12 A TIME FOR EVERYTHING

Is there a face serum called “Before I Became a Mom”? If so, sign me up to be on your multilevel marketing team. Make me a believer. Time is not the friend of my tanning-bed-withered body. My sun spots say, “I have been there and done that, around the block two times over.” I am a sun lover. If you can’t tone it, tan it, right? I used to choose who I dated based on whose mom owned a tanning bed. It was a major player for me. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. And as time passes, the exhaustion, overtanning, bad diet choices, and bad men choices are telling on me by way of wrinkles. Time is telling on me.

The only things that are certain in this grand ol’ life of ours is death, taxes, and the passing of time. Time can heal us, time will change us. Regardless, time will give us facial pleats, but I prefer to call them laugh lines. Call them what you want, but I didn’t get these lines by laughing. I got these lines from sleepless nights with two children. I earned these lines. But that doesn’t mean I have to keep them—let’s be clear. Life is full of contrasts. It takes us through mountain peaks and valleys, ups and downs. But age is the great equalizer. Age is the price of wisdom. The world keeps on spinning, and somehow we keep turning with it.

Some of y’all have a hard time grasping this time thing. I, too, have an issue with it, because I’m rarely on time for anything. I get it honestly, though, I really do. I lived in Colorado for five years, and every time my dad called me, he asked, “What time is it there, Heather? It’s five here, what time is it there?” Every durn time. “Dad, I am an hour behind you, always and forever. It’s been five years. I’m still in the same time zone, get with the program.”

I feel like I should also mention that I was out this morning and saw that someone in my neighborhood still has their Christmas decorations up on Good Friday. Excuse me, but if you still have your Christmas decorations up this close to Easter, we need to talk. Just because that wreath on your front door turned brown doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t see it. Christmas is not supposed to just roll right into Easter like Jesus rolled away that rock at his tomb. What are you gonna do? Hide the Easter eggs in stockings “hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that the kids would find Easter eggs there”? I mean, we are about to celebrate the resurrection, and you still have Baby Jesus hanging out with the Wise Men on your front lawn. The Wise Men are long gone by now. And I saw you moving those reindeer so you could mow the lawn—how about you let them fly on into your attic until next Christmas? I hate to blow up your theology, ma’am, but the birth and the resurrection were a solid thirty-three years apart. We ain’t waiting thirty-three years for you to pack up your Christmas decor.

Christmas decorations at Easter is like me celebrating my anniversary six years after my divorce. Celebrating Christmas this time of year is like having someone throw me a baby shower for my sixteen-year-old. Also, I’m registered at Game Stop. I would rather watch Cousin Eddie empty his septic tank on my front lawn than look at your Christmas lights year-round.

What I am trying to say is, there is a time for everything. A time to hold on and cherish and a time to let things go. Do you know how to hold on and cherish the moments that should take your breath away, or are you rushing to take a picture of it and share it for everyone else to enjoy more than you? Take some advice from Pam on The Office: take mental photos. Commit them to your brain. Make a conscious effort to cherish. I think somehow that makes a neurological pathway to your heart. And what are the moments that matter the most to your heart? The small, intimate minutes that make your soul sing? You’ll never regret the moments you spend with the people you love. You will, however, wish you had been more aware, more present.

When I was the parent of small babies, I loved every minute of it. I truly tried to the best of my ability to live inside of each and every single moment. I was alert and aware, and I don’t even know how except for Jesus. This is not everybody’s early parenting story. Some of you live in the hell that is baby prison, and you wish to God you could get out. I dreaded the day my kids would get big, drive a car, learn to talk back. I wanted to hang on to their littleness as long as I possibly could. And I did. And now they’re big. And now here I am at another seasonal crossroads. Learning to let go.

Letting go is always the hard part, I know. It’s not easy for anyone. If you need some motivation, take a trip down any country road in the South this Saturday. My speck of the world is filled with people who don’t know how to let go. And it’s evident from the fourteen broken-down vehicles in their front yards. We hang on to everything! I’ve got one word for you, sir. Just… NO.

I’ve been a people pleaser most of my life. I’ve done what I think I’m supposed to do to make the people around me happy. It took me a hot minute to realize that yes was a choice, and no was also a choice. And dang it, I live in America, where I have the freedom of choice. But yes was my addiction. I had to learn how to make myself a priority. Needless to say, my own happiness was pretty low on my list of priorities. I haven’t said no much in my life. I thought I would be happy when everyone around me was happy, but after years of struggle, I finally learned that making everyone around me happy is completely impossible.

Trying to constantly please people keeps us from cherishing our moments—because we give OUR moments to everyone else. I don’t know about you, but I want my mental photo albums to be full. I want my memories of days gone by to encourage my seasons ahead. I reference my divorce quite a bit because I said no for the first time in my life and had to walk in the consequences of that no. That no unlocked chains that had bound me for years. This no was my yes. And for this people pleaser, that was huge. It was time. The time had come when I had to make a choice. It’s like time showed up like the Grim Reaper, and I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Your time deserves a confident yes and a confident no. You deserve your time to show up and be seen.

Time is many things. It’s an equalizer. A bridge. A healer.

Have you ever hurt so deeply for so long and beat yourself up with the thought that you should be “over it by now”? Pain takes time. We can’t expect ourselves to rapidly heal from assault and the trauma of loss and just get on with life as it used to be. There is no instruction manual on the time it takes to heal. Some wounds are deep, and some wounds are wide, and we’re all different. Some wounds may never heal. Time gets all mixed up. The smallest thing can trigger a memory, and there we are, living our past life. We all heal at different speeds, physically and emotionally, but time can be gracious to us, and time will allow us to live and breathe again.

Wouldn’t it be great if the promise of healing and wholeness came without the pain? What a life! But what if the promise is IN the pain? What if the greatest gifts and perspectives of your life come from the pain you experience? I am living testimony of this truth. My shattered marriage was necessary pain. I would have never found myself. I would have never found my voice. I would have never found my future.

In the summer of 2018, I was bearing the weight of my aspiring career as a traveling circus clown (comedienne). It had been a crazy few months. I had written my first book, been to Haiti, released my debut country album, and gone on a multiweek comedy tour. I broke away for some time with some close friends and my kids on the beach. My kids played, and I lay on the beach like a dead person for seven solid days. The only sounds I cared to take in were the waves, the seagulls, and the indie vibes that were playing in my ears. My plan was to read a book I’d had on my radar for ages, but when good music is playing, I have to stop and soak it in like a sponge, so I didn’t make it past page 9. I also reached the height of what I would consider remarkable parenting status, as I barely ever knew where my children were the entirety of the time. About once an hour, I would try to wake myself from my euphoric state to look around and see if I noticed their sunburned shoulders bobbing in the water, in the hopes that surely if they were drowning, someone would’ve told me.

As I lay on that beach, day after day, my mind played the old tapes of my old normal, and I marveled at how one accidental video now allowed my heart room to breathe. I felt the vacancy in my life where fear and worry once staked their claim. I remembered where I was and how I felt when I was fighting the war and compared it to how I felt in that very moment: at peace. I remembered the struggle and the cycle and the anxiety of doing it alone, and I remembered you—the one who’s still in it. The one who doesn’t see a light at the end of her tunnel. The one who will most inevitably come out the victor but doesn’t know it yet. You—the one who is choking back the tears as you read these words that sit heavy on your chest. The one who cries herself to sleep wishing and praying for any kind of breakthrough. The one who cries for time to speed up and take the pain from her. The one whose baby has spit up on her new shirt and just wants to go back in time to when she had sleep and sanity.

I lay there in that sand crying for the seasons past and for the pain that almost took me down. Those tears felt as heavy as lead. My friends and I soaked up the sun and the love and the reality that we were finally in a place to do something for a single mom—if only for one right now, at least that’s something. “Let’s give somebody what we once needed. Let’s love. Nothing in return. A total stranger.” And in that conversation, we decided to use my platform to send a single parent and her children on vacation.

Hear me—this is not about me and my ability to give someone a beach vacation. And this is not some sick display of false humility or some manipulation tactic. I don’t want your attention or your accolades. This is a testimony of time that has passed. I was that woman who never thought I would ever be able to take my kids on vacation again. I would never have the money for that. I was the one who barely knew where money for the next grocery run was going to come from. The space between that pain and my toes in the sand was where all of the change happened.

You may not be in the pain right now, but I bet you know someone who is. You may not be able to give away a beach vacation yet, but I just bet you can give something. I bet you can give a hug or take someone to lunch or listen to someone’s story over coffee. I bet some of you can help turn a single parent’s lights back on or buy someone’s groceries. Opportunity will likely come to you each and every day. And it will look you dead in the eyes and ask you if you’re ready—if you’re willing. Willing to look foolish, to break routine, to lay down pride, to give selflessly in your own time of need. And you get to answer. You get to choose. But let me promise you this: if your answer is yes, your reward will most definitely be greater than your sacrifice. When your head hits your pillow at night and your heart is pure and full of peace and empathy and your conscience is clean knowing you loved well that day, that is the ultimate reward. It’s not the size of the gift you give. It’s the heart behind it.

And to those of you who are still in that season that you think will never end—the ones who want to love but can barely love themselves, the ones who are crawling through the valley right now—know this: Your knees will not be muddy forever. There is a clearing and a light, and one day you will stand up, and it will lead out. Your TIME will come. You are not finished. Don’t let bitterness and resentment hold you under water. Throw your head back, tell it no, and show it who you are. Show life and everybody in it that you will love in spite of circumstance. With everything in me, this is what I believe: there is a time for everything and these are the seasons we are made for.

Ecclesiastes 3:1–8:

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.