Failure

If I close my eyes, I can still perfectly picture the moment.

Freya (one of my best friends in year 7 and still now) was going around the corner at her usual blistering pace. She hugged the curve like spanx. Watching her intently, I counted down the moments until I needed to launch off. We had a good 5-10 metre lead on the next class, and I knew I could take my opponent easily on this last leg, as I had earlier on that day in the individual sprints.  

I set off, victory in my sights.

Maybe I was too early. Maybe too late. Maybe too fast. Who knows.

All I remember was scrabbling around the floor looking for the baton.

I made up part of the gap, finishing third, only to see that we were disqualified for lane interference. I remember getting a “pity point” for some hopefully self-esteem building reason by our teachers who could see my whole world had come unravelled in that event.

I wasn’t the prettiest.

I wasn’t the smartest.

I wasn’t the  best musician, or actor, or artist, or anything else.

But I was the best runner.

“Was” it seems being the operative word.

This was the first time I remember failing.

---

I sobbed all the way home from the test centre after failing that first test. In hindsight, it was not the best idea to take it just two weeks before my due date. Unsurprisingly I had failed due to not being able to adequately check my blind spot as my burgeoning bump restricted my movement. I confessed to Steve that passing my test was my “present” to our unborn child, and now I felt I had nothing to give them, nothing to offer.

I was a bag of nerves throughout the second test. My legs physically shook as I attempted to negotiate my way around the city. Three minutes in I felt I had failed, and I remained silent, on the verge of tears, as I continued to confuse my right from my left and miss turnings on roundabouts and on the independent driving section. I wanted so badly to have a sense of worth. To not be the one that everyone had to give a lift to. To not be overwhelmed by the fact at the age of 29 I hadn’t achieved something 17-year-olds had. To not have to traipse around the city with Zella and another future baby on public transport on rainy winter days. My future family depended upon it, and I could no longer be a free loader to my husband, family & friends; I HAD to pass.

At the end of the test, the tears rolled like thunder, as I was faced with the reality that it wasn’t my inability to navigate that I had failed on, but a simple manoeuvre around a corner that I hadn’t controlled my nerves on.

Sometimes the fear of failure is the very thing that will cause you to fail.

Once again I found myself scrambling around on the floor looking for a baton, with victory racing off ahead of me.

---

I’ve always liked to win.

Growing up in a city full of athletic cousins with a penchant for competitive games, our days were spent competing on Alex the Kid megadrive games, and then running outside for sprints down the streets. With our parents excelling in athletics and boxing amongst other sports, it was in our blood to aim to be the best.

I excelled in school with perfect attendance eleven out of thirteen years (only marred by a lengthy trip to Jamaica in Year 3 and a stomach bug upon my return from an all-expenses trip to Leon, Nicaragua as an official representative of Oxford, it’s twin city, in Year 10).

I accumulated awards for sports and drama and captained many teams.

Besides misadventures in Graphic Design and Biology, my exam results have always shown A’s & B’s; I set my sights on university early on, and was ecstatic to graduate, and graduate well.

Until returning to England in 2011, there was never a job or course I applied to and wasn’t successful in.

I remember being told by a dance teacher that I wasn’t the best dancer technique wise, but I more than made up for it in my performance.

If I couldn’t win the thing, then I would win you.

I get things done.

But sometimes

I come undone…

When I can’t control the pressure.

The pressure created and fashioned from the dangerous workings of a mind weaving words that hadn’t been verbalised by none other than a dark and unconfident part of my psyche.

The things that keep me awake at night are not the reflecting upon my highs,

But on musing upon the lows,

wondering where I went wrong,

desperate to not repeat history.

Harsh words, failed attempts from weeks, months, years ago even

Still lie heavy at the front of my mind.

99 good things happen,

but you go home thinking about

the one that got away.

And in the desperation for that that to not happen again,

The winding up of pressure begins.

---

Around the same time as preparing for my second driving test,

Game of Throws was birthed.

I saw the advert for a recreational netball league in Birmingham

and realising that it would be cheaper price for me to be part of a team than register as an individual, I decided to create a team.

(The thought that I would have more control and not be subject to the whims of another leader on some random team was also a motivation.)

In my head, we were going to be amazing. Top of the league.

On the court, we were average. On a good day.

Rusty as it had been twelve years since some of us had played.

My stomach was in knots as we played, each game.

Nervous, desperate to win, and sick at the anticipation of failing.

But something happened

Amidst a season of 4 losses, 1 win on a technicality, and 1 genuine win (against the bottom team), I still loved every minute.

In the face of repeated weeks of failure, the team remained phenomenal, never giving up, playing respectfully, willing to try different positions, communicating well, encouraging each other, and even drawing the refs to make jokes with us at half times and after the games, such was our passion and fun.

I even said one night, “I am actually enjoying losing for once.”

Failure doesn’t have to be miserable.
Failure doesn’t have to be awful.

Failure doesn’t mean there’s no hope.

Do I want to win?

Of course.

(and always!)

But I refuse to let my world fall apart around me when failure comes.

Failure doesn’t mean it’s the end.

Slowly, slowly, my competitive side is getting my head around it.

And I’m finding freedom in the grace I give myself,

When I allow it to be ok,

If things don’t turn out perfectly.

It’s all part of the journey.

Empty?

I felt empty.

Steve and I had dreamt about this weekend.

We had loved our time at Keele University:

the campus, the courses, the nightlife,

and the Christian Union.

The CU weekends away with inspirational teaching, relationship building and muddy football games were an annual highlight.

We walked away after graduation both wanting to go back and impart into students at a later date.

Knowing the CU president and our return to England imminent, the stars seemed to have aligned and opened an opportunity.

We were excited and eagerly anticipated all the things we would do, the ways Father God would move.

Who would have known that we would travel to that weekend, driving away from a house shrouded in grief just less than three weeks previously.

Like I said, I felt empty.

The weekend passed like a blur.
We had planned and prepared as diligently as ever, but I looked back and questioned whether things were as creative as we could have made them,

whether we really challenged them enough,

if our words were full of Holy Spirit, or just read off of a paper.

I wondered if I had really given my best,

if we had done the right thing.

After the weekend, our Facebook burgeoned with friend requests, comments about how much our talk spoke to them. And I got the warm and fuzzies.

When you think you don’t do well,

When things are super hard,

But you step out in faith regardless,

God can do great things.

True.

But not the end.

The thing is

I don’t just want warm and fuzzies.

I don’t just want to experience the high of a temporary feeling.

To think I did something good one day

And the next

Nothing substantial has changed

More was in store:

Never would I have imagined

That out of pouring myself out

That weekend still grieving

And being open to what Father wanted to do

That now

Two years to the day later

These girls who sat on seats and listened

Politely taking notes and clapping in the right places

Now

Sit at my table

Text me

Do lunch

Talk birth

Live chat through Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners

And pour into my sweet daughter

(with Petit Filous)

I don’t have much to offer this great world

Just my stories

My inappropriate humour

My meager words

And my love for people

But offer it I will

In the hopes that my longevity

My sticking around and involved

 it makes some difference

It changes some directions

It makes Father God bigger,

more visible,

more tangible,

in more lives.

Dear Baby Miller

Dear Baby Miller,

Hey Cheeky!! I’ve toyed with in-vitro names for you such as “Buddy,” “Munchkin,” “Lil’ Mill,’” “Poopsie”… But given your penchant for kicking incessantly, constantly resting on my bladder and your crazy timing into our lives, I think “Cheeky” is the best name for you!!

Madea, your maternal grandmother (who despises being called a “grandmother”), had a special nickname for us. In the early days of our marriage, she called us “Posh & Becks” in homage to our celebrity status and behaviour. You will be pleased to know however that we are not following in their footsteps in regards to naming you after the place you were conceived: It’s bad enough that Birmingham will be on your birth certificate as place of birth. Mummy hopes that doesn’t cause too much prejudice in your later life.

This is one of mummy’s randomly favourite pictures of us together:

Date Night at the German Market

That’s your daddy, looking like an Abercrombie model advertising a BBQ. One day mummy will show you pictures of what daddy looked like at university and you’ll realise that mummy is a miracle worker, able to see potential behind a mass of ginger curls and baggy clothes. It will also explain to you why it takes so long for the family to get dressed up to go out.

And that’s me, your mummy, the one with the eclectic fashion sense (part hobo-part style icon) and the tendency to consistently bite off more than she can chew. I expect your extra-curricular activities and holiday schedule will reflect that same ethos.

Now, for that rare brief two-minute period of the day where mummy is serious and doesn’t make an inappropriate joke, this photo tells you three things about your new life:

1. There will be adventure.

Whether to this German Market, theme park, Texas, a canal, or even to the shops; there will always be a crazy story, a fun time and an experience that seems so outrageous, your friends will think you’ve made up.

2. We bring light.

We desire to shine brightly, stand strong, be different and draw people to examine their lives in its intended fullness with Father God, out of the darkness.

3. You will need to exercise lots as we LOVE food.

A lot.

But hopefully you’ll be annoying just like us and have an incredible fast metabolism so you can eat whatever you want and stay thin.

See, I told you I can’t go more than two minutes.

Cheeky, you are loved more than you know.

(Regardless of the screams of agony you have heard from me during morning sickness, muscle pain, PGP, potential pee-pee infection, costochondritis, and blood tests mummy has had to endure to keep you established and comfortable in your Hilton-esque abode.)

We can’t wait to meet you.

(and see who wins the bets re: the ginger afro)

And though the house is a mess and we’re a little nervous, we are so very ready and so excited for your arrival. On September 13th. Just in case you were unsure of the date.

Love,

Daddy & Mummy

The ones that keep poking you and shouting loudly when you sleep.

xxx

Ps. If you can sleep through the night from the first week, we’ll buy you a car for your 18th birthday.

Mater

Cars 2 came out today.

11:30 am.

There we were with

Fav 6 year old twins in tow

Gibby & Gabby

I have realised with Steve and I we think ahead the way organised parents do.

Last night, Steve went and bought the tickets, knowing it would almost definitely be sold out.

I have also realised that Steve and I are not as organised as parents are.

At 11:31, we struggled in the dark to find a seat in the crowded auditorium, climbing all the stairs to the second to top row, only to find out that the seats were “saved” and we needed to climb all the way back down to the third to bottom row to find a four seats in a row.

The twin’s mother deems the movies “crack”

Disney Pixar is to pre-teens what Starbucks is to teens.

Excitement build in anticipation

Transfixed they are in awe

And when it’s over

They desire to go back for more and more.
And more.

But the sweet taste of Disney Pixar

Lasts longer

Than the calorie and caffeine laden venti’s,

No spoiler alerts necessary

(though prepare yourself for lots of English and Italian accents!)

But my focus was on Mater throughout

The rusty, wayward, eccentric

Old tow truck

Said the most profound thing 

When an attempt was made to remove his dents

He refused to be changed.

Mater values each and every dent he has

Earned during escapades with McQueen

His dents are precious

His dents are important

His dents represent more than just a random bump

They represent an adventure

My arm carries the faint reminder

Of when my husband nearly killed me snowboarding

And the fun we had

Doing something neither had done before

A new adventure together

Steve’s right leg is riddled with scars

Everyone a memory

Most prolific for me

The one that went green inside

From motorbike impaled in body

In Australian outback

A reminder of an adventure, a coming of age

The tummy roll, the fat that won’t shift

Loudly wobbles of your adventure in childbirth

Mark on chest, obvious to all

Reminds you of adventure and survival of surgery

Resenting your dent

Resents that chance

That opportunity

That adventure

That changed your life

Flat Stanley

My head awash with the stress of this life

Why is it…

Why all these things

Decisions

Pains

All at the same time

You poke your head out of my bag

And smile

Your static arms

Fixed position

A stable constant

In this world every changing

Your lighthearted ways bring comfort through this

Heavy yoke

Burden unrelenting

With you

Everyday

I find beauty

New

The things I looked at a million times

Are fresh with your eyes

Dinners become gourmet dishes

Buses become extravagant transport

Houses become terraced palaces

I capture the simple

I marvel in the ordinary

I see your work Father in every little detail

In one hand I take sickness

Emotional distress

Secret hurts

Stressful futures

Perplexing decisions

But in the other I take your joy

Words you speak to me through others

Food that I didn’t even know was in the house

Baggy clothes that smell of a husband far away

The chance to help friends learn Facebook

I see the hope

Not in the future

But in right now

The hundreds upon thousands of gifts before me

Piled high

But seemingly hidden behind piles of mud, dirt and grime

Distraction

Obstacles

A wall that must be broken down

I hold Flat Stanley’s tiny hand

Raising him high to capture the moment

His adventure makes me smile

Reminding me

Of my adventure

My journey

The process

I want to skip forward

Race through all this angst

But Stanley says that there is something in this moment for me to know

Relish

Learn from

Savour

There is something in each moment

That I cannot miss

That through the tear-speckled eyes I must blink to see to

The gift

My gifts

That are new every morning