Why This?

It's true. We're mad. All of us. Every last one of us, just like the Cheshire Cat says.

Some of us more than others, I can say from experience.

As a mom, I frequently feel like I live in a mad house, so I suppose it makes sense to admit that there's madness in me. On the days that I struggle to bite my tongue; the days when I hide in the bathroom or the laundry room, ignoring the sound of my name being screamed from the floor above; the times when getting up out of bed is an insurmountable task - those are the days the madness is there, riding me just under the surface. Sometimes, it's buried deeper.

And sometimes, the madness jumps right out of me, and splatters all over anyone and everyone who happens to be in the vicinity. That happened earlier this week, at a school event. The madness has been simmering for a while now, just under the surface of my face and chest, and the chaos of that school event was just the opportunity it was looking for. I opened my mouth, and out came the sort of thing that runs through minds and goes no further. I looked up at a former teacher and thanked him for teaching sex ed and health so well to our kids (totally fine), and then went on to inform him that our family frequently discussed his sex life at the dinner table (So, So Not Fine). Madness.

At least he was gracious about it.

Not every time ends with grace. There's the time that I terrified my children when I lost my temper and yanked the dishwasher rack out so hard that I shattered all our glasses and bowls. There are the times my dearest friends have cared for me and loved me, and I have blocked them out as fiercely as I could. There are the years of madness in my marriage, when I chose to strike out at the one person I had chosen to cherish forever. There are the times when my madness turned inward and I tried to destroy my own self.

So much madness. So much pain. So much hopelessness.

And yet, that's not where the stories end.

Alice keeps going, and so do I.

So actually, maybe every mad moment does end with grace. Because there's grace when my children come tiptoeing out to help me clean up all the broken pieces of my tantrum. There's grace when my friends overlook the fact that I've not returned calls, texts, or emails for days or weeks. There's the grace that my husband has when he chooses to be tender and gentle and kind, instead of pointing out flaws, of which there are many.

And, maybe most importantly, there's my own grace. I don't want to make this into an overtly spiritual blog, but I also want this blog to be a place of honesty and vulnerability. And in all honesty, My Father has shown me such constant grace that I can't help but believe in it. Grace is where healing lives.

So madness might live here, but grace does, too, and that's what this blog is about.