to-day expenses but would be relieved to know clothing their baby girl can be crossed off that list?

So I went through all the girls’ clothes from size 2 to size 10.  I purged out items I love but they won’t wear. Items they say they like but never wear.  Items they don’t need multiples of and items that aren’t really our style.  I piled away items that weren’t good enough for consignment and took them to the local thrift store.  I separated the excess by size and then I hand-picked a bag of fabulous finds for a friend who needs to cross this worry off her list.  I gave it to her husband that afternoon, and still, there was so much left.  

I’ve got some others in mind to pass on to, and I’m sure I’ll consign a good bit and be grateful for the extra cash that puts in our pockets to offset the back-to-school expenses that will soon be upon us.

But, this fall I won’t have to buy jeans or long sleeve shirts or sweaters for any of them.  I can concentrate on new school shoes for the big girls, a raincoat for Madelynne since hers will pass to Annabelle, and they might get some new socks and underwear.  (Because, you know, some things don’t get passed.)

There’s relief in the simple realization that I don’t have to worry about where their next pair of jeans is coming from because the great God who paints skies and swirls fingerprints has already taken care of that one trite need for me.

Motivated by this post from The Purposeful Mom.  So how many clothes do you think kids really need?

faith · Margin Mom · motherhood

When the Signs are Telling You to Slow Down: My Search for Margin {Part 3}

Lindsey P. Brackett7 Comments

The attempts to slow me down were all around Saturday.  It was a busy day, certainly not a day into which any sort of margin had been built, and I was half-crazed trying to get everything done and everyone where they were supposed to be.

We did three birthday parties on Saturday.  Three birthday parties AND a family dinner at my grandparents’ home 45 minutes away.  It wasn’t chaotic, but it was busy.  So, so busy and I had so many errands and felt all day that I was racing the clock.  
And those signs to slow down just kept coming.
I had the two big girls in the van headed to the next county over for party #1.  Had to stop along the way for gifts and pry them away from Dollar Tree distractions.  We live in the country, folks.  Which means, at any time you are in a hurry, there will be a driver in front of you just cruising and enjoying the scenery.  
They don’t get too many looks at cows and chicken houses in other places, I reckon.
Got to the party.  Late.  Oh, well.  Good times, saw some old friends, kids on the waterslide in cloudy 70 degree weather, even though it’s July.  Loaded both of them and an extra up early to make it to party #2. Slow, slow, and slower trolled along in front and I tried to reign in the frustration.  Got back home, dropped one off there because the best thing I did all day was enlist the reinforcement of another mom to pick Annabelle up for party #3.  Hugged my baby.  Admired the work my husband was doing sanding our “new” kitchen table.  Secretly cursed myself for offering to be chauffeur today while he was home alone with napping baby.
Drove all the way back across the county (opposite direction from party #1) to deliver kids to party #2.  Stopped along the way to pick up an item I had bought off the local classifieds for Gus’s Christmas (look at me, planning ahead).  Madelynne was very excited to be in on the secret, but not so excited that we were half an hour late to the swim party.  Did I mention the gas light had been on since party #1 and while I don’t mind to push it to the limit, I was a little worried that today might have been too far.
Delivered her and friend to party, got gas, ran an errand, price matched groceries at Walmart, which didn’t have half of what I needed, got held up at the register with an unscannable coupon, finally made it back to pick her and friend up from party only 15 minutes late.  
Breathed deep.  Almost there.  Just had to drop off Madelynne’s friend, get home, reload, and we’d made dinner almost on time.  
Finally, there were no scenic cruisers impeding my drive and I was able to just get to my destination.  A little too quickly….because there was a cruiser of another kind waiting on the roadside when I cut over from the four lane to head back to town.  
I knew the moment I passed him and even though I hit the brakes to slow down, I watched him pull out behind me. Never in my life have I felt I deserved a ticket more.  I was speeding, and furthermore, I’d ignored every sign I’d been given all day that I needed to slow down.  
He was nice, and I guess I was too.  I admitted my guilt and when he asked if there was some emergency I was trying to get to, I just laughed and admitted to the emergency of motherhood: I had a to-do list and I was ready to be done.
He checked my license and registration, and then, praise Jesus for grace and mercy and understanding when it’s not deserved in the face of obvious guilt, he let me off with a verbal warning. 
You better believe I slowed down after that.  And you better believe that it is lesson I need to learn over and over again.  
The run-around may get you from place to place, but the slow down?  It gets you there with an idea of what you’ve seen along the way.
And by the way, Madelynne’s friend I had in the car?  Her mom forgave me too.  How’s your search for margin?  Any signs you need to slow down?

Linking up with these lovely ladies.  Check it out.

GraceLaced Mondays

TheBetterMom.com
faith · Friends · reflections · writing

How A Community Loves #ardenpiper

Lindsey P. BrackettLeave a comment
photo courtesy of Abigail Washington
Recently, I have truly realized how blessed my family is to have become part of this community of people who share zipcodes and drive-thrus and festivals and one another’s lives in a way that means more than just simple local residence.

An already emotionally heightened time of change, this past month has reminded me over and over that we are only gifted one day at a time.  In May’s first few weeks, I was part of those who strove to bring comfort when sorrow came.  Then, in its last, I was on the receiving end of that comfort when my husband was hospitalized for a heart condition.  Through it all, I saw this community love one another in amazing ways.

Dictionary.com may define community as a social group of any size whose members reside in a specific locality, share government, and often have a common cultural and historical heritage. But it takes more than a physical location to compel us to hold one another when tragedy abounds.  It takes more than a sharing of government to bring us to our knees so that those mourning might be covered over in unceasing prayer.  It takes more than cultural heritage to bring meals after births and sickness and deaths or to rock babies in a nursery so parents can attend another baby’s funeral.

For me, the past few weeks have proven that community happens when a simple ordinary act becomes an extraordinary act of love.

I felt this in the hospital when people showed up to simply sit or buy me a cup of coffee and talk about anything besides what was happening.  But the most amazing act of community I have seen happened on the morning of Arden Washington’s funeral when the word went out we should paint our nails blue in memory of her beautiful blue eyes. Social media picked up the feed, and our little community of mothers loving one another spread all over this county and beyond.  It was so simple.  Blue nail polish, that’s all.  But it was a tangible communication of love and support.  It was evidence of community.

That night, I gathered my daughters close and painted nails and toes a shade of Caribbean blue. I let them stay up past bedtime, and we whispered prayers for our friends and talked about how Arden’s blue eyes are looking at Jesus now.

Sometimes there are no words.  For days, I had struggled to find some elusive phrase to offer comfort, but in the end, there were none.  What there was, instead, was a bottle of blue polish and a community that loves.

Sometimes community is a neighbor who cuts the grass when you can’t. Sometimes it’s extra car seats so there’s room for just one more.  Sometimes it’s the ER doctor who hugs you and knows your name because you taught his children. Sometimes it’s the local florist who knows exactly the perfect shade of pink hydrangea to send.

Sometimes it is one simple shared act of extraordinary love.

This post originally appeared in my community column on June 7, 2013 in The Northeast Georgian.