Women's lives are made up of circles. (Men's lives might be, too, but I'm not a man so I can't testify.) We have a family circle, a close friends circle, a church circle, a work circle, maybe a gym circle or a hobby circle. With the advent of the internet, we now have email circles and Facebook circles and blogging circles and LinkedIn circles, too. Those circles are precious and important to our mental, emotional, and spiritual health.

“I think that is one reason why women live longer than men. Friendship between women is different than friendship between men. We talk about different things. We delve deep. We go under, even if we haven’t seen each other for years. There are hormones that are released from women to other women that are healthy and do away with the stress hormones … It’s my women friends that keep starch in my spine and without them, I don’t know where I would be. We have to just hang together and help each other.” —Jane Fonda, Vanity Fair, January 2015

Eight years ago I was invited to join a circle of women who blogged together, focused on our mutual goal of becoming published inspirational authors. Through email and blogging, those women became my friends and my sisters in spirit. They were (are) my prayer partners, my encouragers, and sometimes my commiserators. I love them.
Shortly after my hysterectomy, which followed close on the heels of an uncomfortable move and a dramatic change in lifestyle, I was welcomed into a circle of women who gathered weekly to practice Reiki. We were all from different backgrounds, religions, generations, and every other socio-political-economic-educational difference you can imagine. And those women became my friends, my sisters in spirit. Healing came to me through their hands, physically and emotionally and spiritually. They offered love unconditionally, and I needed that. I love them.

“Women understand. We may share experiences, make jokes, paint pictures, and describe humiliations that mean nothing to men, but women understand. The odd thing about these deep and personal connections of women is that they often ignore barriers of age, economics, worldly experience, race, culture — all the barriers that, in male or mixed society, had seemed so difficult to cross.” —Gloria Steinem, New York Magazine, December 1971 

Tonight I had the privilege (and I count it a privilege) of being included in a women's new moon circle. Coming together on the new moon, creating a sacred space of trust and inclusion, setting aside those things that are holding us back and establishing positive intentions for the month ahead, was both uncomfortable and strangely familiar. Again, I found myself in a room of women from all different backgrounds and stories and beliefs. And again, I found myself in a circle of women with each other's best interests at heart.
Women in modern culture spend a great majority of their lives in comparison and judgment and competition with one another, and we are weakened because of it. The circles we build together (no matter how awkward and uncomfortable the building process is... I always feel like an oversharing dork afterward) are building blocks for the future. Not just for ourselves, but for our children, for our society, and for civilization.
Our ancestors understood this. Despite living in eras when women were more oppressed and endangered and vulnerable than we can imagine, women came together to encourage and support and strengthen one another. They did it in new moon rituals, in prayer groups, in quilting bees, and in a thousand other ways. We need to continue doing that. We need to hold one another up, not tear each other down. We are stronger together than we are apart.

"Anytime women come together with a collective intention, it's a powerful thing. Whether it's sitting down making a quilt, in a kitchen preparing a meal, in a club reading the same book, or around the table playing cards, or planning a birthday party, when women come together with a collective intention, magic happens."~Phylicia Rashad

I ditched another women's conference. (Cue Brittney Spears' pesky earworm. Click the link if you have no idea what I'm talking about... Oops, I did it again.)
I know, I know... (and there's no point in telling me how incredible it was now that it's over, unless you WANT to induce guilt and condemnation) ...the conference was wonderful, the messages were life-altering, the fellowship notable, the ministry led by the Spirit. I'm happy for you. Really, I am! I'm glad you were blessed, glad you were ministered to, glad you enjoyed the weekend's festivities.
So why didn't I attend (again)? It's not because I dislike the event itself, or those who organized it, or those attending. It's not because I doubt the value or power of the Word that was shared. For the most part, it's because I can no longer endure the friendly questioning, the concerned looks, or the pitying glances. It's fairly easy to slip in and out of a regular church service without running the gauntlet of greeters. A women's conference? No such luck.
One year I went so far as to attend wearing a wig. I was desperate for anonymity. Sitting in the back row was such a relief I nearly jumped for joy when I realized no one had spotted me. I didn't want to be recognized as a PW, didn't want to answer anyone's questions about how things were going in our church plant, didn't want to plaster the phony smile on my face I so often found myself compelled to wear in my PW role.
This year, no longer a PW, my reasons for avoiding the conference were slightly different. I didn't want to attend because I'm tired of dealing with rumors that my husband and I are divorced (we're not), that we're "quitters" and "failures" at ministry (maybe we are... does that mean we deserve judgement and rebuke from those who have no idea what we experienced in our 14 years of pastoring a church plant in a tiny town that's well-known for "eating its pastors for lunch"?), that we're backslidden (again, if we are, is gossiping about us the correct "Christian" response?).
Nor do I want to explain (again) the fact we turned our church plant over to the couple who probably should have taken it YEARS ago, before we fell victim to ministerial burn-out. Nor do I want to explain that we were, after a year of staying on at the church we planted and trying to "make it work," forced by financial circumstances into a foreclosure on our home, the loss of my husband's business, and moving back in with my parents at the age of 42. (I thank God there are two houses on the property they've worked so hard to own, or the awkwardness and embarrassment would be overwhelming.)
My husband is "doing his own thing" now... finding new and creative ways to minister the Gospel of Christ to those who've been rejected and cast aside by the average churchgoer because of lifestyle, appearance, or background. I pray he will find the soul satisfaction that comes from fulfilling the call of God that's on his life.
My children are, perhaps, more church-burned than I am, and that hurts worse than anything else. In spite of our efforts to guard them, they suffered the same wounds, rejections, and sorrows we did, without the benefit of age and experience to soften the blows. They're bitter, angry, resentful, and wary. I'm sure we could have prevented this, if we'd known how, but we were ignorant. All I can do now is pray for them.
For myself, I haven't come to a conclusion... Shall I continue to attend church alone, slipping in late and out early to avoid people? For now, I'm well aware that I'm too broken to be of use in the local church, that my attendance on Sunday morning is incredibly, horribly selfish in that I'm just seeking healing, seeking answers, seeking peace for myself.
Perhaps I just need time to mend.
Sheesh. How long does mending take?
Worse, will there be a place for me if and when the mending is complete, regardless of what changes have occurred in me during the process?
It's quite the conundrum.  
For now, I will continue to pray, continue to take comfort in the Scriptures, continue to listen for the voice of my Savior speaking to me.
And that will have to be enough.

My P for a2z could have been PAT, for my hubby, or procrastination, purpose, presence; even popcorn or peanuts or personality. Instead I've opted to venture out on a hormonal limb... my P is for PREMENSTRUAL. (If you wish to run away screaming now, go ahead. No hard feelings.)

I didn't even realize I'd developed a problem until I had baby #3 (the one who started his senior year in high school this week).
Several months after his birth I found myself sitting on the living room floor, rocking and sobbing, unable to remember my own name. Certifiable? In a former generation, probably. I was out of control enough to scare myself, anyway.

If your hubby looks like this guy some days...

From month to month my symptoms ebbed and flowed... confusion, depression, fits of rage, uncontrollable anger, crying jags, severe panic attacks, forgetfulness, exhaustion, nausea, headaches, stomach trouble, nightmares. For at least a week out of every month I was convinced my husband's head was entirely too small for his neck and my children were trolls. No matter how much I cleaned all I saw was dirt and filth in my home.


I was a fairly new Christian at the time, just learning about walking by faith and trusting God. I knew my behavior was completely contrary to who I was in Christ, but I couldn't seem to control myself. 

The physical/mental/emotional symptoms were bad enough. The spiritual symptoms were unbearable. For 10 days prior to my period I felt spiritually dead. I read the Word the way a middle schooler reads a university philosophy textbook – completely void of interest and understanding. My prayer life was dull, dry and empty.  I felt guilty and condemned. I went to church and battled sarcasm, irritation and an inability to ignore the pastor rattling his change and keys in his pocket during the message and the wobbly beehive bun in the front row. If I was saved, why couldn't I act better? Why did it seem like God was so far away?

I fasted. I prayed. I belittled myself for being weak and lame and a Christian wimp.
I changed my diet and tried herbal and homeopathic remedies with varying degrees of success.

 Eventually I explained to spouse and kids the physiological changes I was experiencing from month to month. Hubby learned to watch for "signs" so he knew what who to expect when he came home from work. Kids learned to "be on their best behavior" when mommy had her monthly crazies.


Seventeen years later PMS is still a battle for me (although my sons and son-in-law have a better understanding of the female menstrual cycle than most physicians). Increased knowledge and the addition of prescription medications mean I'm less likely to throw things, kick the furniture and rant for hours over misplaced action figures and Legos. These days I'm more inclined to go into hiding (literally) than I am to fly off the handle and have a random emotional meltdown. 

For the love of other humans, especially my children and hubby, that's probably a good thing. For myself,  I'm still NOT MYSELF for a week, and that's frustrating. Imagine losing yourself for 10-12 days every month, barely able to function and completely unable to trust your reactions to people and situations. That's PMS (or PMDD).

It's easy to joke about (believe me, I've heard them all) and easy to discount as a non-issue if you aren't a sufferer. Most physicians brush aside the symptoms of PMS/PMDD as a "girl problem." 
It's not so easy to live with, much like so many of the chronic health issues many of us face. May weclearn to offer each other grace instead of rebuke, mercy instead of judgment, in the light of those conditions.

Did you have "the Rachel"? (via hairstyleschat.com)

Katie Holmes' pixie cut. (via worldhairstyles.com)

(via ignorethemess.com)

In the midst of a snarl of shopping carts, unwashed tweens, and harried mothers in Walmart's back-to-school aisle, I felt like I'd just tossed myself into shark-infested waters holding a bucket of chum. Seriously, I wondered if I would escape unscathed. Women can be downright mean when it comes to the welfare and success of their young.

by laffy4k via Flicker

I think I located the underlying source of the school supply meanness, at least. I overheard a mother griping to her teenaged daughter about the school supply list. The girl needed a folder. Said folder had to be a solid color, not a pattern nor a graphic design; it needed not one, but two pockets; and brads, prongs or other metal hardware were strictly VERBOTEN. The mother was frustrated. The daughter could have cared less.

Why was that momma so adamant about getting the "right" folder for her daughter? A folder which will probably end up stuffed in the bottom of a locker, or lost under the bed at home?

Because we all have horror stories about showing up at school with the wrong kind of lunch box (mine was vinyl in an era of metal - it met its death under the bed one summer, still full of the last lunch I hauled to school and didn't eat). We remember the pain of wearing knock-off sneakers instead of the brand-of-the-week. We know what it is to arrive at school with the 8-pack of chubby crayons instead of the 64-pack with the built-in pencil sharpener. (That was my first real experience with envy.)

by orchid8 via Flickr

And so, every fall, in a valiant attempt to shield our offspring from the dangers that await them at school, we shove carts out of the way, physically block access to the dwindling pencil section, and snarl at anyone who glances at the neon-pink calculator dear daughter MUST have lest she become an inadvertent victim of social suicide.

I think the teachers are in on it. School supply lists have become so specific, you almost have to call for further instructions. But we don't. Because to do so would mark our little one as having "those" kind of parents. So we grit our teeth, take out our frustrations on the other hapless parents in the school supply section, and hope we don't make some fatal error in the purchase of this year's paper, pencils, and notebooks that will land our kiddos in therapy years down the road.

The simple act of putting on an apron is akin to the spiraling metamorphosis of mild-mannered Diana Prince into the bustier-wearing, lasso-throwing Wonder Woman.

I'm a relative newcomer to apron-wearing, and sometimes it's still hard for me to remember to toss one on before I cook dinner or whip up a baked delight.


But when I tie my apron strings, suddenly it's easier to do the dishes, to set the table, to create nutritious, well-balanced meals for my family. Donning an apron is a tangible reminder that I am the queen of my household domain, and inspires me to rule my roost with renewed grace and creativity.
Whether you're married or single, a working woman or a stay-at-home wife and mother, a grandma, an auntie, a gourmet chef or a successful TV dinner preparer, you can change the world through the simplest of acts: wiping a child's tear, making a cup of tea for a hurting friend, starting a grassroots campaign for a cause you believe in, or running a multi-national corporation.

The humble apron is just one token reminder of the awesome power that belongs to women to transform the world around them for the better

You may have seen the following essay on aprons already, since it has circulated the blogosphere and e-mail loops for quite some time. Even if you have, it's well worth another read.